The Rains of Ramghat
by
Radha Bharadwaj
“But
I didn’t
really understand
why she had to
die in the end!”
Her jowls quivered,
and flawless South
African diamonds
winked at me from
between the thick
folds of her pythonesque
neck. Fat tart!
I don’t
know why my heroine
had to die either.
The book was already
106,000 words,
and I was growing
bored….
Would that be
explanation enough?
I looked at the
members of the
Calcutta Ladies
Club. Most of
them were friends
of my mother.
All had husbands
who earned enough
to keep them swathed
in silk and festooned
with diamonds
in the city’s
fabled Park Avenue.
One bloated idiot
tried to stifle
her imminent yawn
by waving stubby,
ineffectual fingers
in front of a
cavernous, toad-like
mouth.
What a relief
I don’t
look like this
bunch! I arched,
stretching my
long legs and
slim arms, enjoying
the feel of the
thin silk skirt
on my painted
toes, knowing
full well that
the heavy set
was watching my
every move. There
were no journalists
in the crowd.
The ladies had
assumed their
enlightened discussion
of my latest work
would be bait
enough for me
to attend. I wouldn’t
be able to see
my new book panned
by the resident
hack in tomorrow’s
Calcutta Times.
I picked up my
clutch and walked
out, the lazy
smile I’d
practiced all
day in front of
the mirror in
place on my face.
In the car, panic
grabbed my shoulders
and spun me around
to punch my stomach.
I drew in my breath
as I reeled from
his punch, and
watched him uncurl
his fist and spread
slow cold fingers
throughout my
body. When was
I going to write
The Novel? Once
I had thought
that was all I
would do—write
serious books,
books that would
dent those who
read them, marking
my readers for
life, so one would
know, looking
at them, that
these are Smita
Ghosh’s
tribe, twisted
and twirled and
into fantastic
shapes by her
thoughts, her
view of life….
Where do such
Novels come from?
I asked myself
as I squeezed
my car into the
narrow lanes of
the Howrah slum.
No choice—driving
through the slum,
I mean. Bannerjee
Road was blocked—some
bunch or the other
on strike for
or against something
or the other that
won’t matter
a fig in the long
or short or run.
Hence the route
picturesque….
A twig-hued man
was lying on the
pavement, vomiting
quietly, copiously,
into a gutter
gummed with shit.
I watched him
through a thicket
of passing human
and cow legs and
wheels. No one
gave a damn—not
me, either. Except
for one woman
who was crouched
by him and howling,
her eyes fierce
like a hawk, tearless.
Must put in a
call to Mother
Theresa’s
conversion squads,
I thought. Give
the heathen Jesus
before he dies…
I parked in a
lot by the Howrah
Bridge and looked
at the river at
my feet, winding
placidly to some
distant sea. Ganges—river
of purity, sanctifier
of human sins.
Even you could
not retain your
ethereal nature
in Calcutta. Cigarette
butts, soda cans,
old magazines
and a dead rat
floated by, all
flaunting their
right to the river.
Up ahead, fighting
through the haze
of smog, the skyline—such
as it is—of
the city: grey
and huddled like
a congregation
of beggars; a
great grime-streaked
mess, haphazardly
thrown together
as if by a mildly
retarded child
or our best government-anointed
architect—take
your pick. Even
the buildings
in this city are
sheepish and apologetic,
crests bowed,
cringing with
need. Who can
write anything
but crap in this
city? I asked
myself. It was
such a fortifying
question.
A car bursting
with college boys
passed by, and
the even more
fortifying melody
of their appreciative
whistles fluted
through the din
of the ever-present
Calcutta traffic.
This at forty,
after two children!
I slew my nemesis—panic—with
their sword-sharp
mating calls.
I drove to Anoop’s
clinic in Park
Avenue.
It was his lunch
hour—that’s
also when his
wife plays bridge
at the club, and
can be counted
on to not pop
in. I walked through
a crowded waiting
room. A starlet
with a blonde
mustache that
was showing its
dark roots tried
to meet my eyes,
and simpered when
she finally did.
Basking in whatever
glory there was
to be had in being
the doctor’s
twin sister, I
entered Anoop’s
office—without
knocking, of course.
He was sprawled
in his wing chair,
pulling his lower
lip, eyes cloudy,
brooding. I locked
the door behind
me.
“What
ails?” I
asked.
“This
and that. Everything.”
He got up and
stretched, fluid
as a reptile.
I saw his sharp
shoulder blades
rise and ebb beneath
his foamy shirt.
He said, looking
out of the window,
his back to me:
“There’s
a new chap two
streets down.
Opened up his
practice. Grand
opening last week.
He’s UK-returned.
