Short story:

Interlude

Manel Hussainmiya

Bold rays of sunlight penetrated the heavy curtains. A fractious multitude of dust danced against its beams. A swarm of mosquitoes were crawling along the windowpane bumping into one another in earnest, seeking refuge from the oncoming day.

The neighborhood was stirring, waking up and each being to face his or her destiny. I lay on my bed, feeling lame, sluggish and incurious. The familiar noises from next door - a running tap, the clatter of pans, the wailing of an infant - the telltale noises of a night dawning into a new day. I had to get up.

The house felt damp as it always did. With every step I took the floorboards creaked in a willful obstinacy under my weight. I groped my way into the kitchen. A warm but refreshing draft blew through the open window which I would have left opened last night.

A stray cat slyly slithered past me and gingerly climbed out of the window. I could hear the little boy from next door yelling across the bared wire fence to a snarling dog. His invigorating screams and the unceasing barking of the hapless dog getting high pitched, almost hysterical.

The kitchen tap gurgled with enthusiasm spurting water all over the sink. His call had unsettled me. I had waited for it all these years; anticipated, prepared almost rehearsed my response, but yesterday when he called I had been at a loss for words.

"Same place same time!" He had said before he hung up. And I could only manage a meekly "OK".

The dramatic reunion that I had fantasised had lost its novelty with the passage of time. Thirty years was a very long time for any emotion to retain its intensity I thought. Battered and cracked nails, wrinkled skin stuck limply to the flesh, the wedding ring incarcerated in a mass of fat did not help at all.

The blue veins vibrated against the creases of coarse scaled skin in disorderly pattern, throbbing with self pity. I had never been taken note of the conquest of time. Strangely this morning the tea tasted bland and I emptied it mechanically into the sink.

My body ached as I tried to fit into a mauve dress two sizes too small for me. A heap of crumpled clothes lay across the bedpost discarded for want of appeal. I settled for a peach- green, loose, two piece suit to hide my sagging contours. My hands dug deep into the old chest of drawers to find the make up kit. It was covered in mildew.

The lipstick tasted sour. The rouge stuck like paste onto my protruding cheeks. A hypnotic flush appeared all over my face. Perspiration gathered under my eyelids. Nothing seemed right. Suddenly I wanted to cry. And I did just that.

After I had dressed I stepped outside into the misty morning. The boy was still aimlessly teasing the dog. He saw me and looked away but the dog found a moment of respite to wag his tail despite his power struggle across the fence. I was in no frame of mind to take sides. The bus journey to the Madura town would only take twenty minutes.

I was definitely too early and felt ashamed of my own eagerness. I recalled of the many trips I had taken years ago. Each one had been more exhilarating than the other.

But today it was so different. So many mixed up emotions were playing havoc in my head. My mind was racing hither and thither running in all directions but the body simply could not keep up the pace.

The bus was packed with the working crowd. As it pulled out of its station I could see clusters of school children as they stood banded together dressed in starched, white uniforms.

They looked like swans ready to take flight. Faces, and more faces on bodies like a film on accelerated rewind appeared and vanished as the bus sped past them. I was perversely happy for the distortions it made to their angelic contours. A sense of regret for a life gone by too sneakily came in to my thoughts. Before these negative thoughts could take firmer root I brushed them aside and peered outside to concentrate on what was happening along the way.

A young boy was gallantly helping an old lady to cross the road. She was hunched and faltering, eyes screwed and gazing ahead perhaps seeing nothing, clutching at the boy's arm looking fatuous.

I saw the reflection of my face at the bus window and wanted to believe it was not mine. But that was me and nothing could change that. I felt silly and for a moment I wanted to turn back. But I could not and I let destiny lead me to where it wanted to take me as it had done a long time ago.

"Here we are madam. Can I help you down?"

"No, No thanks. I can mange".

"You left this behind!"

"I don't need it now. I can manage, I will collect it on my way back at 1 o'clock" The bus conductor looked puzzled and unsure. I somehow managed to walk upright and steadily till I believed I was out of his sight.

