2 June 1999
It’s all coming to an end.
The Gangulys will never be the same.
Dada’s betrayal of the Gangulys will rank over Mir Jafar’s selling our beloved Bengal and, in consequence, India to the British, over Judas’ poison kiss to Jesus, over Brutus’ knife, and over the hunchback Ephialtes’ betrayal of the band of brothers at the battle of Thermopylae.
Years of unconditional love laid waste.
Zubeida Quaze was our Cyril Radcliffe, the man who fashioned two countries, India and Pakistan, out of one. And on hearing the news the Gangulys crumbled like pre-Partition India did—in disbelief, tears, disappointment and then violence. Zubeida Quaze, like a pebble flying at a high velocity, smashed against us, once a strong windshield with a clear future, leaving behind spiderweb-like cracks and a cloudy way ahead.
Only a few sentences had been exchanged when I was sent to my room. I had my ears pinned to the door and occasionally peeped through the doors. I could only hear little snippets of the conversation that fractured our family in a matter of minutes.
‘What’s the problem if I get married to her? I love her! There’s no other way,’ Dada was saying.
Maa was crying, her voice like a dying animal. She said, ‘We strictly told you. No Musalmans! Chhee chhee! I won’t let a Musalman girl step into this house! Over my dead body! Is she ready to convert? Will she be a Hindu like us?’
‘Why will she do that Maa? Maa, I will die without her, and she without me. We can’t live without each other. We can’t even imagine such a life. Why don’t you understand that, Maa?’
I saw Baba step forward through the space in the doors and it looked like he would hit Dada. ‘Look at him talk! Bloody roadside Romeo! Who are you? Govinda? Where did you learn to talk like this? And what about your Maa? Haan? Look at him. He’s already calling the girl and himself as us. And why would you die? Kill us instead! You would be happy with that, wouldn’t you? First a stupid rank in IIT, then this mindless job, and now this!’
Baba swung at Dada. Maybe. I’m not sure, I couldn’t see properly. But had he slapped Dada, Dada would have taken it boldly like an indignant satyagrahi. Always the pacifist, Dada, the Gandhian. But Baba is also Godse, and he would have slapped Dada again. Once. Twice. Thrice. Till the blows would have been dull and powerless, till the violence would have stopped making sense, till Baba would have realized you can’t hurt someone who’s inviting hurt, even embracing it and celebrating it. He would not have flinched. Tears would have sprung to Dada’s eyes but he would be standing tall, clutching on to his mast of love. Baba would have thrown something at him. Dada wouldn’t have ducked. Instead, he would have worn the oozing blood as a trophy. And then, Maa, the crying mother, always the one left behind in wars like these, would have begged for the violence to stop.
I remember wishing it to stop too. Dada was burning his bridges. That meant I would have to bear not only the sadness within me but also Maa–Baba’s share of it. I know I’m not strong enough to do that. I couldn’t possibly drag on much longer. I remember thinking that what happened with Sami had robbed me of being able to be happy but it had not stopped me from experiencing hurt. How unfair is that?
‘We are getting married, Baba. There’s no other option,’ said Dada.
‘Is she pregnant?’ screamed Maa.
Baba butted in, ‘What if she is? She can get an abortion. I will pay for it. That will solve the problem of commitment. You’re not getting married to her, and that’s final. You’re not going to Bangalore any more.’
‘I am, Baba. I was informing you, not asking for permission. I would really like it if you would happy with my decision,’ said Dada.
‘What did we do wrong to see this day?’ screamed Maa.
‘WHAT ABOUT HER PARENTS? HOW COULD THEY LET HER BE SUCH A LOOSE CHARACTER?’ screamed Baba.
‘Baba! Don’t—’
‘Don’t you dare raise your voice at me! I didn’t pay for your education for you to do this to us! What did we not do for you? We put every paisa we had into your education! We gave you everything you wanted, for this? So that you could get married to a Musalman? Why! What face will we show in the society!’
‘How does it matter?’
Maa ran to Dada and rained slaps on him. ‘It matters to us! I will talk to her parents! Are they putting pressure on you? I will tell them that this is not going to happen.’
‘Maa! Stop! Her parents don’t agree to this as well. They have thrown her out of the house. She has nowhere to go.’
‘See, shona! See, my love! Then why are you being so obstinate? We will give her money. You don’t have to get married to her. You’re only twenty-one! What is love? You know nothing about love! It’s all infatuation. You will get over it. I beg you, shona! I beg you! Don’t do this.’
‘Maa, I won’t—’
Maa slumped on to the ground. Dada went to help her but Baba shouted, ‘Don’t touch her!’
Maa muttered as Baba helped her to the sofa, ‘I hope she dies! I curse her! I hope she dies! I hope she rots!’
‘Maa . . .’
‘Don’t call me that! Your Maa is dead! She was dead the day you touched that woman.’
At this, Dada started to cry as well. About time, I would say.
‘Our decision is final. Either you have us in your life or that girl,’ said Baba.
There was a brief silence and then I heard the doors slam. Dada would have walked out of the house. I’m crying now. I am crying for Dada to come back. But I’m also crying for Maa–Baba who don’t deserve this, especially Maa. Baba has always had his prejudices against Muslims and Christians and Jews and anyone with a Holy Book but Maa had often made an earnest request to both of us. To let her choose our wives. Often she would call us to the living room and point to a Bengali actress on screen and say, ‘This is how your wives should look.’
We would both roll our eyes.
This is Maa–Baba’s worst nightmare come true. And mine.
All I can think about is going up the stairs of the tall building on Barakhamba Road, or even Ashiana Apartments, or Rajasthali, or any of the buildings I have scouted. How easy would it be to let it all end? Just one step and . . . poof.
Game over.