Damn these NRIs![1]
If you choose
to leave this
country, stay
the fuck out!”
He picked up steam:
“There’s
a rumour—I
think it’s
a rumour, and
one he started,
by the way—that
he treated one
of the royals
in London—not
Diana, the other
one, the fat one—Sandra…?”
“Sarah,”
this from me,
who didn’t
give a fuck about
the royals, but
knew all trivia.
“Right.
Sarah. He cured
her of some mild
case of adult
acne…. That’s
on the grapevine—put
there by him.
And the morons
here who think
shit doesn’t
stink if it’s
foreign-returned
have started to
go to him…”
His shoulder blades
were held for
a moment in a
state of tensile
tension, then
started to rotate,
like the swishing
blades of a thresher,
to the tune of
his bitter gloating:
“So I put
a bug in Mrs.
Sinha’s
ear: that he botched
even simple peel
jobs in London,
which is why he’s
here—why
else would he
come back, if
things were so
great there?—and
telling Rupa Sinha
is like beaming
it from a satellite—“
“Any
of it true?”
I “cut to
the chase,”
as Americans,
reared on movies
that culminate
in life-defining
chases, have taught
us to say.
Anoop turned slightly.
Rewarding me with
a-not-quite half
profile: an aquiline
nose; full, sneering
lips: “Any
of what true?”
“About
him botching face
peels,”
I replied.
“No,”
he said, after
some silence.
Then chuckled,
my incorrigible
evil twin. “Two
can play the game.”
“What game?”
I asked, as I
moved towards
his mobile and
expressive back.
“There’s
no game. You’re
playing a game
with yourself.
Shadow-boxing
with paper tigers…”
I put my face
in the hollow
between his shoulder
blades—a
sheltered, safe
valley. His pricey
cologne mingled
with his own particular
musk. Intoxicating.
I checked my watch—not
much time. I reached
around and stroked
his thing until
it quivered awake
in my hands like
a grumpy pet snake.
The snake’s
owner turned around
to face me, then
kiss me. I kissed
him back. It felt
like it always
did: I looked
into my eyes,
kissed my lips,
tasted the brine
of my skin. Everything
familiar—apt
word; deriving,
after all, from
family—his
still tentative-after-all-these-years-touch
and his savage
mouth and the
calluses on his
thin palms.
“Smita,
I feel the rains
coming.”
he whispered,
checking his watch
with (what he
thought was) a
discreet flick
of his eyes.
“And
I’m scared,”
I replied.
It did rain that
afternoon, though….
#
We had a guest
for dinner that
night. A client
of my husband’s.
I sent the kids
over to my mother’s
house and polished
silverware. I
thought the client
was attractive.
Lean cheeks, long
lashes. Like Anoop.
Like me.
Leaving them to
their business
talk, I walked
into the living
room and read
the two fan letters
I had received
that day. Both
were from teenage
girls who “loved
romances.”
The night outside
was raucous with
the merry-making
of crickets. Starlight
mingled with the
blue glow of the
street lamps that
guarded Park Avenue’s
silent houses.
Palm fronds stretched
spiky fingers
to poke out the
eye of the moon.
Somewhere out
there was the
idea for the Novel.
Maybe someone
was already writing
it.
Mother made tea
for us when we
drove there to
pick up the kids.
My husband, flushed
with the success
of a clinched
deal and an excess
of whisky, protested:
“Tea will
keep me up all
night.”
He looked at me
and slowly winked.
“Maybe
that’s not
such a bad idea…”
God, how loathsome
he has become!
He was crude and
coarse when young
but that had always
been linked to
a sort of boorish
handsomeness.
Now the links
have come apart,
and all the handsomeness
has taken off
on its own like
a rogue railway
car, leaving behind
this de-railed
wreck that is
only crude, only
coarse, only boorish.
I couldn’t
bear to even look
at him. He laughed
proudly when I
dropped my eyes,
fooling himself
that my not looking
at him was a sign
of an Indian woman’s
much-valued coyness.
I let my mother
do my wifely duty
and laugh coquettishly.
She pulled her
sari a bit too
snugly over her
huge boobs and
led me to the
bedroom.
The sight of my
six-year-old son
and four-year-old
daughter asleep
in the same bed
jolted me. Mother
read my look—or
so she thought.
“They
are brother and
sister. No harm.
Anoop and you
used to bathe
together. In—Ramghat.”
She shot me a
quick look in
the mirror as
she said that.
But her voice
halted and slurred
at the mention
of Ramghat.
We each carried
a sleeping child
to the car, and
I, out of sheer
spite, let her
carry the girl,
who though younger,
is much heavier
than her brother.
I studied Mother’s
face in the darkness
of the drive,
wondering how
innocent her remarks
really were. She
had taken to wearing
white after Papaji’s
death, like an
orthodox widow.
