If Today Be Sweet (11 page)

“We just cooked together. I made the pallov and the daar, though.”

He groaned. “Oh God. That's my favorite. I'll tell you what, though. Bet your pallov-daar isn't as good as my mom's.”

“What's the bet?”

“The bet is…” He thought for a minute. “Okay. The bet is if your cooking is as good as my mom's, I take you out to the Sea Lounge for tea. If it is not as good, you treat me to the Sea Lounge.”

“What's the Sea Lounge?” she asked.

“The Sea Lounge? Oh yes, I forget you're not from Bombay. It's a restaurant at the Taj. They have the best grilled chicken sandwiches.” Even she knew that the Taj was the best five-star hotel in Bombay.

The thought of seeing this man again made Tehmina forget any doubts about spending too much of the money her father had given her. She would just have to forgo some of her shopping.

“Okay. It's a bet. As long as Mrs. Sukharwala allows me to go out.”

Rustom laughed. “Smits's mother? Don't worry about her. She's a very modern woman.”

The easiness of his laugh bothered her. “My father…in Calcutta I don't usually go out with—that is, my father doesn't allow me to go out with—strangers.”

Something flickered in his eyes again. “I understand that, Teh
mina. Honest. I didn't mean to imply anything.” He smiled. “But we're cousins, remember? So you're not going out with a stranger. And my intentions are honorable, I promise.”

“Okay,” she said. “Now come try the food.”

 

In later years, they would try to remember who had won the bet. Rustom claimed that she had, whereas Tehmina recalled Rustom saying that her pallov-daar was good, exceptional even, but not as great as his mother's. In any case, they met at the Sea Lounge two days later and ordered a grilled chicken sandwich, a chicken roll, and two teas. “This is an amazing restaurant,” Tehmina said as they sat near the large picture windows overlooking the Gateway of India.

“It's my favorite place to relax,” Rustom said. “I love coming here after a day of work and just having a beer or something.”

Tehmina realized how little she knew about this man in front of her. She had tried to pry information out of Smits, but Smits was only interested in talking about their high school days and all the pranks that he and Rustom had played on their teachers. And all that Nilu knew about Rustom was that he was one of the most eligible bachelors in town and bore a strong resemblance to the actor Shashi Kapoor and didn't Tehmina think so?

“What do you do for work?” she asked.

“I've just started my own business. I used to work for a builder. Now I have a small factory. I manufacture door hinges and knobs and other metal fittings.”

“I see.” It sounded dreadfully boring. Tehmina tried but failed to imagine this intense young man in front of her caring much about metal fittings. He looked like he should work in clay or wood, she thought, something that was fresh and warm and came from the earth and smelled good.

“God, Tehmi,” Rustom said. “You have an amazing face—it's like it's made of glass. I feel I can read your thoughts and see every emotion behind your skin.”

Strangely, she believed him. “What was I just thinking?”

“You were thinking of how utterly boring my job is.”

She was flustered. “No, not really.”

“Come on now, Tehmi.” He laughed. “Tell the truth.” He grew serious. “But listen, actually I love what I'm doing. And making parts for doors—I think it's the most important job a man can have.”

She started to laugh but he raised a hand to stop her. “I'm not joking. Think about it. What would any civilization be without a door? Think of what a closed door can hide—tears, intimate relations, scandals, murders, mysteries, family secrets, national secrets. Countries spend millions trying to get behind each other's closed doors, no? So do lovers. Conversely, think of what an open door symbolizes—an invitation into someone's home, someone's heart, an entry into a kitchen, a dining room, a bank vault, even”—here his voice dropped a notch—“a bedroom. And what is it that makes it possible to have all those doors opening and shutting?” He paused, looking at her expectantly.

Tehmina felt dizzy under the spell of Rustom's words. “What?” she said stupidly.

“Hinges,” he yelled triumphantly. “It's the humble hinge that lets one decide whether to lock the world out to let it in. See why what I do is so important?”

He went on like this for another ten minutes, his face flushed with excitement, the words tumbling out. Tehmina barely understood most of what he was saying but she didn't care. Mostly she enjoyed just looking at that sweet face, gazing upon it as if it was the face of a movie star in a magazine that she'd stare at for hours in bed.

Rustom cut himself off by slamming his right fist into his left palm. “Look at me,” he said. “What a bloody idiot I am. I have a
pretty girl in front of me and I'm putting her off to sleep by talking about my stupid job.”

