THREE
The following Monday morning Arif was in his room, engrossed in a book on the Indian freedom struggle by Bipin Chandra, when Abba walked in, dressed in his police inspector's uniform, his green cap askew on his head. Sitting next to him on the bed, Abba patted Arif on his back gently.
'Wah beta! I am really happy that you are working so hard for the mains.' Abba's face was lit with hope. 'Inshallah, you'll clear the exam in your first attempt.'
'Inshallah,' Arif seconded his father's words.
'Accha, take this cheque and get it encashed from SBI, Judges Court Branch. Ahsan uncle's son has sent the money for his treatment.'
'All right, Abba.'
'Do you know where this branch is?'
'Yes, Abba. Near the Gandhi Maidan bus stand.'
'Yes,' Abba said as he took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes.
As Abba walked out of the room, Arif looked at the wall clock. He had two hours before the bank opened. He could rush through 'The Rise of Communalism in Nineteenth-century India'. Just then Dadi entered the room. She had a steel bowl in her right hand.
'What is my grandson doing?' Dadi smiled.
'Studying, Dadi.'
'Here is your favourite chatpata chana,' she said as she bent to place the bowl in front of him.
Arif beamed at the bowlful of crispy, spiced chickpeas.
'Thank you very much, Dadi.' Arif rose to hug her.
* * *
It was ten past eleven when Arif reached Gandhi Maidan. Even from outside he could see that half the Maidan was covered in colourful canopies, thousands of men and women sitting on the ground, chanting 'Jai Shri Ram! Hail to Lord Rama! Vidya Devi Zindabad!
He pedalled his bicycle through the crowd of the Bharatiya Janata Party supporters on the road. Vidya Devi had not arrived at the Maidan yet. He saw police personnel all around the place. A deputy superintendent of police was on a walkie-talkie. Arif was a little nervous; being a Muslim, he could never feel safe or comfortable in the presence of members of the Hindu fascist party.
He heard Vidya Devi's voice over the loudspeakers.
'They kill cows because we venerate cows as our mothers. And they always try to instigate Hindus. You see what happens when India loses a match to Pakistan. They light firecrackers. They celebrate. They live in India but sing songs of Pakistan. If our party opposes these traitors, the Congresswallahs brand us communal. The Congress party has appeased them to an unreasonable extent. If India is a secular country, why is there no uniform civil code? If India is a secular country, why do they get a subsidy for the hajj pilgrimage? All these things have been happening because we Hindus have forgotten our glorious past. A thousand years of slavery has made us cowards. When Hindus awaken, the traitors will be shown their place.'
Vidya Devi was famous for her venomous speeches against Muslims. Arif felt a chill run down his spine. He pedalled faster.
'Saali randi!' he muttered.
From there Arif went to Mritunjay's house instead of going home to collect a photocopy of notes on public administration by Vaji Ramarao. Thanks to Mritunjay, Arif got them cheap – Rs 450 was nothing compared to the
Rs 6200 for the original. As Mritunjay came out to see Arif off, a blue Premier Padmini car stopped close to them and a tall man in his forties with a narrow moustache got out.
'Pranam, uncle,' Mritunjay greeted. 'Meet my friend Arif.' He turned to Arif and added, 'This is Ramesh uncle, our neighbour. He is a manager at the State Bank of India.'
So, this must be Sumitra's husband. What are the chances of another SBI manager living in the same neighbourhood as Sumitra and her husband.
Arif did a quick namaste.
'May Lord Shiva bless you,' Ramesh Kumar said.
Arif took an instant liking to him.
'Is your father at home?' Ramesh Kumar asked Mritunjay.
'No, uncle.'
'Okay, I'll come by later then,' he said and waved to them.
A few hours after reaching home, Arif realized that the money was missing from his pocket. He couldn't imagine how and where he had lost the money. He remembered taking the money from the cashier at the bank and stuffing the notes into the left pocket of his trousers.
The money was for Ahsan uncle's treatment. The old man had come all the way from his native village, Jamalpura, to be treated for stomach ulcers. The doctors had prescribed surgery, scheduled after two days.
Arif searched his pockets, looked for it in his bedroom and study room. The money was nowhere to be found. Ten thousand rupees was a big amount. His father's monthly salary was less than that. What could an honest police inspector like Abba, who didn't take bribes, earn? Just enough to stay alive. Mr Verma, his father's colleague, who lived just one block away, lived a lavish life.
If I don't find the money, how would Abba manage to get such a large amount at such short notice? Maybe he had dropped the money at Mritunjay's place. Ya Allah! Arif prayed.
Mritunjay was surprised to see Arif back again. 'Have you forgotten something here?' he asked.
'No yaar! I've lost ten thousand rupees,' Arif replied in a choked voice, and explained what had happened.