But I had always
suspected that
her preference
for white was
more for what
the colour did
to her golden
skin, suffusing
every moist pore
with a shivering
glow.
As the car started,
she bent close
to my ear and
whispered: “Have
an appointment
tomorrow. About—the
lump.”
I watched her
rather loose lower
lip quiver, and
her eyes welled
up for an instant.
Then she turned
and went into
her house, a top-heavy
little ghost in
white silk.
While my husband
snored and bragged
in his dreams
about his business
acumen, I walked
out of the bedroom
into the tiny
balcony. The ground
below was still
moist from the
afternoon rain,
and the fresh
air caught the
breath of jasmines
straight off the
opening petals.
I knew then, with
a clarity that
was almost blinding,
that I would never
write the Novel.
Because I never
could. There was
a fatal passiveness
in me. A lack
of passion. No
self—or
any great or moving
depth. Juvenile
smart-ass sarcasm
masquerading as
world-view. Brittle
defensive two-bit
jokes instead
of the risk of
real insight.
All that could
ever come out
of me were fantasy
romances. No strain,
no drain.
This realization
must have been
lying dormant
within me, like
a trailing shadow
one suddenly sees.
Because I felt
no pain. I only
felt a dull, numb
relief—like
I’d been
let off the hook,
set free. I think
I laughed out
loud, for my neighbour’s
sixteen-year-old
son materialized—pronto—behind
his bedroom window,
looking at me
through misty
curtains that
didn’t quite
hide his fresh
crop of ripe-for-the-picking
cherry pimples,
or his bovine,
pre-masturbatory
gaze. I stared
at him coolly,
coldly, until
unnerved, he vanished,
leaving the curtains
swirling like
smoke in his wake,
and me on the
balcony as the
sole witness to
the death of another
dull Calcutta
day.
#
Mother often used
to whine about
how the rains
of Ramghat had
made my older
sister Pritha
a screaming wreck
every month, led
Anoop on a lifelong
chase after money
and power over
people, and had
left me a shell,
scooped out of
human feeling
and warmth.
Anoop and I were
five then, Pritha
thirteen, and
Ramghat was a
tiny valley in
the midst of the
Himalayas. When
we first arrived,
wild blue flowers
stretched for
miles on end,
like a tranquil
sea. We were heartbroken
when Papaji told
us the flowers
would have to
go, as houses
would have to
be built for all
of us.
Today’s
economists would
consider Papaji
an idealist—or
an idiot. That
is, if they consider
him at all. A
certain self-indulgent
masochism that’s
a part of this
city—and
hence of me—pushed
me once to go
to the public
library and read
up on him. All
Papaji had to
show for his life
was a footnote
in a book on Calcutta
University, written
by some bilious
British bitch
who has clearly
never forgiven
us for cutting
loose from the
Empire. The footnote
summed him up
thus: Roy Ghosh,
head of the Department
of Economics and
Commerce, such-and-such
year to such-and-such
year. Nothing
at all—not
a word—about
why he left Cal
U. How he wanted
to put in practice
his “back-to-the-barter-system”
theories. Now
that I have said
it so simply,
yes—he does
indeed seem like
an idiot. Not
even worth that
footnote.
All we knew then
was that no money
was ever used
in Ramghat. The
families living
there kept accurate
accounts of favours
done, and that
was our payment.
We grew green
beans, tomatoes
and snow peas.
Balram, who lived
next door, gave
us milk in return
for the vegetables.
Krishna Sen repaired
our roof when
the winter wind
blew it off.
Life in Ramghat
was an endless
stretch of the
greenest fields
meeting the bluest
skies, with tiny
red roofs puffing
smoke in the distance.
One day blended
into the next
with a fluidity
I have since encountered
only in dreams
and their sibling-rivals,
nightmares. We
worked hard with
our parents a
good part of the
day, and sat down
to dinner and
lessons in the
common courtyard
at night. Papaji
on economics,
ex-politician
Balram on history,
mathematician
Krishna Sen on
math, mother on
music and art….
When the storm
announcements
were all over
the radio, Ramghat
prepared for the
worst. As I dragged
our clothes off
the clothesline,
the shrieking
wind kept tugging
at my cotton skirt,
to the amusement
of Anoop.
All laughter and
teasing ceased,
though, when the
skies wept that
night. Great,
gashing drops,
tearing into the
flesh of the earth,
boring holes with
the force, like
bullets. And the
wind! The madness
and the fury!
The great teak
trees that guarded
Ramghat’s
western front
were flattened
in an hour, like
the matchstick
soldiers in our
childish games.
