B006NZAQXW EBOK (11 page)

It was only later that they ran into a bit of misfortune.

They had emerged from the cinema with Pinky feeling somewhat mollified by the thrilling scenes she had just witnessed between hero and heroine amidst mounting
obstacles of dread and terror. This
Love Story
was a film beyond compare! When it first came out, the line of people waiting to get in had snaked all the way from the ticket booth to the university gates, travelling around corners and, blocking traffic, stretching across streets. The crowds nicknamed the heroine Thunder Thighs and went again and again to see her cavort in the famous waterfall scene. There, in defiance of parental wishes and differences in income, religion and caste specifications, she sang in the spray with her beloved, matching him only in the supreme attributes of true love and good looks. There was nothing better than to watch a satisfying drama, one that caused your blood to run strong and red again. Ammaji and Pinky emerged strengthened into the late afternoon and stopped at the Hungry Hop Kwality Ice Cream van for ice cream.

It was at this moment that Pinky spotted the Cinema Monkey! The Cinema Monkey who had so long been harassing the ladies of the town for peanut cones. There it was, loping its way towards them! Hai Rama, how on earth could they have possibly forgotten? Coming to the movie without strong and able chaperons! This would have to happen to them. The monkey came closer. He was so bold, he showed not the slightest trepidation. Any human thief would be feeling a little awkward, robbing like this in broad daylight. The monkey’s brown eyes were cold and cruel, red-rimmed and fixed firmly upon them. In a rush of terror, her heart falling into a black nothingness, Pinky shouted: ‘Run, run, run. Run, Ammaji. Drop the ice cream and run!’

But Ammaji, who had just been handed a nice chocolate cone by the Hungry Hop boy, ran with the cone – not that this mattered, for the monkey ignored her and ran after
Pinky instead, even though she was without any food products whatsoever. He grabbed hold of her dupatta and held tight as she screamed like a train and pounded down the bazaar street, followed by the gallant Hungry Hop boy, who had been aroused from his usual placid state by their cries of alarm. After all, it was not as if he did not know how to behave in such situations. He too was a regular at the cinema.

Now, inexplicably, for reasons best known to herself, Ammaji decided in the midst of all this confusion, this raised dust and running, to take a bite of her ice-cream cone. As she did so, the dentures, which had been unsettled by so much activity, were dislodged from her gums. Stuck in the ice cream, they leered at her horribly like a ghastly cartoon: skeleton teeth mocking, beckoning from the chocolate mound, an affront to her old age.

Horrified, Ammaji dropped the cone and, mistaking it for his favourite peanuts in a roll of paper, the monkey turned his attention towards her, caught hold of the denture-laden cone and rushed towards a tree.

‘Oi, you crooked thief,’ shouted Ammaji in rage, now turning around and shouting and chasing after the ape. ‘Give them back. They’re of no use to you, you stupid donkey.’

‘Stupid
monkey,
maji,’ said Hungry Hop, stopping in mid-track, stunned at her mistaking such vastly different animals for each other. ‘He’s a monkey, not a donkey.’

‘Munkey-dunkey,’ shouted Ammaji. ‘Don’t just stand there. Go after him.’

And remembering his duties, the Hungry Hop boy went at the creature, screaming and yelling, waving two sticks in such an alarming manner that even this dreadful monkey, disgusted at finding no peanuts, and a little intimidated,
dropped the cone, raced over the roofs of the shops and disappeared. The Hungry Hop boy retrieved the dentures from a melting pool of chocolate and delivered them, carefully balanced on the end of a stick, to Ammaji.

Pinky could not remember being so mortified in all her life. There she was, looking like a sweeper woman, with her grandmother’s dentures being displayed in public, first atop an ice-cream cone being borne away by a monkey, and then dangling humiliatingly on the end of a stick. What a spectacle they had made of themselves. A cheering crowd had gathered to watch the fun. But the Hungry Hop boy treated the whole occasion with a nonchalance that made Pinky weak with thankfulness.