She didn't know whether to react to the compliment or assure him that she was interested. He saved her from deciding by signaling to the waiter for the check. “Come on,” he said. “Let me show you the Gateway of India. It's a beautiful structure.” He looked at her full in the face. “And there's a legend that says that if you stand under the arch and make a wish, it comes true.” His voice fell to a whisper. “I know what I'm going to wish for. Do you?”

The day she left to go back to Calcutta, Rustom saw her off at the station. He even boarded the train to make sure she and her suitcase were properly situated. Much to her amusement, he searched the compartment until he found a couple he liked and asked them to take care of Tehmina, much as her father had done. She promised to write the first letter and started it minutes after the train had left the station. He promised to write back and to come see her in Calcutta very soon.

Two months after her return home, Rustom knocked on their door one evening. Tehmina had known he was coming but had been too scared and embarrassed to say anything to her parents. A curious Hoshang let in the nervous young man who said he had just come in from Bombay on a very urgent matter. After Tehmina's mother had fussed around him and made him a cup of tea, Rustom got to the purpose of his visit. He had come to ask for Tehmina's hand in marriage.

Hoshang Vakil refused the proposal on the spot. He would never agree to marry off his only child without meeting her prospective in-laws. You should've brought your mummy-daddy along to make the proposal, deekra, he admonished a chastised Rustom. After all, a marriage is between families, not just between the couple, is it not?

It took another month before the two families could meet. Four months after that meeting, the wedding was held in Calcutta. There
was a second reception in Bombay. Because of the two receptions, Rustom and Tehmina always celebrated their wedding anniversary twice.

After the wedding, they moved into a small second-floor flat in a building in Nana Chowk. Their first major, extravagant purchase was the bed that Rustom had delivered one afternoon. It was on that bed that Sorab was conceived.

On Sorab's twenty-first birthday, they took their son to the Sea Lounge. They had long ago given up their small Nana Chowk apartment for a spacious three-bedroom flat in Colaba from where it was an easy walk to the Taj.

Over high tea at the Sea Lounge, they argued over who had won the bet that had led to their second meeting. If Sorab looked totally uninterested, they didn't care. “Hey, all I want to know is, who paid for the tea,” the bored birthday boy finally asked.

In this, their memories were in agreement. “She did.” Rustom grinned with great satisfaction. “Anyway, it doesn't matter who won, yaar. Your mummy was so lattoo-fattoo about me that she would've bought me the Qutub Minar, if I'd asked.”

 

Tehmina fell into a restless sleep. In her dream, Persis was sitting across from her at the Sea Lounge, sipping on a cup of tea. Glancing out of the large picture windows of the restaurant, Tehmina saw the blue-gray waters of the Arabian Sea. The warm afternoon sun danced upon the water, along with hundreds of anchored boats. It was a sight Tehmina had seen a dozen times before. But now there was a new object on the water and the incongruity of it made Tehmina sit up with such a jolt that she spilled some of the tea on her arm. For, sailing among the boats, bobbing on the water, was a bed. A large, ornate teakwood bed. Tehmina turned to Persis but found to her terror that she could not speak. She turned her head again
toward the large glass windows and saw that Persis was gazing at the same spot in the distance as she was. But her companion did not seem to have noticed anything strange. Instead, Persis was talking about house keys and telephone bills and other incongruous subjects. And then Tehmina noticed another strange thing—Persis was speaking in Rustom's voice. Or rather, Persis's high voice was tinged with some texture of Rustom's baritone. Like raw cashews rolled and roasted in salt. Tehmina wanted to speak, wanted to point out to Persis the bizarre things that were occurring around them, but she had lost her ability to speak. This is what it must be like to be blind, she thought, and immediately chastised herself for the inaccuracy of her analogy.

Rustom, Tehmina called as she looked around desperately. Where are you? What is my bed—our bed—doing floating on the water? As if in answer, a particularly savage wave rose up and the beautiful dark object disappeared from view. And despite the fact that Tehmina had only had a few minutes to get used to the incongruity of her marital bed floating on the Arabian Sea, she now felt something akin to nostalgia for the sight, felt a hole in her heart the size of the hole in the water created by her drowning bed. She'd never been this alone in her life.

The sound of her own whimpering woke Tehmina up. Persis and the Sea Lounge receded from view as her eyes adjusted to and acknowledged the cold Ohio dark. But the feeling of desolation, of loss, of being utterly alone, remained, as did the terrifying memory of her loss of speech, of being unable to communicate the enormity of her feelings to any living person. She felt the dampness on her cheek and realized that it was the hotness of her tears that she'd earlier felt on her arm, not the spilled tea she'd feared in her dream.

