Our Favourite Indian Stories (22 page)

My children danced with joy when they heard the news. Several questions and comments were flung at me, all at once - How is it going to fall? Like sand or pebbles? How can the people walk in the streets? We have to clear the sidewalk in front of our house or else we will be fined hundred dollars, I am telling you ...

There was a spark of eagerness in Latika's eyes too. But she did not confess to it. The spark smothered; she looked upset. She could not stand this foreign cold. There were other reasons too, I guessed. 'It was announced in the papers today that a sale is on at Lansburghs downtown - Ladies' coats going cheap for thirty dollars, and girls' dresses for as little as three dollars. But how do we go out if it snows?'

I wanted to comfort her, and said, 'Well dear, you are thinking of the sale, aren't you? Do not lose heart. There will always be a sale in this country, today, tomorrow and ever after. Today it is Lansburghs, tomorrow it is Sears... surely you can't miss them all.'

She was not satisfied. And she started all over again, 'Look, it is you who made me leave all my things in India. So when all your Indian ladies have a matching coat for each
sari
, your wife has a miserable one-and-a-half! You can pooh-pooh these sales now, but I know you will have to buy the same stuff at the regular rate of sixty... Go ahead, by all means!'

My first-born joined her mother. She said that her classmate had definite information about the sale of ballpoint pens at thirty cents each at the nearest drug store.

The middle one remembered that her socks were just no good for the American winter. Then of course that she needed gloves for her hands and earmuffs for the ears. How else could she manage the cold blasts on her way to school? Auntie Ray, she said, had assured her that all these things are being offered at cut-rates at a corner store on Fourteenth Street.

Lastly, my little son chimed in, 'Get me a sale daddy! Get me one p-l-e-a-s-e?'

I did succeed, in due course, in bringing them back to the theme of snowfall. Truly, sales are wonderful. But a snowfall is even bigger, more wonderful. A sight not to be seen in the plains of India, to which we belong. Contemplate the scene, if you please. The pure white little darlings coming to us from the high heavens, free of the smog of civilisation. Free of sound and smell, of colour and conflict. They come to us, for a while, to remind us of the eternal values.

It was thus that I held forth on the subject of snowfall. Latika listened to me for sometime and then interrupted, 'But you forget, there is another aspect to it. The body alive is warm, the body dead is cold. So if you ask me ...'

I knew the rest. Snow is the symbol of death and all that perverse prattle. But I did not let her prolong the conversation knowing that she wanted only to tease me.

We waited for the first snowfall of the season in Washington, D. C. We had arrived in the city about two months back to stay for three years as desired by the Government of India. We had till then made no friends among the foreigners. We knew some fellow-Indians in the Embassy, but not too well. Once in a while we came across
sari
-clad women in supermarkets and on sidewalks. At once, our eyes gleamed with recognition - there goes an Indian. But the recognised party never seemed to have any irrepressible urge to communicate. Sometimes the painted lips would part a little—but no further.

I had to explain to a despairing Latika, 'Don't you understand? We belong to the same family. Need we say hellos and how-do-you-dos in our own family all the time? It feels good just to see them, to have been made aware of the trials and tribulations that bind us together in this foreign city. For all you know, this lady is also, like us, looking for the rare Mexican chick-peas to have her
Alu chhole,
trying to figure out the English name for
suji
, and is looking for sales that can give her the maximum benefit on her foreign allowance, so she can carry a few things home. Don't you see? She is an Indian. One of us.'

Thus we had no fear of intrusion from any friend or neighbour, as one would have back home on a holiday afternoon. We were left to ourselves, cosy in the warmth of the family, to welcome the advent of snow.

But I had reckoned without the telephone. There was a persistent ring, and a woman's voice asked, 'Will you kindly call Mrs Das?'

It must be one of them, I thought, Mrs Ray or Mrs Kapur—the only two wives who along with their husbands had evinced great interest in our rehabilitation. I could well imagine the course of their conversation. 'When are you buying a car? My husband was telling me that the new Ford Galaxie is a shade better than Impala .. Have you tried the new blender? ... Started giving trouble? I thought so. Didn't I tell you that you should buy the Osterizer... So on and so forth. I was not very far wrong. After a ten-minute session on the telephone, Latika summarized to me, 'It was Mrs Kapur. A nice lady. Was enquiring about the welfare of our children, and whether we have decided on the car. Yes, she told me that vacuum cleaners are on sale at Lerners. Quite cheap.'