‘Here you are,’ he said cheerfully and gave the stick a shake. ‘We have had enough exercise for a week, hm?’ He smiled such a nice white smile and then turned to bow to the crowd, who shouted their congratulations. ‘Of course, after seeing you,’ he said, turning back to Pinky, ‘this monkey had to follow. He must have thought you were a longlost relative.’ He laughed appreciatively at his own joke, winking at Pinky to show he did not mean his remark to be taken seriously. And – who can explain such things? Pinky, who had seen the Hungry Hop boy every week of her life, had stopped on almost every trip to the market to buy ice cream and thought nothing of it, felt her heart fall for the second time in the day, as if from a cliff: Boom! into wide empty space.

This Hungry Hop boy was kind. He was not embarrassed in the least. Nor was he ugly, after all. His hair was curly and his nose was endearingly crooked, as was his mouth. To think she had seen him so often, beautifully dressed, and hardly noticed him at all … and today, here she was, staring at him with new-found interest, wearing
an old white salwar kameez, badly cut and faded, with no nose ring, no toe ring, slippers without a trim or a puff, her eyes without the kohl that made them smoulder … So conscious of her drabness was she, she could not even manage to return his smile; in fact, it was all she could do to keep from bursting into tears.

And as soon as she was home, she
did
burst into tears. She cried tears of rage because she had looked so plain, because it was all her family’s fault; she cried loud and long … Oh, she thought, her awful, awful father, who sent her out like a servant when other fathers went to all sorts of efforts to make sure their daughters looked well cared for and were properly dressed. Her horrible grandmother, who had added to her humiliation. Her terrible, terrible family, who would no doubt ruin all her chances of love for ever.

Oh, and she thought again of the Hungry Hop boy, who might, had she looked her usual self, have played a role in her life well beyond the mere parameters of ice cream.

She howled and howled, the noise so piercing and mournful it rose up into the leaves to Sampath and made his hair stand on end. Down below, Ammaji’s mouth fell open at a particularly loud yowl, only to have her dentures fall out again – this time into the cooking pot.

‘What are you crying about?’ inquired Ammaji solicitously as she fished around for the dentures that were bobbing about in the gravy, being dyed a startling and permanent curried yellow. She lifted them out with a spoon and popped them back into her mouth. Surely it had been a very successful day?

Pinky wailed again. ‘Ooh, hooo, hooo,’ she answered despairingly.

Maybe she was just crying for the sadness of the world, thought Ammaji. ‘Look at my teeth,’ and she showed
Pinky, in an attempt to cheer her up, a fierce curry grin.

Stunned by the bright yellow, Pinky stopped for a moment.

‘Oh, well, at my age what does it matter?’ said Ammaji, pleased by her granddaughter’s reaction. She sucked the flavour of their dinner from her teeth. ‘Yellow teeth, blue teeth, black teeth, it is better than no teeth at all, isn’t it?’

But Pinky, seeing how Ammaji was attempting to trick her from her tears, returned to her crying with a vengeance. ‘Ooo, hooo, hoo,’ she bawled.

By the time a month had passed, Mr Chawla had made all sorts of improvements to his family’s living arrangements in the orchard, for, after all, they had been forced to relocate to rural surroundings and were unused to doing without town comforts – and why should they have to? He had tapped the hospital electricity lines for light with the help of the electrician, trailing a mess of wires leading from the electricity poles directly to the orchard. Courtesy of the excellent hospital supply, he spared them from all the breakdowns and fluctuations suffered by the rest of the town. He had also directed a whole slew of regular orchard visitors in laying a network of water pipes leading from an appropriate hole they had made in one of the main water pipes one dark night into a private water tank. Provisions such as matches, kerosene, candles and soap were delivered to him from the shop in town as a special courtesy, though they lived far out of the radius within which deliveries were usually made. Of these accomplishments, Mr Chawla was extremely proud.

Water gushed into the water tank all day long. In the evenings, a string of coloured lights decorated the paths in the orchard, dramatically illuminating the foliage and casting their soft light upon the family relaxing upon their cots in front of the watchman’s shed. Over this shed there was now proper roofing of corrugated tin instead of just thatch,
and inside there was a television and a tin trunk full of warm quilts and shawls. Soon, perhaps, he would be able to build an extension to their residence with a kitchen and a bathroom. He would buy a refrigerator and a scooter. True, Sampath had brought in no dowry, but Mr Chawla was not one to sit around and complain.