And then she climbed deeper into herself, walked into the dark bylanes of her heart, and picked up the sharpest pebble. Sorab. Yelling at her. Using foul language. The vein bulging on his forehead.
His voice bitter and scary in its frustration. Her son. Raising his voice at her. It wasn't herself she felt sorry for. Not really. No, she was sorry for him because she knew her boy, knew he would suffer from remorse and guilt and shame, would beat himself up for his reckless words, would be unable to forgive himself. Knew that his words would stick like a bitter pill in his throat. Whereas for her, forgiving her children came as easily as swallowing butter. Effortless. Gliding. And yet…Forgiving, yes. But forgetting—ah, that was a different matter. The memory of Persis's frightened voice on the phone. And then Sorab's sleep-torn, hysterical one. Followed by Susan's shocked, indignant tone. And then the soft, chastising murmurings that followed her from their room into hers. She prayed that Sorab wouldn't apologize to her in the morning. Because she wouldn't be able to say what she wanted to. Because what she'd want to say was: Beta, does a painful gallbladder apologize to the rest of the body for a bad night? Does the heart apologize for a malfunction? You are my heart and my gallbladder and the rest of my body. You are me. So how can one part of myself apologize to the rest of me?

Home, she thought, and the solitary word singed like a fire. I need to be home.

But where home was, she was no longer sure.

H
ey, hey, Cookie. Yo, wait up for me.”

They were about to get into Sorab's car when Josh came flying down the driveway toward them. Although it was cold outside, the boy had no jacket on and a green glob of snot hung from his nose, Tehmina noticed. Despite her affection for the boy, she instinctively pulled her grandson toward her so that he would not come in contact with the grinning boy who stood before them. God knows what germs Josh was carrying. And children passed germs and viruses between them as casually and generously as a Hindu distributing sweets on Diwali. No point in Cavas getting too close to their neighbor.

But Josh seemed oblivious to the way in which Tehmina had positioned herself between the two boys. “Hi, Cookie.” He giggled, poking Cavas in the arm with his index finger. “How you doin'? My mommy says you're a brownie, not a cookie. Just like your dad.”

Behind her, Tehmina heard Susan gasp. But before any of the adults could react, Cavas spoke up. Flexing his muscles and striking
his favorite he-man pose, he said, “I told you, I'm the Cookie Monster. If you're not careful, I'll gobble you up.”

Both boys found this incredibly funny. “Gobble you up,” Josh repeated, spluttering with laughter. “Not if I gobble you up first.”

Sorab leaned out of the car. “Okay, you crazy boys, we have to go.” He turned toward Cavas. “All right, soldier. In the car.”

“Hey, where you going? Can I come, too?”

Cavas immediately turned toward Sorab with the pleading look all of them had come to fear and dread. “Yeah, Daddy. Can Joshy come with us?”

Susan cleared her throat. “I'm afraid that's not possible, boys,” she said. “This is a family outing—you know, we're going to the mall to do some Christmas shopping. And I'm sure your mom has other plans.”

Josh looked crestfallen. “My mommy said all I'm getting for Christmas this year is a lump of coal.” But then his face lit up. “But Mommy's not even home. It's just Ernie watching us. And he won't care if I'm out with you.”

“Who—who's Ernie?”

In response, Josh went tearing down his driveway. At his front door, he turned around. “Wait for me. I'll be right back.” Inside the house, they could hear him yelling. “Ernie, Ernie,” he shouted. “Can I go to the mall with Cookie?”

Susan turned to face the two other adults. “How on earth did we get roped into this?” she said. “Come on, let's just get in the car and go.”

But a second later a tall, burly man in a white undershirt and jeans was walking toward them, with Josh tugging at his forearm. Tehmina noticed that both his arms were covered with large tattoos. His salt-and-pepper hair was tied back in a ponytail and his gray eyes were sleepy and insolent. “Yeah?” he said to them, as if picking up midway through a conversation.

There was a short silence. Then Sorab got out of the car. “I'm afraid there's been some misunderstanding,” he said in the prim, formal tone he slipped into whenever faced with an awkward situation. “We simply mentioned to Josh here that we were going to the mall and, er—it seems like, well, Josh wanted to—”

“I wanna go with them, I wanna go with them,” Josh screamed, jumping up and down.

Ernie thumped Josh's back hard enough that the boy stumbled a bit. “Well, you're not. So quit your whining this instant. And get back in the house. Wait till your mommy finds out that you were almost getting into a car with—strangers.” And somehow the way his lips curled when he said “strangers” felt like an indictment.

“Where
is
their mother?” And from the frost in Susan's tone, Tehmina could tell that she had picked up on the insult also.