Arif was not worried that Abba would scold or beat him for his carelessness. As a matter of principle, Abba never slapped his children. Arif was more terrified of having to see his father's expression of horror and defeat when Arif told him about the loss.
'You must tell your father at once,' Mritunjay said. As Arif was about to leave, he heard Sumitra's voice. She was in the adjacent room talking to Mritunjay's mother.
By the time he reached home, Arif had decided to call up Abba and tell him about the loss of money. But he was shocked to see Abba at home in the middle of the day. Something must be wrong, otherwise Abba would never be home so early. Perhaps he was unwell. Arif grew alarmed. Normally, Abba left the office after 9 p.m. Arif registered the expression on his father's face; it was blazing with anger and there was no sign of illness. Amma stood silently in a corner with a glass of water, looking anxious, and Zakir stood in another corner.
'This bloody rascal from the National Intelligence Department says he can't hand the file over to me because it contains sensitive information about the ISI's activities in Bihar, and I am a Muslim. This is the reward for my integrity and honesty. Tiwari, who would happily sell his own mother for a few rupees, is considered more trustworthy than me.'
'Please drink some water,' Amma said as she held out the tumbler. Abba took a sip and threw the tumbler to the floor.
'You can't even keep a glass clean.' Abba was fair-skinned, tall, with broad shoulders, small eyes and a prominent nose. Whenever he lost his temper, he stood erect with his chest out, appearing taller than he was. His nostrils flared. His broad forehead had furrows. Dadi entered the room, her head covered with the pallu of her white sari. Her narrow brown eyes looked worried. She came straight to Abba, gently placed her hands on his head and said, 'My son, you shouldn't get angry with your wife for whatever happened at the office. Our holy Prophet, peace be upon him, has told us to treat our women with respect. Poor Hamida, she spends the entire day taking care of her family.'
Abba didn't say anything. He just closed his eyes. Dadi was stroking Abba's hair, trying to calm him down, when the doorbell rang. Ram Chandra Upadhyaya, a senior accountant at the police headquarters, was at the door. Having been Abba's mentor since Abba joined the police department twenty-eight years ago, and knowing the family well, he walked straight in. Abba stood up.
'Rashid, come, let's go to the office. Bade sahab has sent me to fetch you.' Ram kaka spoke with authority and affection. 'Bade sahab scolded the intelligence officer.' Arif knew that Abba and his colleagues referred to Bihar's Director General of Police as Bade sahab.
Arif knew Abba wouldn't say no to him, and after a little persuasion, Abba accompanied Ram kaka back to the office.
Once in his room, Arif fretted over how to break the news to his father. He knew Abba would borrow the money from his friends. However, for the next few months, this additional expense would destroy the equilibrium of the precariously balanced monthly budget. They would stop their subscription to the Times of India and India Today, and they would take only half a litre of milk a day, instead of a litre, and potatoes would be cooked more frequently. Fish, mutton and chicken would disappear from the kitchen till the money was paid off.
Overcome with self-loathing, Arif wanted to scream at himself.
'Any problem, bhaiyya?' Zakir asked, noticing Arif's anguished face.
Arif told him the whole story.
'What! Have you told Abba?'
'No, I'll tell him tomorrow.'
'Don't get upset, bhaiyya. Just rest for a while and then try searching for it again. I'll go to a PCO to call the bank and ask if you left the money there. My friend's cousin is a clerk in the same branch.'
Zakir left immediately. Arif took off his shirt, lay on the bed and closed his eyes. Outside, he heard Amma welcoming some woman, 'Namaste, behenji.'
Minutes later, Amma called out to him, 'Arif beta!'
It was customary for Amma to introduce her children to every new visitor. Arif would be introduced as the eldest, Badka baua, who was preparing for the civil services examination. And while performing the ritual of introductions, his mother's pale face would glow with maternal pride.
Not in the mood to be introduced to anyone, he pretended to be asleep. But he leapt up as he heard footsteps approach. As he hurriedly threw his shirt on and started buttoning it up, Sumitra walked in. What was she doing here! If he hadn't been in such low spirits over the money, his heart would have jumped with joy.
'This is Sumitra aunty,' Amma said. She had no idea that they had met earlier.
'Sit here, Sumitraji, and talk to Arif.' Amma pointed to a chair and left the room.
'This is your book and diary. You gave it to me the day you helped me get my father to the hospital. I kept it in my bag and forgot to return it,' Sumitra said, pulling out the Diwan-e-Momin and his blue diary from her rather large brown handbag.
'There is something for you inside the book,' Sumitra said, smiling.
Is it a love letter? Arif thought and got goosebumps.
Arif could feel something stuffed between its pages. Keeping his eyes on the room entrance, he opened the book. There was a brown envelope. He gingerly peeked in. It was stuffed with money.