‘Everybody can make something from nothing,’ he intoned beneath the tree, for he liked to think that Sampath still appreciated and learned from his old father. ‘If you try hard enough, something will work out. You yourself know how–’

‘– a potter makes a pot from a lump of mud. A painter paints with camel’s urine. A beggar holds out his empty hand,’ said Sampath, finishing his sentence in such a glib manner Mr Chawla was a little taken aback at his son’s cheekiness, but he repeated his point. ‘The thing is to make do with what you have, even if it is nothing.’

But was there nothing? He looked up at Sampath, watched his face, thought of what he had said and felt slightly unsettled …

Then, after a while, he did not listen or look too closely any more. He rented out their old house in Shahkot to a secretary from the fertilizer company. He opened a new bank account and approached businesses in the area that might be interested in advertising about the orchard, a place that would not only ensure their products a large audience but also endow them with a sanitized glow of purity. And he began to think of stocks and shares. Stocks and shares were a good idea because they were not in the least ostentatious and Mr Chawla realized, when he saw the respect for the austerity of Sampath’s life that visitors displayed, that he must keep a careful balance between the look of abstemiousness and actual comfort.

Perhaps the family should do without the refrigerator and motor scooter? Even the advertising? Oh no! Perhaps the bank account should be opened in the name of a special fund for building a temple? That way attention would be diverted to religious matters and donations would pour in. Not that he planned to embezzle and steal. They
would
build a temple! Then there would be even more donations. Endlessly, his mind bounded from scheme to enchanting scheme.

He obtained cuts from the scooter rickshaw men and the bus drivers to enter and park in the compound, and they were glad to oblige, for they themselves were doing a colossally good business by charging a flat fee for the round trip from the bazaar up to the orchard and back. Even buses thundering up the highways en route to farther destinations began making regular detours for their passengers to view the famous Baba in his treetop hermitage, the sweetness of his smile, the vacant peace of his gaze.

The path to Sampath’s tree had been widened and was kept swept clean and sprinkled with rose-water; a small ladder had been set against the trunk so those interested in asking for blessing (and everybody was interested, of course) could climb up to the spot where Sampath dangled his legs. With his toes placed reverently upon their heads, they would claim his blessing and descend feeling smug and rather proud.

Other arrangements had been provided too. Ammaji had been put in sole charge of a tea stall operating from under a bit of canvas sheeting attached to four poles, and consequently she was able to spend her time chatting to her heart’s content with visitors who ordered a snack or two, a Campa Cola, or even a light lunch to complete the pleasure of their outing.

Near the tea stall, Mr Chawla managed a small cart. Here, while also keeping his eye on everything else, he sold flower garlands, fruit and incense to those inclined towards leaving offerings for Sampath. This was a very nice system, because although he had to buy the supplies from the bazaar, he was given a large discount (after all, he was the father of the Shahkot hermit). These items he sold at a large profit, and then, in another lucky financial twist, the family reclaimed many of the coconuts and sweetmeats from the bottom of Sampath’s tree at the end of the day to pile them back upon the cart so they could be sold once more the next day.

Sampath looked down at his charming visitors.

‘Why are there so many opinions about the nature of God?’ asked a disguised spy from the Atheist Society (AS) and a member of the Branch to Uncover Fraudulent Holy Men (BUFHM). ‘Some say he has form. Others say he is formless. Why all this controversy?’

‘The city inspector makes a journey to see a river,’ answered unsuspecting Sampath, ‘but he goes right at the time of the monsoon. He comes home and says the river is an enormous sheet of water with very high waves. Many months later, his aunty makes the same trip. She comes home and says: “Sadly my nephew is a bit of an idiot. The river is nothing but a dirty little drain.” At the height of the summer a neighbour makes the same trip and says: “That whole family is unintelligent. The river is nothing but a dry stretch of mud.’”

‘Can anybody comprehend all there is to know about God?’ asked someone else.

‘Once you have broken the bottle you can no longer distinguish the air inside from the air outside.’

‘Baba, can you talk about the problem of religious unrest in our country?’

‘Haven’t you heard a mother-in-law shouting at her daughter-in-law: “Is this the way to prepare dal?” Of course she thinks her way is best. But north, south, east and west, everyone eats lentils in some form or another and everybody receives their nutritional benefits.’