After a moment's pause she said, 'It seems we are going to have a heavy snowfall this evening, within an hour or so. Mrs Kapur got the news on telephone.'

'Oh yes Daddy, here they tell you about the weather on the telephone. You just have to lift the receiver and it goes on and on. You know the number, don't you?'

'No, and I don't want to'. I snapped. Is there no end to this process of scientific education?

And so the snow came. Within an hour there was a flush of crimson on the grey-white sky. Then I saw grains of silver floating in the air. Could this be the snow? Or is it that the grains of dust have taken the shine off a pale evening? A few were moving towards me. I tried to hold them but could only get the inadequate feeling of dewdrops in my hands. Ah, the sky is bursting with grains and globules! Each one of them is growing bigger and bigger and is showing off like an adolescent. They are playing, running, chasing and falling over each other, weightless with sheer inconsequence. No, I refuse to take you as the real ones!

The real ones came in full regalia, not a moment too soon. By then the snowflakes had left their imprint on the grass and the foliage. They were twinkling, revelling as it were in the fun of evanescence, while the white strands, the white bunches, the white messes were descending on the earth. This is the snowfall indeed! The pervasive passion of the fall took my breath away. Even the feel of Latika crouching over me to have a better view of the snow failed to revive me. I wished I could be there in the centre. I wished I could take my fill of the bounty, cleansing myself of all the pitiful pigmentations of life. I wished, but I wished in vain. The telephone rang.

'Yes?' I asked severely into the mouthpiece.

'Shahni speaking. Sir, I am sorry to disturb you. Rangarao died this evening in Georgetown hospital.'

'Died? Rangarao... who is Rangarao?'

'Rangarao was an assistant in the Embassy. He was suffering for a long time from some kidney trouble. A young widow and a daughter are the survivors.'

Now I remembered. On an afternoon, a few days back, we had been to a big Departmental Store called Bargain City. There we were treated to a thrilling display of kisses by a doll named Kissy. You just had to press her hands and she would start throwing kisses at you. I was discussing the worth of this contraption at a forfeit of ten dollars when our escort, an Indian gentleman, whispered in my ears, 'Do you see her, that girl in the white
sari?
A sad case. The husband has been very sick for the last three months. His days are numbered. She is managing somehow, poor girl, on a typing job ...'

I had a momentary glimpse of the young woman. She had an angular face with an intense pair of eyes, and was walking fast notwithstanding the giant shopping bag flapping on her sides. She looked like one who was not in the habit of answering casual questions.

Shahni went on to say, 'The funeral takes place tonight at eleven. Quite a number of Indians are expected to attend.'

Shahni was my personal assistant. Well, what did he mean to suggest? That I should attend the funeral at that unearthly hour in a roaring snowfall? But before I could repeat the question to myself, the answer came with a thud... He was one among us. It would indeed be a shame, a thousand times... I did not allow the self-reproach to proceed further, and told Shahni, 'Yes, I would like to go. Will you take me along?' Shahni obliged me by saying that he would bring round his car at about half-past ten to my place.

I told Latika. She agreed that I should go and added, 'How unfortunate! I do hope the Government will pay for her passage home ... please do not forget your topcoat and hat ... Are ladies supposed to attend funerals over here? I wish I knew ...'

The eldest could not contain herself any longer and asked, 'Who died, Daddy?"

'An Indian.'

They exchanged glances and assumed a solemn air. That did not surprise me. But the solemnity of the four-year-old, the manner of his pressed lips and fluttering eyelids was rather ominous. He had a penchant for awkward questions and I feared that he may come out now with the all-important question ... But what is an Indian?

I had judged him wrong. I was comforted by his continued silence. In fact, the entire family seemed to appreciate the compulsion of silence on an occasion, which was vaguely national and out of their depth.