Arif looked at her in surprise.
'I know you lost some money. I heard you at Mritunjay's house. So, I thought . . . Please treat this as a loan. You can return it when you become an IAS officer.'
'Thank you very much. But I can't accept this. Sorry.' He held the envelope towards her and saw her smile vanish.
'Please don't be offended. I didn't mean to hurt you,' Arif apologized.
'Don't worry, I understand your dilemma. I am impressed with your self-respect.' She smiled again. Her smile, that same dimpled smile, overwhelmed Arif, and he had a sudden impulse to kiss her.
Remember, Arif, she is married. Think of your family's reputation. Think of the consequences of pursuing her. He hated himself for his feelings.
'Did you say something to me?' Sumitra asked.
'No,' he replied quickly, making eye contact for a split second. Up close Sumitra was even more beautiful. Arif inhaled the fragrance of her talcum powder. Her lips were full and her breasts generous. Tauba! Tauba! Ya Allah, forgive me for the sins of my eyes.
Sumitra picked up a cassette titled Hits of K.L. Saigal Volume One from the table.
'One of the greatest singers India ever had. My father is a big fan of K.L. Saigal. When I was a child, he used to play Saigal on a gramophone. I still remember his favourite songs: "Gham diye mushtaqil", "Madhukar shyam hamare chor" and "Jab dil hi toot gaya". Nowadays, nobody listens to Saigal sahab. My husband says it's ridiculous how anybody can enjoy a song sung in a nasal voice.'
Arif smiled, but he was restless. He was still thinking of the lost money. 'How is your father?' he asked.
'He is fine. He is in Katihar now. He owes his life to you.'
'Only God is the saviour.'
Sumitra looked at the tennis rackets cross-nailed to the wall. 'So, you play tennis?' She seemed impressed.
'I used to play tennis. Not any more.'
'My husband also plays tennis. He goes to New Patna Club.'
She got Arif to talk more about his likes and dislikes, his ambitions and dreams. And when Arif spoke, she listened attentively. Arif noticed that Sumitra's pronunciation was impeccable, especially when she used Urdu words.
'Who is this handsome boy?' she asked as she lifted a photo frame from the table.
'My brother, Zakir. He wants to try his luck in films.'
'Mashallah!'
She was looking at a family photograph. Dadi, Amma and Abba were sitting on chairs. Arif, Zakir and their sisters stood just behind them.
'My family,' Arif said.
'You have three sisters?'
'Yes.'
'All of them are beautiful.'
Arif smiled in response.
They stopped talking as soon as Amma returned. Rabiya, his sister, who had come back from college, followed Amma with three cups of tea, plates of suji ka halwa and thick homemade potato chips.
'You must be a busy young man. I'll leave you to your studies,' Sumitra said and walked out with Amma.
In Sumitra's presence, Arif had almost forgotten about the lost money, and now it returned to haunt him. He wondered if he should have accepted the envelope from her. But how could I?
At last, he made up his mind to tell Amma. He got up from his bed and searched for his slippers. He stooped to look under the bed and noticed that his white handkerchief was lying there. Stretching himself a little, he caught it with two fingers, and as he pulled it towards him, he shrieked with joy. Inside it were the currency notes held with a rubber band.
Zakir had returned from the PCO and was just walking into the house when he heard Arif yell. Zakir came running to the room. 'What happened, bhaiyya?'
Arif brandished a fistful of 500-rupee currency notes and Zakir's face lit up. He moved closer to his elder brother and hugged him tightly.
Later in the night, Arif held the Diwan-e-Momin and imagined Sumitra's touch. As he flipped through the pages, he was surprised to find his name written on the second page of the book in Urdu. It wasn't his handwriting and it hadn't been there before. It looked like a professional calligrapher had inked it. He wondered if Sumitra knew Urdu. How did a middle-class Maithil Brahmin woman learn a language that was now stigmatized as a 'Muslim language'?
He went through the book, curious to see if she had written anything else. He found a small piece of paper, folded into a square. His heart thudding, he unfolded it. It was an Urdu ghazal in four couplets:
The day began / Craving for a glimpse of a face
You didn't come / Depriving me of your grace
My heart aches / And is in turmoil
My restless soul / Has no peace, even for a while
Time stands still / The minutes become hours
The day loses its brightness / And the fragrance shuns the flowers
Maybe my desire will be fulfilled / Before I die
Or craving I have to go / To the alley of death, beyond the sky
She had signed it with her name.
Subhanallah! He was impressed that Sumitra was an Urdu poet. Her selection of words, the deployment of metaphors and imageries, the radeefs and the qafiyas, everything about her poetry captivated him. He read her poem over and over again, until Amma called him for dinner.