As we scrambled
to the roofs of
our houses, waves
of water came
crashing down,
obliterating both
mountain and sky
with their monstrous
hydra-like heads.
They bore down
with them into
a newly created
abyss all our
worldly goods
and possessions.
Dawn saw us perched
on the roofs,
wet and cramped,
our feet spread
like the talons
of birds of prey.
Balram’s
bloated body floated
up to our roof.
I held Mother,
who screamed hysterically
and almost fell
off the roof,
while Papaji pushed
the corpse away
with his foot.
We were left on
our roofs for
a whole day before
the government
sent rescue squads
in little helicopters.
And as the day
tolled on, we
watched the corpses
of friends and
neighbours fight
for a place on
the water’s
surface with wooden
planks, chairs,
kitchen utensils
and water snakes.
Papaji never raised
his head. The
first morning
light had shown
him the unforgiving
sight of a wrecked
dream, like a
childhood doll
with its eyes
gouged out.
#
Mother’s
lump was malignant,
as I fully expected
it to be. Fat
anywhere on the
body does nothing
but ill. And what
are huge breasts
but huge masses
of fat? My heart
beat steadily
in my own bud-like
breast as she
gave me the news.
I watched her
lower her head
into her palms
and cry silently.
This—these
dramas, and the
chaos of the city—this
was the stuff
of my life. Ramghat
rapidly receded
into the depths
of the dream-sea
that had churned
it.
I observed Mother’s
hair as it curled
gently near her
hips. Not one
grey strand. She
raised her face
and grabbed my
hands in her tiny
moist paw: “I’ll
have to have it
removed.”
Her spare hand
unconsciously
touched the lump
on her left breast,
as if trying to
knead it out of
existence. I found
the thought of
Mother with one
big breast even
more obscene than
Mother with two.
“It’s
just fat. A big,
revolting lump
of grease. Think
of it that way,”
I offered helpfully.
And this is why
I don’t
really like to
help people—all
you get for your
trouble is a kick
in the teeth.
Here she was,
looking at me
like a truculent
cow, her eyes
stopping their
production of
tears and hardening
as she calculated
where precisely
to place her kick.
But nothing really
prepared me for
the following
pearls from her
mouth: “Smita.
You need to know
this, in case
something happens
to me. Papaji—Papaji
did not die of
a heart attack.
That’s what
I told you then,
because you were
a child. The truth
is—Papaji—he
hung himself.”
#
The slum made
even less of an
impact as I sped
past. Yes, the
scenic route again.
Counter-strike
on Bannerjee Road—those
opposing the previous
strikers. Same
result for the
Calcutta citizen:
blocked roads,
pointless delays,
senseless detours.
This time I saw
a baby’s
corpse being prepared
for cremation
while waiting
for the light
to change. Its
mother—that’s
who she must have
been, a very young
girl, not more
than sixteen herself—decked
the small stretcher
with blue flowers.
The baby’s
face was wrinkled,
like those of
the very elderly
or the terminally
ill. A large dot
of vermillion
adorned the wee
forehead.
The mother then
tried to close
the baby’s
open eyes. Apparently
not as simple
a task as one
would’ve
thought—I
mean, you think
you can do what
you want with
at least the dead,
don’t you?
She kept pressing
the open eyes—gently,
as if the dead
baby could still
feel—but
the waxy lids
wouldn’t
budge.
“What
difference does
it make? It can’t
see any more,
you illiterate
moron,”
I shouted from
my car, my blood
boiling at the
sight of her useless
effort. She looked
at me with a sort
of dazed shock,
as if hearing
my noise but not
my words. The
light had changed—angry
honks from those
behind me, hugely
eager to hurry
up and wait at
the next light.
I obliged; I moved
my car-pawn to
the next square.
Anoop cried a
little when I
told him of Mother’s
lump. He cried
like a child:
wildly streaming
eyes and rapidly
reddening nose,
lips pushed out
in a pout. A bit
revolting, seeing
this in a grown
man. So I reminded
him that we had
only half-an-hour
left, and he turned
his tear-streaked
face to mine and
kissed my lips,
the heat of my
skin drying the
wetness of his
cheeks.
“Smita,
I fell the rains
coming,”
he whispered.
“And
I am scared,”
I replied, putting
the final touch
to our rite.
#
I sat by Mother’s
bedside after
the mastectomy.
White-clad doctors
and nurses floated
by on soundless
feet, like ghosts
from the next
world who have
blundered into
this. Shadows
moved behind white-screened
cubicles like
the dramatis personae
in puppet-theatre,
their moans and
sobs like dove
calls.
In my cubicle,
I kept my eyes
on my charge:
I was waiting
for anything else
she might let
loose. Drugged,
and in a pain
that took new
dimensions during
her infrequent
waking spells,
she still managed
to hold on to
the cunning of
the truly weak.