The city street was throttling with people. Feeling their presence I felt useful, just like any one of them. I even jumped across a pot hole on the road suddenly feeling youthful. I no longer cared about the thinning hair gone grey, the sagging face akin to an impoverished martyr, the shapeless mass of flesh.

There was no melodrama. He was just there. The years had not touched him as it had done me. He had grown old gracefully.

"You are still lovely. And I missed you"

I kept my distance like a wounded deer does from his predator now gone lame. His outstretched arms fell to the side for want of no one to enter his embrace. Just three words of cheap sentimentality to compromise for the agony of a lifetime? I smiled. My feelings had crystallized.

There was no anger, no hatred no revenge. Perhaps the years of mundane living suffocated in practicalities had matured me to understand and to make allowances for the many facets of human behavior.

"I'm old; I look awful and don't lie to me."

Simple words, they were my words that had never had an agenda.

The cafe Udumal still stood gracefully beside the lake. Renovators had tried to retain the olden structure but somehow in their over enthusiasm disturbed its ancient sobriety.

The inside looked frustrated and forlorn in its new decor. I was trying to hang on to exaggerated details for want of a distraction.

I could feel that he was trying to reach out.

Young lovers, their heads stuck together and engaged in aimless chatter finding recluse from the reality of the outside. They were so unaware that they are venturing into a timeless compromise.

I felt so out of place in this youthful interlude. His fingers were tapping nervously at the table top. He was looking into my face searching and trying to lock into my eyes for his conquest. He had not changed.

He was the same self-assured man who thought that the world revolved for no reason but to gratify him. From the way he looked at me I knew he had never wanted to change. The waiter was staring down at us.

"Espresso coffee with marshmallow"

We both blurted out together.

That perfect moment really held us. My defenses crumbled and I let him lock his gaze into mine. I was young and his fool once more.

He made use of the momentary vulnerability.

"I am so sorry, Rani".

"Never mind, it is alright".

I could not believe I was saying this.

He got more courage.

"It was a mistake. I should have left Eileen".

"No, what happened was for the best".

How could I be such a traitor to myself?

He now had total control. Even more in control now than he had been, thirty years ago.

"I brought you the picture we took the last time we met. It's still good though a bit crumpled at the edges".

I wanted to throw up but I sipped up the coffee instead. He was the same meticulous man clinging to the sanity of orderliness.

I reached out and clasped the photo in my palms. It was not out of curiosity but out of need for a closure. Two smiling faces and two young bodies started into the camera in a lustful embrace. My fingers dared to trace the outline of her face, her hair strewn with jasmine flowers I could almost see their hue smell the scent...............

"I pressed those flowers you know, I still have them".

Why? Why? Did I give him this indulgence?

I hated my shamelessness, I hated my self humiliation. But I was helplessly caught up in an emotion that I had no control over. I never looked up. I was shy of my spontaneity. He remained silent.

Then something inside of me snapped. Like a wounded lioness I wanted to lash out.

"I married Rathan"

"I knew, my mother told me". "I heard you made a radiant bride".

"But with child, and I called him Simon after you".

The cup he was holding tilted a little and rattled against the saucer.

Other than that there was no visible reaction.

Coarse fingers clutched the tablecloth.

An oversized cheap jade ring boldly settled on his finger, protruded gaudily. Even now he looked awkward when faced with responsibility for his actions.

"You should have told me."

"Why should I? Anyway I was loyal to you. You were a married man and I did not want to disturb your life.

I always knew you would not be able to handle the pressure. Rathan was rich. He could give me and Simon everything I wanted".

I wanted to strike rapidly. Claw at every inch of his body and his soul for the endless days and nights I had suffered in the web of deceit that he had engulfed me in. I don't think I touched him at all for even if I had, his face did not betray anything. Perhaps too much has happened in his life to matter anymore.

I dealt the final blow.

"Simon drowned while we were holidaying in Jaipur. He was only fifteen. It broke Rathan's heart. Simon was our only compromise".

I had gained courage. I was relating a story and it was some one else's saga. There was no nostalgia.

He never acknowledged my words, like as if he had not heard them. Even today he had brushed aside reality as he had done then. It had to be his story for he went on effortlessly.

"Eileen left me two years after we parted. We were childless. It was a painful experience for me, I felt beaten and guilty".