I went near the window and surveyed the passing scene. I wanted to absorb the snowfall, the best I could, in spite of the odd relevance of the death of an Indian. I saw the cars shrouded in white, moving slowly, bravely. I saw the neon lights brushing off the nagging snow and blinking roguishly at the courageous traveller. I could imagine an exciting evening in the warm haven of cabarets and night clubs. I could imagine the friendly ones asking for another tall glass, another joke, another ... still another ... in an unerring response to the gift of the heavens.

I could imagine the intimate ones ask for each other with a rare urgency. And then it came to me that the snowfall invites the living world to quicken the pace of life— while the company lasts. But here I am, an outsider, a snow-struck fool of an Indian, watching the falling objects with primeval wonder!

I cursed myself, and in the process I had an unholy urge to curse Rangarao. He seemed to have committed the death-act on this particular day, in order to spite me. To underscore my sense of deprivation in the new land which I was only beginning to know.

Shahni came after I had had my dinner and smoked three cigarettes in a row. I looked at my watch; it was barely five minutes past the appointed hour. Even so, I mumbled something about his being late and was quick to lead him to his Volkswagon. The children had gone to bed. But Latika was wide-eyed and followed me to the car. She repeated her wish to join me. If only she knew ladies were not out of place at a funeral. I dismissed her with a perfunctory smile.

Shahni was driving slowly. Shahni loves to tune the car radio on to a high pitch. But now I found the radio in merciful repose. It was a deliberate concession, I thought, to the purpose of the journey. He had no qualms, however, about filling the vacuum with an unending commentary on the affairs of the world—such as, 'It seems the snow is not going to be too severe this year. The first snowfall last year was seven inches thick... Mrs Das wanted to have some good nylon. I think it will be better to import it directly from Hongkong rather than buy it in New York. Houses are going cheap in this area. But .. but ... it is a Negro neighbourhood... This road to the right goes past Banerji's house. A clever fellow - has managed to extend his stay here for another term...'

Perhaps he realized that I was hoping to hear something more appropriate. So he commenced on the topic of Rangarao. 'Rangarao was a very nice man. Used to send fifty dollars every month to his old parents. His wife is equally nice...' He did not have a chance to elaborate as we had by then reached our destination. Shahni pointed at a non-descript flat-roofed structure and said, 'That is the building. Lees' Funeral Home.'

On second thoughts, I approved of the Funeral Home. This is how these homes should be—slight and simple, in deference to the majesty of death.

There were a number of cars parked in front of the building. 'They all belong to Indians,' Shahni told me with conviction. I was overwhelmed by the massive response of my people and exclaimed, 'So many Indians, so many cars!' Shahni assured me, 'Yes sir, almost all the Indians in Washington possess cars.'

He guided me to a room where I put away my hat and overcoat. On my way to the inner hall I met Mr Saxena of the Supply Mission. I smiled and said 'Hello.' But I was surprised that he neither smiled nor spoke.

The inner hall was almost filled to capacity by ladies and gentlemen dressed in dark clothes and seated in straight-backed chairs. There was a hush of expectancy in the air.

I saw a covered object stretched out on a raised platform ahead of us. This must be the body, I thought.

The body of Rangarao. The awareness evoked a sigh. Why did he come to America, this young man? To die on foreign soil? To leave a young woman disconsolate? A child bewildered? I felt several such sighs being merged into each other in a mighty effort to commune and condole. I felt the dark cold night closing in around us, the Indians in Washington, D. C., so that we may be pinpointed to our tragedy. I had the sensation, akin to ecstasy, of being engulfed.

I envied Rangarao. What more could he expect?

Presently there was a rustling of dresses and shuffling of feet. The gentleman to my left spoke in an undertone, 'The Ambassador, himself.'

Yes, the Ambassador was coming forward in slow steps, followed by a couple of senior officials. I spotted Mr Shah, the Second Secretary whom I knew well and I smiled at him. But there was no responsive smile or nod.

I now got the general idea. The Shahs and Saxenas have a better sense of decorum. They do not encourage smiles or any such levity in the Hall of Death.

I was ashamed and fervently hoped that I would not commit such indiscretions again. I sat straight and looked ahead, the same as others, including the Ambassador.