All she said,
again and again,
like a toy with
only one squeak
programmed into
it, was: “Smita!
Papaji hung himself!”
We had come back
to Calcutta after
Ramghat. Papaji
had begun to make
amends to his
wealthy parents
for a lifetime
of independence
and headstrong
will. One evening,
Anoop and I had
come home from
school to a wailing
crowd. Papaji
had had a heart
attack.
#
“I’ve
known about Papaji’s
suicide—don’t
look like that
Smita, that’s
what it was, a
suicide, don’t
fight the word—I’ve
known about it
for ages now.
Our beloved mother
told me not to
tell you and Anoop.
I guess she felt
I could handle
it, being the
oldest. Though
I was only thirteen
then. I think
she needed to
tell someone to
deal with it herself…”
My pale older
sister droned
on, her manicured
hands carving
concepts in the
air. Twenty-five
days a month,
Pritha is a clinical
psychologist at
the city’s
mental hospital.
The other five
she spends in
her room, alone
with the blood
and cramps of
her monthly period,
reliving the horror
of the twenty-four-hour
vigil on the roof
in Ramghat, loonier
than her most
memorable madcaps—but
that’s the
way it seems to
be with most shrink-types.
With an impeccable
sense of timing,
Pritha had chosen
that day on the
roof to menstruate
for the first
time. I still
remember the glaze
of pain and shame
dilating her eyes
as a steady flow
of blood—and
an occasional
fat clot—trickled
down her legs
and plopped into
the water all
around us.
I looked at her
now. There was
nothing in the
lemon-coloured
face that suggested
anything other
than calmness,
control and breeding.
But then again,
I had never seen
her during her
“off “days.
I’m probably
the worst looker
in the bunch,
I thought. My
fondness for scotch
and frequent late
nights had left
puffed ridges
beneath my eyes;
cigarettes had
stained my teeth
for good.
Pritha’s
sudden sob made
me jump. In a
flash, the smooth
face I had envied
crumpled. She
said in a little
girl’s voice:
“I miss
Papaji. You never
got to know him.
You were so young…”
#
Mother was soon
better and sullenly
reconciled herself
to her single
boob. We shopped
for suitable undergarments,
and she wore them
with defiance.
They gave her
a curiously lop-sided
appearance—the
rotundity and
pointed symmetry
of the false breast
drawing attention
to the sagging
imperfection of
the real one.
“Maybe
I should remove
the other one,
too. At least
they’ll
look alike,”
she mused.
#
Close to November,
Anoop left for
a medical conference
in Darjeeling.
My grandparents
had left us their
red brick house
in that hilly
city, snug in
an apple and eucalyptus
wilderness. High
enough in the
Himalayan range
to be braced by
crisp, cool air,
yet safe below
the ice that frosted
the peaks.
I sat in my room
all afternoon,
watching the wind
chase dried leaves
in circles. Calcutta
was preparing
for the monsoons…
Later that evening,
I drove to Anoop’s
Park Avenue clinic
and sat in my
car, as if my
waiting would
make him materialize
in the doorway.
His being away
was made more
unbearable by
the fact that
his Mrs. was with
him. I felt the
painful loss of
a wife whose husband
has left her for
his mistress.
It was in moments
like this that
I was most tempted
to tell them all—Mother,
my husband, Anoop’s
wife. Flaunt in
public my right
to him. Hold his
hand, lay my head
on his shoulder
for all to see.
Who has more right
to him and his
body than me,
his fetal partner?
Maybe the seeds
for this inevitable
mingling of flesh
with flesh were
sown in the days
we shared Mother’s
womb, watched
each other grow,
helped each other
flee her body.
When it finally
happened, we were
twenty. I had
gone to Darjeeling
to recuperate
from chicken-pox,
Anoop from his
third year med
school exams.
We were walking
by the eucalyptus
trees that stood,
weary sentinels,
around the house.
The sickly sweet
smell of the leaves
clung to our clothes,
our hair, our
skins as we walked,
maintaining a
safe ten-foot
distance between
us. It was a thing
we had learned
to do as children,
like staying away
from fire….
A sudden flash
of lightning called
our bluff—we
ran hand-in-hand
to the house,
to my bedroom,
to my bed.
“Smita,
it’s raining,”
he had whispered.
“And
I’m scared,”
I had replied,
mainly to bolster
him, to hold up
his spirit as
I held his thing
in my firm, fearless
hands, so that
he would not chicken
out from carrying
this moment
through:
touch to kiss,
kiss to coitus,
then everything
depleted, the
waters ebbing
and leaving nothing
behind but things
too broken to
be spirited away.