How neatly he had arranged his failures to be dealt to him by others wrongdoings and not his own folly. It was all about him and what had happened to his life was all someone else's fault. All at once to me his face showed his age.

He was old. He looked very old indeed.

"Soon after that I volunteered to join a missionary expedition in Indonesia. It was so sudden I had no time to even tell you".

How could I tell him I was there that day at the station, waiting to take one last glimpse of the man who had fathered my only child? How could I tell him I held Simon high over my shoulders hoping and praying that he would have looked our way and spot us in the crowd? How could I tell him anything for he had locked the both of us in a locker like one does a shameful dirty secret?

And he had then left. And before he left he had destroyed us.

He was tracing history. I watched his grey black eyes traverse through the hinterland years.

An aura of solitude settled around us. With the melancholic pace that he narrated what his life has been after us made me lose my venom. I had expended it. I once more became the gullible teenager, caught in the rapture of defiance.

"I stayed behind to teach in a village school. Many times I wanted to reach out to you but I did not want to upset your life. You could never imagine the loneliness of that vacant life. Nini was almost a child when I met her. Her mother was my mistress. When her mother died from a rare viral flu she made me promise I look after Nini. She grew up in my care. Nini and I have a daughter, her name is Elaika.

He did not even bat an eyelid as he spilt out his sin.

At last my eyes filled with tears. They were so long overdue. Tears of fear and of shame mixed into one. Fear of so many repulsive revelations yet left unsaid by this man who I had trusted and immortalised all these long years. The reverence with which I had protected our love began to appear so out of place and bizarre.

As usual I did the absurd.

"Are you happy Simon?"

I gave him a way out and he grabbed it like a pro.

"Happiness is like quicksilver, you cannot generalise for a lifetime.

Each moment, each minute each hour is as one feels, so different. I think it has always eluded me Rani". The marshmallows gave a bitter and pungent taste. "You ought to visit us in Indonesia. Elaika would love to meet you. I have told so much about you to her". How could I let him do this to me? But I never wanted to reply. My emotions were tangled and enmeshed in a messy and repulsive cog mire of dirt.

"I was always an intrusion in your life"

I gave him the carving knife to carve out his perfect image.

"I never thought of you like that. You have always been very special to me. I always called you my precious, remember?"

His hand reached out across the table cloth seeking mine.

I felt sad, sad for the both of us and for the whole wide world.

I let his fingers entwine in mine.

"My life was settled. Just after we married we moved to Rathan's estate up North.

He was a kind and generous man. He loved me in his own way not the excitable way you would have loved me. I would never have left him for you, though".

I felt awkward being defensive. Such emotions seemed so out of place and only belonged to youth.

"Elaika will be sixteen next month. She is a ravishing beauty you know so alive so radiant so wild, just like you were ...............

"Like I was? I am still like that."

I laughed with my head thrown back and with that laugh I knew I gave him total absolution.

"I brought this ring to give it back to you, the one you gave me for my birthday. You can give it to her from me. It no longer fits me".

The blood red garnet flanked by twin fake diamonds. It looked ageless sitting on the faded velvet. There was no need for words because words just confused deep feelings and disturbed the equilibrium in a moment.

"Rani, I have to go, my plane leaves in two hours".

"Yes, of course"

"Can I see you to your car?"

"No, I shall stay here for a while, I can't drive anymore, and I have no car".

I felt ashamed of my frankness. But of course he did not wait to hear me. He was gone. It was all over. Someone was turning twister - circles inside of me and riding in its waves. He had made many roots into his life while I had just woven brittle webs around mine.

I walked between the empty tables to the door. A girl was seated all by herself at a corner table, sobbing into an unsteady hand and trying very hard to hide her face from me.

The mid day traffic was thinning. The air simmered in the sunlight. The heat from the tar road was visibly evaporating. A gluttonous crow was ransacking a wayside dustbin flapping its wings with each palatable find. A scantily dressed Malayali woman was squatting on the floor reading a benefactor's palm. Her infant was cozily sucking at her sunken breast.

My walking stick lay limply across the bus seat. The bus was empty.

"Had a nice day Madam"?

