Ode to Broken Things (21 page)

Agni’s own grandfather, she knew, had been a good man who had ended his life as a drunken wastrel. He had believed that they would all return to India one day. Even as Shanti grew sturdier on the soil of Malaya, Nikhil had not wavered. It was part of the family lore, and Agni’s own knowledge of the Ramayana was based on her grandfather’s pronouncement:
In our Arthasastra, the harshest sentence is exile. The tragedy of Ramayana begins with the exile of Ram; the tragedy of the Mahabharat is that the Pandavas were exiled. Why would I impose this sentence on myself?

Agni looked at the road opening up before her speeding car, and felt deeply thankful that her grandfather had never succeeded in leaving this wonderful country, as Jay’s father had done.

Jay seemed so
disconnected
somehow. She briefly wondered where he was and, with a pang of pity, whether he would have to work all through Deepavali.

Agni needed to re-check the footage of the old man on the video as soon as she got back to work. It was perplexing that Colonel S had denied being at the airport when Rohani had airport security verify that he was a vip with clearances higher than anyone investigating the footage. Agni didn’t like mysteries, and definitely not on the turf that she had to protect.

She felt the tension building up as a gentle thrum on her forehead and tried to breathe deeply.

Mridula leaned forward when she noticed the sleep lidding Ranjan’s eyes shut as he fidgeted deeper into his seat. Before she could do anything, Agni spoke up.

“Are you all right, Ranjandadu? Do you need a drink of water or something?”

“I’m fine, child; just a wee bit tired after the party yesterday. Thank you for taking such good care of this old man.”

Agni looked away from the road to smile into his eyes. “My
favourite
old man, Ranjandadu. My pleasure.”

As the bus pulled out from Puduraya, Jay felt like a slice of deli meat released from a moist vacuum pack. In the crowded exodus for the holidays, he had been lucky to get a seat on this dilapidated bus coughing its black fumes intermittently all the way to Port Dickson.

He had taken one look at the crowd in Puduraya, and wanted to turn back. Then, pushed along with the sea of travellers with multiple bags and multiple children, he had gone with the flow towards a bus that was impatiently revving its engine.

It was a last-minute decision to get away from work, and visit Pujobari again. He had asked Colonel S some questions, but received evasive replies that turned increasingly belligerent. Then, unexpectedly, Colonel S had explained that there would be an important military test conducted today, one so secret that even Jay Ghosh would not be invited to be a part of it.

Whether his exclusion from the test conducted today was a punishment for his questions, Jay didn’t know. He had given up thinking about all the blogs and allegations, and had left the work behind. Colonel S could keep his secretive military research; Jay did not want any part of this any more. He had practiced, in his own mind, telling his mentor to keep his job in no uncertain terms, but the agitated circles of his finger kept distracting his thoughts.

Besides, no wrongdoing had ever been proved in any court of law. After the trial of the Tibetan Model Murder, only two bodyguards had been apprehended, and they were likely to appeal. Colonel S had not even been detained in custody.

He was tired of being treated like a lowly graduate student again in the presence of an all-powerful mentor. He had done his apprenticeship, dammit, and an institution like Haversham, no less, had hired him. If this kind of a cat-and-mouse game went on, plus the lone secrecy of the work way past midnight, he would just fly back to Boston tomorrow.

An image of a woman, her face shadowed by the lambent tongues of flame from a hundred and eight clay lamps filled his mind.

Maybe he wouldn’t go back just yet, but he didn’t need this job. He should say goodbye to this job, go to a remote Malaysian island and think about his strategy. He had to keep things in perspective.

He was glad for this break from anyone he knew. He was used to extreme hospitality from Indian hosts wherever in the world he happened to be, if only because the concept of hospitality was so revered in the Indian psyche. But he also found it exhausting. Especially now. When he was with Agni, he felt like the unravelling ball of string a kitten was playing with. But as far as he could tell, she wasn’t particularly nice to Abhik either.