Twilight encroached,
a crone with a
curse, and painted
the room as black
and blue as we
were after we
were through with
each other. In
bed, arms and
legs entwined
around each other
in some unconscious
mimicry of the
twin snakes in
Mercury’s
Caduceus, we spoke—not
of what we had
just done or what
people would say—but
of Ramghat. It
was the first
and last time
we were to do
so.
“Did
you see Papaji’s
face, Smita? When
all those men
and women on their
roofs began shouting
at him? Cursing
him? As if he
knew the storms
would come. They
saw the valley
themselves. They
should’ve
seen the danger—of
living in the
middle of mountains…”
“I
won’t ever
forget the look
on his face. It’s
how I remember
him—not
the strength or
the stubbornness.
The disintegration
is what I remember…”
“After
that he was as
good as gone…”
“The
death was an after-thought…”
“A
mere token gesture…”
#
I walked out of
bed into the balcony,
my cigarette winking
its red eye in
the night. Behind
the misty curtains,
my nocturnal admirer
took his spot.
And I peered through
the haze of the
muslin that made
him unreal, trying
hard to really
see his face.
Like I tried to
remember Papaji’s
face. It was my
Number One preoccupation
. I dug up old
photographs, but
he, cussed trickster,
had turned away
from the camera
at the critical
imprisoning moment,
so what remained
of him was a thin
neck shooting
out of a homespun
shirt and a dark,
glossy head that
became one with
the shadows. I
vividly remembered
the day on the
roofs in Ramghat,
but Papaji had
buried his face
in his hands.
Long and lean
hands, with slender
fingers slightly
swollen at the
knuckles.
You are the key
to all this, Papaji,
I thought. The
sole, clean-thinking
hero in our midst.
And to find you,
I must go to Ramghat.
All a bit melodramatic,
I know, but my
life is a drab
drag, so I seize
the moment when
I can. “Carpe
the diem,”
as the fool who
teaches Latin
to my children
supposedly once
intoned to his
brood.
Going to Ramghat
was easier said
than done. For
one thing—the
main thing, really—I
couldn’t
find Ramghat.
Ramghat was the
name Papaji had
given to that
little hidden
valley. It wasn’t
registered as
such, and no maps
listed it. So
where exactly
was it, our particular
valley? There
must be thousands
of valleys just
like that all
across the Himalayan
range. Asking
my family was
out of the question.
I mean, we’ve
never been that
open; we’ve
always been veiled
in what we say
and do, like aging
beauties who fear
the scrutiny of
light.
In keeping with
family tradition,
I sneaked into
Mother’s
house one afternoon
and snooped around
in her study—the
Lopsided-Wonder
herself was not
at home, having
joined Anoop’s
wife at the club
for bridge and
afternoon tea.
My search yielded
nothing—except
some silly letters
Papaji had written
to her when he
was very young
(what else could
account for their
embarrassing inanity?),
and which I brought
home with me to
read thoroughly
before I shredded
them to bits.
My next stop was
Calcutta University’s
Department of
Economics and
Commerce. I bribed
a clerk for the
phone numbers
and addresses
of all the geriatric
geniuses who were
still alive and
able to speak.
Five in the former
group, only one
in the latter.
I rushed to see
this last before
he too was struck
dead or dumb.
One Vishnu Narasimhan.
The clerk was
right—Professor
Narasimhan could
still talk. What
that low-class
clerk bastard
forgot to mention
was that no one
could understand
the esteemed professor
any more—not
even his merry
little bright-eyed
wife, who sat
by the old man’s
divan, gamely
attempting to
interpret his
garbled gurgle.
I got up in disgust.
“He
used to be such
a chatter-box
in those days.
Lectured as much
to all of us in
the house as he
did to his students,
” chortled
the wife, full
to bursting with
glee that her
once voluble spouse
could no longer
produce anything
but wheezing squeaks
and bubbling froth,
watching him with
the same delight
that proud parents
are supposed to
reserve for baby’s
first words.
Faced by wall
after wall of
blankness, I was
seized by a wild
panic (a new one)
that maybe Ramghat
did not exist
at all, that it
was some collective
fantasy spun out
by my family.
This new panic
goaded me, all
feral smiles and
wicked eyes, knowing
the answer himself,
taunting me to
find it where
he has hidden
it—in his
slavering, sharp-toothed
maw. I ignored
his prods and
pushings, and
kept the spotlight
of my mind on
one thing and
one thing only:
Where is Ramghat?
My newfound sense
of focused, disciplined
purpose made me
feel terribly
busy and important
as I rushed around
from dead end
to dead end. I
felt hugely superior
to the languid
lotus-eaters I
saw wasting away
the hours in Calcutta’s
ubiquitous coffee
shops, talking
their way from
dead end to dead
end. Not for nothing
do Calcuttans
call themselves
the French of
the East—and
they actually
believe that comparison
is a compliment….