"Yes, thank you"

A dirt-smeared face of a beggar girl appeared at the bus window. She was pleading incessantly at me. Her eyes were blowing fumes of scorn but her lips were endearing a pleading smile as she begged me for her livelihood.

The bus was gathering speed and yet she was still clinging to the window edge running alongside. And then her feet lost momentum and she let go. I turned back to see her. She was happily clutching on to the money I had given. Our photo lay crumpled at her bare feet.

'Writing, my life'

Profile of a scribe

Nothing grows under a big tree except may be grass and fern. But they did it, Alexandre Dumas fils, and Martin Amis. Despite having famous writers for fathers they managed to establish themselves as writers in their own right. Kiran Desai too has achieved this difficult feat.

To be the daughter of Anita Desai could not have been an unmixed blessing. But from her very first sunlit book 'Hullabaloo in the Guva Orchard', Kiran Desai proved that she was her own woman. What she drew from her eminent mother was a love for writing, and finished craftsmanship. The vision was her own, the style even more so.

In Chennai for reading excerpts from her Booker Prize winning 'The Inheritance of Loss' in an event organised by Taj Connemara and Penguin, Kiran was persuaded by Ravi Singh, Publisher and Editor-in-Chief, Penguin Books India, to choose a humorous tract about some of her characters making a trip from Kalimpong to Darjeeling.

Mischievous streak

Kiran is not the best reader of her work. Her voice had a child's high-pitched softness. But its mischievous streak worked well for the chosen passage, which poked gentle fun at people of different natures and backgrounds.

As she read on, listeners knew just why Ravi Singh described 'The Inheritance of Loss' as a 'luminous' book. "She has a deep humanity, and brings dignity to small lives," he said. He added that a "life-affirming humour alleviates the great sorrow at the heart of the story, adding to the integrity of the book."

After the reading, Kiran Desai was interviewed by Anita Ratnam, known to Chennai as dancer, choreographer, actor, television anchor and festival director. Kiran shared her experiences as a writer with engaging frankness and humility.

"It was a strange day," she said about the day the Booker was announced. Kiran was too hungry and tired at the Frankfurt Book Fair to be scared. "It's wonderful to win such a prize. But as a writer you are worried not just about your own work but about the community of writers, and how publicity and marketing work today.

A few books are chosen to be promoted, others suffer. I've been on the other side, so I know how tough it is for good writing to get through."

As she talked about her characters in 'The Inheritance...', 'human dignity' became a recurrent motif. The complex judge was interesting because his humanity had taken a beating along with his dignity. The immigrant struggling in the underbelly of New York had no access to any dignity.

In South Asian gatherings in the US the self-congratulatory focus was on success in making money. "But we don't dwell on how we are most poor in other respects." No, the 'happily ever after' ending was not possible. "I didn't feel it would be honest." The book ends in hope, with an emotional transition rather than a financial one.

Kiran would not describe her work as a political novel, though all fiction does not ultimately become political. "I don't think about the large issues, but of a small individual, alone in a room, full of apprehensions and fears that you don't tell anybody.

That's where the humanity of literature lies." She is concerned about the dark side of globalisation, the huge divide between the rich and the poor, about the shadow class of immigrants and other waifs across the world.

But it was hard for writers to be seen as oracles, and subjected to relentless questions on matters socio-political. "I try to wriggle out. But in our times writers from the developing worlds have become ambassadors and forced to explain political parallels in their books all the time. How much harder for writers from Iran, Afghanistan or Iraq!"

Kiran confessed that she envied writers disciplined enough to start and stop according to schedule. "For me writing is my whole life, all day, even though sometimes I simply stare out of the window."

Her roots

The last 20 years have seen Kiran Desai outside India. But she did write about India. Does the market dictate the location? "No. I did start about New York but had to return to where my emotional depth comes from. I don't know what grandparents say to each other in the United States, but I have an intuitive understanding of what they'd say in India."

Her mother was a source of unfailing support and help. "I thought I'd need her less with my second book but found that I actually needed her more, to learn about the subject matter, the rhythms of writing, and for understanding my work. I also learnt from her how hard it is to write a difficult book, books that look at difficult things."