17 April 1999
From what Maa tells me, Baba was an accomplished playwright and an incredible actor in college. That one time in college he wrote a play in Sanskrit. None of the other actors in the cast could keep up with the words or intonations or Baba’s strict instructions. Rather than scrapping the play, he played all the roles himself!
‘There were only three girls and two boys in the audience and yet he performed like the world was watching, huffing and puffing around the stage, changing voices, genders, even costumes,’ Maa would tell us.
‘Then what?’ Dada and I would ask, listening to Maa–Baba’s love story for the umpteenth time.
‘I was so taken by your Baba’s performance. It’s then that I first thought of getting married to him. He was a force on the stage. He could have been a politician, I have always told your Baba that.’
I have no doubt. Dada and I have seen him in action both as sons and students. Parents all across north and west Delhi, and beyond, seek him out to teach their children Sanskrit and English. He tells stories and fables in his class, holding every child’s attention. He was like the Pied Piper before but infinitely more powerful and capable of raising an army of children voicing his opinions, repeating verbatim after him. Age has mellowed him down somewhat. But his very propensity to perform, to enthral, is often an embarrassment, like it was today.
‘I liked the lady,’ grumbled Baba about Jayalalithaa, the charismatic chief minister of Tamil Nadu, pointing at the television, veins popping in his neck. ‘But look what she has done!’
‘Ishh, turn the volume down,’ said Maa, nudging Baba.
‘Turn the volume down? The country’s government just fell and you want me to sip tea and eat mutton chops! Is that what you want me to do?’
‘I want you to stop discussing politics with our guests,’ said Maa.
In the audience were our new neighbours, B.B. Bhattacharya, his wife, Shanta Bhattacharya, and their daughter, Arundhati Bhattacharya. They had shifted into the flat next to ours just a day before. They are a lovely family—arrogant yet humble, rich but understated, beautiful but unassuming. We on the other hand were a bunch of people with megaphones strapped to our mouths.
‘We are so lucky they are Bengalis,’ Maa had chimed yesterday when the loaders unloaded their furniture. ‘I will call tomorrow.’
And so, here they were. While Bhattacharya Uncle and Baba argued about Jayalalithaa, I stole glances at Arundhati, who had carried a thick book with her. Maa’s eyes had lit up seeing Arundhati when she walked in. She is a studious-looking, bite-sized, feet-touching, nice Bengali girl—a Bengali mother’s prize.
‘Dada, you tell me?’ Baba continued, addressing Mr Bhattacharya. ‘Does it make any sense? If only Atalji had one more vote, we wouldn’t have elections again. Does Jayalalithaa not know how much it costs the country to hold elections again? What a leader! Bringing a no-confidence motion against the government when the country is already so weak.’
Bhattacharya Aunty butted in, ‘She topped the tenth board examinations in Tamil Nadu. So—’
‘I know, Boudi. But what did she do with it? She went into the movies!’
‘She was a big hit,’ Aunty said.
‘I know! That only shows how much these politicians want fame and money!’
‘Take Arundhati inside. Show her your books,’ said Maa to me and her. ‘Go, now! Don’t be shy.’
‘I’m not being shy,’ I said. ‘I just . . . Do you want to?’
‘Okay,’ said Arundhati and smiled.
Maa–Baba have the knack of making the most mundane things awkward. Do they not sense our shame or our consent? No, Maa, I don’t want to recite a poem to these strangers. No, I don’t want to dance in front of them. Don’t you know they are not interested? Why are you so obsessed with your sons, Maa?
Arundhati Bhattacharya put her book aside and followed me to my room.
‘These are the books,’ I said, pointing at them.
‘Hmm. I thought there will be more.’ She flipped through the books, opening them, going through them and then telling me, ‘I have them all.’
‘Do you have The God of Small Things? The author shares—’
‘I know. She’s the best, isn’t she? Like me,’ said Arundhati with a bright smile. ‘You can borrow a few books from me if you want. I have a nice collection. But do return them and don’t dog-ear them.’
‘I have my course books to finish. Baba ordered the IIT material so I need to do that too in my free time.’
‘IIT material, already? Isn’t that a little early?’
‘The exam is in two years. They think there is not much time.’
‘Is that what you want to do? Engineering?’ she asked.
‘No one will approve of what I really want to do.’
‘And what’s that?’
Yeah, right. As if I could tell her.
‘I am not sure if I want to do what I really want to do. So I think engineering it is for now.’
‘My parents would love to adopt you and your brother. They were devastated when I took humanities. They think I am ruining my life. But I won’t know until I try, will I?’
‘Which school have you joined?’
‘Model School. I have not seen the school yet. What’s the school like? Is it good? Are there cute boys there?’
From what I have heard, it’s a school of geniuses or children who find drugs rather easily. Our conversation was cut short when Uncle entered and told Arundhati that it was time to leave.
‘It was nice to meet you.’ She shook my hand firmly, smiled warmly and left.
I polished off the samosas and the namkeen left behind by our guests. By now Maa’s opinion of her had changed. There was no longer a glint in her eyes. I chose not to tell her about Arundhati’s query about cute boys.
‘She was beautiful, wasn’t she?’ she asked me.
‘She was okay.’
‘She must be bad in studies though. She’s taken humanities like Paula Aunty’s son. Remember Paula Aunty? Her son did English honours and is now working in advertising for 5000 rupees. He’s twenty-eight. Chee chee. And look at your Dada, already doing so well.’
‘Maa?’
‘Yes, shona?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Is there something you want to tell me, Raghu?’
‘No, Maa.’
As I write this, I am thinking if I am eligible to be a cute boy. Does Brahmi think so? But what if I am really a cute boy? How long can you stare at a cute boy?