In the strange
way in which things
sometimes work
out, Mother ended
up showing me
where Ramghat
was—quite
literally. She
pointed it out
on a map. We’d
dumped the kids
with her during
another one of
my husband’s
business promotion
dinners. I’d
gone alone to
pick up the children,
my lord and master
being too drunk
to drive. I heard
Mother’s
high, still girlish
voice float out
into the lawn
as I entered the
living room: “And
that’s Ramghat.”
I froze.
She was pointing
it out in the
atlas, which was
spread over her
knees. My children
were peering at
the spot indicated
by her pointing
finger. I put
myself on a rapid
de-frost—I
ran to the atlas
and pushed the
children away
and pulled back
her finger. The
place she was
pointing at was
nameless in the
atlas, just berry-blue
mountains on the
page, but I could
see where it must
have been, not
far from Simla.
“Have
you told them
about Ramghat?”
I asked her, the
children watching
us intently from
a corner of the
couch, clutching
each other so
tight they looked
like a two-headed
mutant (I wished
they wouldn’t
touch each other
so much).
“Only
that we lived
there one summer
when you were
small. The rest
is for you to
tell them, if
you choose, when
they are older…,”
she answered smoothly,
washing her hands
off what she had
stirred.
Driving home with
the children,
I made my excuses:
I would have to
go to Bangalore
for a day or so.
A writers’
conference. They
watched me quietly
from the back
seat with grim,
coal-black eyes,
knowing I was
lying, not loving
me enough to care.
I booked my passage
to Ramghat the
next day.
What can I say
about that dreary
flight to Simla
or the train-trip
to the last stop
on that particular
line? Only that
nothing seemed
even slightly
familiar—everything
was presented
brand-new to my
senses. There
was no sight or
sound to provide
a link to the
past. The past
was an island
severed from the
shore; remote,
unreachable.
The last stop
on the line was
preceded by some
truly awful train-driving—a
very wide swerve
and a shuddering
halt at the edge
of a great green
field. I found
my land-legs and
swayed out—I
was the only remaining
passenger at this
point. The train
thundered away,
and I braced myself
to face the fields.
Then I saw the
mountains—they
were way back,
in the background,
emerging through
the mist like
titans called
to battle, fully
armed, monstrous.
More massively,
mightily monstrous
than anything
I had ever remembered.
And now I did
remember—some
things coming
back in bits,
like bits of shredded
paper that contain
a piece of the
message. I remembered
standing here
like this, but
as a five-year-old,
and telling Papaji
the mountains
looked “untrustworthy.”
Yes, that was
the word that
I had used. I
remembered him,
poor idiot, laughing,
taking my hand
in his hands with
their thin palms
and calluses.
I remembered him
leading the way,
right into the
fin-blue mountains,
his sharp shoulder
blades moving
with touching
mortal fragility
beneath his threadbare
homespun shirt.
And I followed
him now as I did
then. Up the steep
path, watch out
for that rock,
one last stretch,
you can do it,
you’re a
big girl now—and
there it was.
Ramghat. An endless
sea of green,
lit by tiny blue
flowers. It had
always been here—where
could it go, held
snug as a captive
bird in the palm
of the mountains?
I walked into
the green, and
it swelled and
rose to lap at
my feet. The grass
that stroked my
ankles was like
velvet—but
with a rasping
edge to the blades.
I tried hard to
bring to life
our childish laughter
as we ran between
those long-past
houses. Silence
reigned supreme
now—a triumphant,
withholding silence;
the silence of
the mountains
and sky. Not a
leaf stirred;
not a breeze sighed
to stir the leaves.
Right in the middle
of the valley
was something
left behind: a
long, jagged piece
of teak. I took
it in my hands,
the sharp splinters
cutting my palms.
I knew what I
would see before
I saw it: the
initials B.K.,
carved in the
heart of a whorl.
I stared hard
at the fading
letters, flogging
my unwilling mind
to race past the
years and bring
me the owner of
this piece. Once
long ago, it had
been part of a
majestic dining
table….
Clutching the
piece of teak,
I lay down in
the grass, and
felt the skies
and mountains
huddle, shoulder
to shoulder, crest
to crest; to keep
all else out,
to keep me in.
I felt them watch
me as I nodded
off, and my last
conscious thought
before I slid
into black was
that death was
watching, too.
When I awoke,
it was cool moving
towards cold.
The sky had turned
the colour of
slate, and cleared
its throat in
a growingly frequent
flurry of thunder-rumbles.