A very languorous bus driver steered the way towards the Sungei Besi toll, and stopped behind a snaking line of similarly polluting buses. On the left, a resort built on the ancient tin mines spiralled Moorish columns and domes towards the sky. The mining pool was filled with revellers in swan boats, paddling towards clumps of artificial islands.

A large Chinese family seated behind him distracted Jay with their garbage; discarded Char Siew Pau paper wafers and Tong Garden Roasted Peanut packets overflowed from pink plastic packets. They seemed to have mastered the art of speaking with their mouths completely full, without spilling any of the mush inside. He watched in fascination until a woman extended a peanut packet in his direction.

“Eat,
lah
,” she urged congenially.

He realised he must have been staring, but she was genuinely friendly.

“No, thanks,” Jay smiled and pointed to his breakfast of
nasi lemak
still packed in white styrofoam.

The woman’s head swivelled sharply, and she said something to her companion as the TV on the bus crackled to life. Jay’s attention was caught by a familiar name.

“We will follow the activities of the Kumpulan Mujahedeen Malaysia, and examine what motivates this group of militants in Malaysia who have left behind a trail of crimes.”

The scene changed to a group of men in long green robes, arranged loosely in a semi-circle. The camera caught their impassive faces, one by one. “Malaysia, long a beacon of stability and peace in the region, has had to come to terms with the problems of rising Islamic radicalism.”

Even before the advertisement came on, the programme was drowned by a chorus of Chinese voices, scolding ferociously. They had been passing around a huge bag of sugared cuttlefish, and a little boy and a girl were being smacked for causing some annoyance. Despite the cacophony, a slender young woman on the other side of the aisle remained fast asleep, her
Woman’s Weekly
open at an advertisement for fat-burning tablets.

He was jerked awake by the advertisement that blasted
Malaysia, Truly Asia
at a high volume. Surprised that he had fallen asleep so easily, it took him a while to realise that they were at the first stop already.

The Chinese family began to pile into three cars, disgorging rapidly from the bus and waving cheerful goodbyes with loud shouts of “Happy Deepavali!” towards the Indian passengers. The two Chinese children hopped down swiftly from the bus and ran, elbowing each other aggressively.

Jay grinned at the palm trees and coconut fronds waving madly in the stormy breeze, like the long loose hair streaming behind the four little Malay girls who chased each other through the open fields in mad abandon.

It had been decades since he was in the Malaysian countryside, but the touch of the breeze felt like a homecoming, and he felt glad to be back.

The long drive to Port Dickson was tiring. Ranjan and Mridula had been fast asleep most of the way. Now that they had reached Pujobari, Agni stretched her aching limbs in the shade of the wide porch.

Even thinking of this building brought the warm glow of childhood memories, layer upon golden layer, the warm and buttery sustenance of her soul. Last year Abhik had stood up at the annual community meeting and said firmly, “This is not just a building; it’s a
pilgrimage
for us all,” to wild cheering.

Indeed.

Pujobari was divided into four main areas where the community gathered. There was a group of devout fasting ladies who busied themselves at the long temple building; there was the colonial building filled with mythical skeletons in cupboards that the children still ran through screeching; there was the community kitchen designed to hold enormous soot-blackened woks in deep woodstoves that wisely faced the stage so that this area was at the heart of the busiest activities; and finally, there was the bar.

Even at this time in the morning, the bar held a group of mildly drunk raconteurs. The bar had been a part of Pujobari for so long that no one commented on the anomaly of alcohol mixing with Hindu piety any longer. Agni stepped gingerly around the huge bathtub that functioned as the communal kitchen sink, and headed for the barman.

She stopped at the window and winked, “My usual, please!”

The young man on the other side of the window smiled broadly as he poured half the liquid out of a Coca-Cola can into a plastic cup. Then he topped up her can with rum.

She dialled Abhik’s number hesitantly, hoping the press conference hadn’t started. In her head, she could still hear his frustration earlier. Was it only this morning?
I’m so sorry I can’t be there, but this is really important.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Abhik!”

“Hi, B. What’s up?” There was a pause. “Is anything wrong? Where are you?”