Ernie looked at her evenly. “That, lady, is none of your damn business.”

“Listen, buddy,” Sorab said. “Watch how you speak to my wife.”

Ernie's hands were still in the pockets of his jeans, but somehow he managed to flex his biceps in a way that was subtly intimidating. “And you people stop poking your noses into our business. And don't ever try to lure them kids here into your fancy Saab again.”

Tehmina saw her son's face flush red. But before he could say a word, Susan grabbed hold of her husband's arm. “Come on, hon,” she muttered. “It's not worth engaging with people like this. Come on, let's just get in the car and go.”

Ernie smiled, revealing a gold front tooth. “That's right. Just get in your pretty little car and drive away.” He looked down at Josh, who was looking tearfully from one adult to another. “And you. If you know what's good for you, get inside the friggin' house now. Now.”

They rode part of the way in a shocked, disbelieving silence. “I
don't like that man,” Cookie finally said. “He's mean. He looks like Scar in
The Lion King.
”

“That's right, darling,” Susan replied. “He
is
mean. Just promise me you'll never speak to him, okay?”

“Promise.” Cookie was silent for a second and then, “But I really, really like Joshy.”

Susan sighed. “I know, hon. We all do. But we can't be friends with him, okay, baby? You can be nice to him on the school bus but no playdates or anything, understand, munchkin?”

And Tehmina heard what Susan did not say—Yeah, we like Joshy. But we can't save the world. She turned her gaze to get a better look at her son's profile, silently willing him to say something, something kind and generous and honorable. But Sorab was silent. He's changed, Tehmina thought, and her eyes inexplicably stung with tears. This country has changed him. There was a time when my Sorab would have never stood by and watched a little child being abused by that brute of a man. But he's…duller now. Not that sharp young man from Bombay who saw injustice on every street corner.

Tehmina remembered an incident from many years ago. It was the only time she had ever heard Sorab openly challenge his father. During the 1992 Hindu-Muslim riots that inflamed Bombay, Sorab was almost beside himself with worry. He phoned every day from America to make sure his parents were okay. Several times, he threatened to swoop into Bombay and take them back with him. Realizing how worried his son was, Rustom made Tehmina swear to not tell their son that they had a Muslim family living in their apartment. Tehmina herself had been upset when Rustom had come home one evening and told her that he had just run into Ismail Husseni, the architect who lived on the ground floor of the adjacent building and who was petrified at the thought of the Hindu mobs breaking into his home. “I told him he and Mrs. Husseni should move in with us
until all this blows off,” Rustom said casually. “They'll be coming over in a few hours. The poor people have not left their flat in a week. I told them to stay for as long as they need to. They can sleep in the guest bedroom, right, darling? And oh, Tehmi. Ismail wants us to keep their jewelry for him. So empty out the safe, would you, so that they have room for their stuff?”

“Rustom, are you mad?” an aghast Tehmina said. “With servants and the dhobi and others coming through here, you think we can keep this a secret, that we have a Muslim family staying here?”

“Who said it has to be a secret?” Rustom's chin jutted out slightly, a sure sign that he had made up his mind.

“Janu. I know you mean well. But surely the Hussenis have some other relatives? So many Muslims have already left Bombay. You are putting us at risk, janu. And—it's not even like we know them that well.”

Rustom looked angry. “And how do you think they can get out of town, with Hindu mobs prowling the streets looking for Muslims to kill? And bloody hell, why should they leave Bombay, anyway? This is their home.”

As always, she gave in. And her doubts and recriminations were silenced when she saw the gratitude in the eyes of the Hussenis when they rang the doorbell a few hours later. Ismail Husseni had always been a large, gregarious man. Now he seemed diminished, as if fear had eaten away at him. Tehmina was horrified by the change in the man and that horror steeled her against the dark mutterings of the Hindu servants and the Parsi neighbors, who complained that the Sethnas were poking their noses in matters that didn't concern them.

Two days later, when the Sethnas stepped out of the building to go to the nearby fire temple, Krishna, the homeless man who lived across the street, slid up to them. “Salaam, Rustom seth,” he said. “Something important I have to tell you.”

For no apparent reason, Tehmina's stomach muscles suddenly twisted. But Rustom's voice was steady. “What is it?” he said dismissively.

“People are talking, seth. Saying ugly things about you. Rumor is you have a family of beef-eaters living with you. The Hindu brothers are angry, seth. They say they will burn down any apartment that harbors those Muslim dogs.” Krishna squinted at them and in the evening light there was a strange, ecstatic look on his face.