A brisk wind had
sprung up from
somewhere, and
was racing like
a rabid dog, bending
the blue heads
of the flowers
with its force.
Then the rain
began, long hard
drops like bullets,
tearing into the
soft flesh of
the earth. I got
the hint. It was
time to go.
I walked, then
ran, up the steep
path, here we
go, this last
stretch—and
I was out in the
great field again,
with the mountains
now black and
impenetrable in
the background,
with Ramghat hidden
from view, and
with the rain
whining down to
a weak and snivelling
stop.
I looked at the
piece of teak
with the initials—still
in my hand, used
as a staff to
help me in that
last frantic ran.
But for this single
memento, I would
have dismissed
Ramghat as my
family’s
collective dream.
The mountains
had taken everything
else away. Left
nothing behind—to
bear witness,
to tell the truth.
A thorough and
perfect obliteration.
It was late when
I finally reached
the tiny railway
station. The mountains
had merged into
the black of the
Himalayan night—only
their snowy peaks
were visible,
like fangs bared
in the dark. I
sat down on the
rotting planks
of the station’s
wooden floor.
A train was howling
into the night,
and the station
trembled with
the vibration.
The station-master
approached me.
He was carrying
a small child
swathed in woolen
clothes several
sizes too big.
I smiled at the
child and thought
of my own. That
was one of the
few times in my
maternal career
when I felt some
warmth venture
into me—warily,
as on unknown
territory.
“What’s
that?” the
station-master
asked, pointing
to the teak in
my hands.
I shrugged, then
showed him the
carved initials,
watching his face
closely. No glimmer
of recognition.
Just idle curiosity
on his part. Polite
chat not meant
to go further—that
was all he had
intended. But
his weather-lined
face was kind,
full of grace.
The next train
arrived. I was
the only one in
my compartment,
flung from end
to end by the
same atrocious
driving that seems
a pre-requisite
to landing a job
as train driver
in these parts.
The mountains
sped by in window-framed
splendour. Range
after range, like
an unending herd
of elephants,
etched by an eloquent
hand into the
blackboard night.
I looked at my
reflection on
the window. No
kindness here,
no trace of grace.
A hard face—I
learned that from
the mountains.
But not a weak
one. It wouldn’t
flinch from what
needed to be faced.
The rains of Ramghat
were a collective
dream, after all.
We each carried
away from it what
we most wanted
to disbelieve
and wreck in ourselves.
We clung to Ramghat
with the tenacity
of those who are
truly stunted
in heart and head.
We wallowed in
Ramghat, passing
the pipe around
from hand to hand,
inhaling the escapism;
exhaling our strengths…
This, too, must
have been lying
dormant within
me. For facing
it didn’t
hurt—not
a bit. There was
just a grim get-on-with-it
sort of acceptance.
The train swerved
violently, and
we entered the
plains. Unexciting
flat land fled
past, as if ashamed
of itself. I opened
the window, gummed
shut by decades
of rust. A rush
of fetid air on
my face told me
that Calcutta
wasn’t too
far away.
I hurled the piece
of teak out of
the window. It
hit a passing
tree with immense
force and split
in two. I looked
at the chaotic
world starting
to take shape
outside the window—stray
huts becoming
settlements becoming
townships becoming
a heaving mass
of people hurtling
towards that great
city of cities.
“So
much is still
possible,”
I thought, but
aloud. “So
much you can still
do,” addressing
myself in the
third person,
which I do only
when I am totally
one hundred percent
completely dead
serious.
It’s in
these possibilities—in
these “I
can’s”
and “I will’s”
that the gossamer-texture
of life is suspended.
Not in what happens
afterwards—but
in that oft-skipped
moment when you
make the choice
to act, to act
despite the past;
with the belief
that you can and
will rewrite the
past, make old
horror pay its
price in blooms
as the mountains
had expertly done—in
this lies the
worth of a human
being.
I said, in keeping
with the drumming
wheels:
“I
can leave my husband…”
“I
can do without
Anoop…”
“I
can write…”
Thought to thought,
the unreal and
the merely dreamed
of becoming live
and solid by the
risk and daring
of jumping, rock
to rock, up the
steep path, just
this last stretch,
you can do it,
I know you can,
see—you
did it, well done,
you’re my
good girl now….
This mood in itself
was no stranger
to my life. A
few times before,
it had taken possession
of me in an act
that had begun
as rape and ended
with my eager
submission. But
maybe this time
it will stick
around long enough
to fuel action.
Isn’t that
wish itself part
of this mood and
its magic?
In the distance,
Calcutta’s
lights and eternal
traffic were spread
out like a willing
whore, and the
city winked its
million eyes to
welcome me.
Copyright
2012 by Radha
Bharadwaj
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