“Relax! We’re at Pujobari already, reached Port Dickson.”

She could hear the grin. “Right. I knew that. How’re the grandparents?”

Agni turned sideways to look at Mridula. She was ruling the roost in the middle of a large group of women who were laughing loudly as they caught up on three months’ worth of personal histories. The crude trestle tables shook under the load of the large number of vegetables that were being peeled for meals, and the women squatted on the ground,
botis
balanced between expert toes as they cut the peeled vegetables into exact pieces.

“Oh, she’s in her element,” Agni said.

There was a pause. “I’ll drive down as soon as I can, okay? It feels so bloody awful to be away today.”

“I know. See you soon, yah?”

Agni held the disconnected phone to her ear and felt the thrum in her forehead get more intense. Abhik was getting to be necessary for her happiness. Without him by her side today, she felt a vague sense of unease, as of things being awry in the universe right now.

Happy Deepavali! That’s what my Agni said to me early this morning, her hair smelling of jasmines and oranges. Then she lit the prayer lamp at the altar, and left for Port Dickson, leaving me alone.

I know something terrible is about to happen. I wanted to hold her back, grab her hand as I did so many times when she was a child running into danger, but I could do nothing.

My heart pounds in my chest. Today is the day, and she will have to swallow whatever version of the truth Jay tells her.

Even when I could speak, I was not able to tell Agni, although this is her truth, this is her history.

She has hated me for not letting Shanti marry a Malay man, but I couldn’t tell her that it wasn’t a simple equation of race and blood. I did not want to lose her like I did Shanti.

We tell our children about Saraswati, the Goddess of Learning. In childhood they learn that even if they unwittingly step on a book, a piece of paper, a pencil, anything remotely connected with learning, they must immediately lift the object to their head in a deferential namaskar, for Saraswati does not tolerate any disrespect of her craft. It is she, among all our goddesses, who has no Lord, yet she is elegant on her white swan, and much sought after. Having knowledge in her power means she needs no temple. She is beyond such worldly trivialities. Our children, both sons and daughters, believe in learning. We make them understand that knowledge is the only force that can unshackle them from the tedium of life.

Yet there is another story about Saraswati that we do not tell. It is this:

Saraswati was born out of the mind of Brahma, the creator of the universe. She was truly his Manas Putri, daughter of his mind. Yet Brahma, seeing his beautiful creation, was consumed by his lust for her.

Saraswati, horrified, fled this relationship. But the aged, all-powerful Brahma would not give up. He grew an extra head and then another, and another, until he had five so that she could not escape in any direction. Thus did he corner her and force her to his will. He produced through her mind the four great Vedas, the cornerstones of our religious discourse.

But our daughters do not know this. We teach our daughters, through the varnished myth of Saraswati, that celibacy is necessary for knowledge. We make it clear they cannot have music and books and a white swan if they want children too. Choose either one, we offer snidely, knowing full well which way their procreant desires will lead them. We suppress the Saraswati who screams that even our greatest philosophy is born from lust.

During the very early days of the Emergency, right after the war, ordinary people feared leaving their homes, especially to travel long distances at night. There was ambush or deadly fire by the communist terrorists, which made an armoured vehicle the only mode of transportation in some areas.

Kelantan was one of the most guerilla-infested states, and the government’s effort to wipe the black areas white was largely unsuccessful.

On a quiet night, in the middle of the dangers of the communist insurgency, a young woman braved the road from Kelantan to Kajang, and stood shivering at Siti’s door with a child in her arms. Siti did not know the young woman, but she took pity on her at once. Zainal was away again, on one of his overnight trips.

The young woman was gaunt, with haunted eyes. Tendrils of hair had loosened and whipped her face with the fury of the wind. Her features were hidden, then revealed, in the dim shadows cast by the lightbulb. Siti took in the grimy fingernails that clasped the bundle tightly, the child’s hair caked in mud. The child was not a newborn and stirred heavily. The woman looked beseechingly at Siti, making soothing clicking noises with her teeth, rocking back and forth.