A bellow emitted from deep within Rustom. “Listen, you traitorous bastard,” he roared. “You tell your goonda friends that if they have the balls, to come and talk to me directly. I'll break their scrawny necks with my bare hands, I will. Saala, chootia, everybody's a hero under the cover of the night. But if their pricks still work, tell them to try talking to me in broad daylight. Then we'll see who the real warriors are. One more thing: In my house, I will have any guest that I want, understand?”

An ingratiating smile fell across Krishna's face. “Rustom seth, calm down, calm down. Lower your voice, please. Why for all unnecessarily you're getting so excited. I was just saying that—”

“I know exactly what you were saying, you fucker. You eat my family's food, you wash your bloody arsehole each morning with the water my wife heats up for you, and this is how you repay us? You tell your Sena friends if they harm one member of my household who's under my protection, they'll have my wrath to deal with. The bloody police commissioner and I played together in our diapers when we were infants, understand, chootia? My connections go all the way to Delhi. You eunuchs find some other family to bully.”

“Rustom seth, please. Calm down.” This time, Krishna's distress seemed real. “Tehmibai, please. Take your husband away. All will be fine, bai, I promise. You trust your Krishna. I'll take care of everything.”

As they walked away, Tehmina squeezed her husband's hand,
hoping he could sense her pride in him. Much to her surprise she saw that his shoulders were shaking and that Rustom was trying his best to suppress his laughter. “Did you see the look on Krishna's face when I made up that cock-and-bull story about knowing the police commissioner? Shit, the fellow is at least ten years younger than I am. Hope nobody checks.”

Much later, after the riots had ended and the Hussenis were back in their apartment, she had told Sorab the story. She had wanted to brag about Rustom's bravery, but to her dismay, Sorab was furious. “Has he lost his mind, Mummy? Why all this herogiri? Why does he have to be the only one to always stick his neck out?” Even over the phone wires she could hear the indignation in her son's voice. “Let me talk to Dad, immediately.”

It was the first time Tehmina had ever heard father and son exchange words. Unable to hear the disappointment in Rustom's voice, unable to face up to the stunned looks he kept flashing at her, she had left the room and busied herself in the kitchen. Later, she heard Rustom hang up the phone and head to their bedroom. She knew she should go comfort him, but something made her hesitate. Fifteen minutes later, Rustom came into the kitchen and leaned on the kitchen counter. “Well, I guess you heard our son's reaction,” he said, and Tehmina could hear him struggling to strike a light tone. “Guess he thinks his old man is crazy.”

She took a step toward him. “He's scared, Rustom, that's all. Him being so far away, he worries about us, janu.”

Rustom shook his head. “I suppose. Still, he's changed. Sorab has changed.”

Now, almost against her will, Rustom's words came back to her. She caught Sorab glancing at her in the rearview mirror and for a guilty second she thought her son had read her uncharitable thoughts.

Susan's voice broke her reverie. “Well,” her daughter-in-law was
saying. “This is supposed to be our family outing. Let's not let some petty people spoil our evening, okay?” Tehmina heard the brittleness in the short laugh that followed that sentence. But she also heard something else—a pleading, a hesitant coaxing, a wistfulness in Susan's voice, and she responded to that.

“Silly people everywhere. The world over,” she said. “My God, the stories I could tell you about some of our neighbors in Bombay. Did I ever tell you about Dina Master, the old lady who lived upstairs from us when I was a young girl in Calcutta? No? Well, she was a terror. Mean as anything. Used to call the neighborhood children to her apartment and then frighten us with her tall-tall stories. She had a big jute bag that she kept in her living room and she told us that it was filled with rats and snakes and whatall and that if we misbehaved or disobeyed our parents, she would put us in that dark sack along with the rodents.”

“Good Lord.” Susan gasped. “That's abuse. Why, this country, you could call Children's Services on that woman in a heartbeat.”

“The worst part was, our parents all knew this. In fact, they probably even encouraged her. It was a kind of discipline, you see, to make sure we didn't get bad report cards and all. And the funny part is, I believed that mean old woman for years and years. I was so afraid of that gunny bag, I can't tell you.”

“Oh, Mamma.” Sorab laughed, and even from the backseat, Tehmina sensed that he was rolling his eyes at her. “You were always so gullible. Good thing you married someone as worldly and smart as Dad—that's probably the only thing that saved you. The way your parents had you spoiled I don't think—”

“Spoiled? You think allowing your child to be terrorized by a crazy old woman is spoiled?” Susan was indignant. “That's not my definition of
spoiled
.”