The Weight of Heaven (18 page)

procession of humanity in motion. You enter the city from the suburbs, which have none of the green tranquillity of the American

’burbs, and pass street after street of small restaurants and shops

selling everything from jeans to gold jewelry to the ubiquitous betel

leaf concoction known as
paan
, which every Indian male of a certain

class background seems to chew. Occasionally, there is a shop with a

name you recognize—Sony, Wrangler, Nokia—and it is impossible

not to notice the billboards that say Coke or Pepsi, part of the Cola

Wars being fought across the country. But mostly, nothing registers

because your attention is pulled in multiple directions—here is a taxi

coming up to your right and about to hit your Camry and you try

to control your reaction, bite down on your tongue, but at the last

minute yell to Satish to watch out and feel the quiet press of embarrassment when the taxi misses your car by inches—as they always

seem to—and Satish flashes you a grin in the rearview mirror. And

here you are stopped at a traffic light and your car is surrounded

by scores of tired-looking young women with children on their

hips, beating on the windows with their open hands as they beg for

money, and you feel hot and flushed and don’t know where to look,

know it is dangerous to make eye contact but staring straight ahead

feels pretty untenable, also, and on top of this Satish is admonishing you not to weaken, not to toss out a few coins because there are

always more beggars than coins. So you sit in your air-conditioned

car, ignoring the sound of hands beating on the window, feeling like

a chimp in a zoo, remembering that other time a couple of months

ago when other, angrier hands had beaten on your car, feeling that

lethal combination of pity and aggravation that India always seems

to arouse in you. And then, at the last minute, you sense that your

wife can’t take this anymore and she reaches into her purse for a few

one-rupee coins and, watching this, the crowd outside your car gets

frantic, you can feel it even though you’re safely inside, and suddenly

1 2 4 Th r i t y U m r i g a r

their numbers seem to double, just like that, like ants at a picnic. And

Ellie lowers the window just as Satish starts moving, and now the

outstretched hands are in the car, grasping at the money that Ellie

is tossing out, and some of them are running after the moving car,

in and out of the heavy traffic, fixated on the single coin, with no

thought to the safety of life or limb. “Put the window up, madam,”

Satish yells, even as he handles the control of the automatic window

himself. And not a moment too soon, because the lowered window

has let in more than the dark, desperate faces of the women and

children, it had let in the stench of the city, a peculiar eye-stinging,

nose-filling, throat-gagging combination of urine and exhaust and

sweat and black smoke. This burning, rubbery smell is everywhere,

though it dissipates a bit as you make your way from the inner rings

of hell—Parel, Lalbaug, Bhendi Bazaar—into the outer rings—

Crawford Market, Flora Fountain, Colaba.

It was while the car was stopped at yet another traffic light at

Parel that Ramesh burst into tears. “I want to go home,” he sobbed.

“I hate Bombay. Too much poor people.”

Ellie put her arm around the boy. “I know, baby,” she said. “But

it will be okay. We’ll be at our hotel soon. There’s a swimming pool

there. We’re going to have a good time, okay?”

Ramesh looked at her tearfully, as if he couldn’t imagine having

a good time in this city. “But Ellie, that boy is having no hands,” he

said, as if that explained everything. The clamor of the beggars surrounding them grew as they witnessed the scene inside the car. Even

with their windows rolled up, Frank could sense the excitement outside. They were jockeying for some advantage, looking for a loophole through which a few coins would slip out and make their way

toward them. He felt a grudging admiration. The entrepreneurial

spirit at work, he thought.

But the truth was, he was happy at the sight of his wife sitting

with her arm around Ramesh. As far as he knew, this was the first

time Ellie had done this. He found himself opening his wallet and

Th e We i g h t o f H e av e n 1 2 5

removing a ten-rupee note. “Tell you what,” he told Ramesh. “You

can give this to that boy’s mom. How’s that?”

As the beggars saw the white man reach for his wallet, the beating on the car window grew more frenzied. Satish raised his voice.

“Don’t open the window, sir. Please to wait until the car is moving.

Then you can throw money out. Otherwise, no peace while we’re at

this traffic signal.” He lowered his window a fraction.
“Chalo. Jao,”

he yelled threateningly at the crowd, and the ones closest to him

moved away a few inches, his voice creating a ripple in the crowd,

and then, the next second, the ripple died and they closed in again.

Ramesh sat clenching the note in his hand. “How will I make

sure he only gets the money?” he asked. “What if someone else take

it away?”

“You want me to do it?” Frank asked, wishing the goddamn

light would change already, but Ramesh shook his head vigorously.

“No. I want to give him.”

They lowered the window a fraction when they were finally

moving again, and Frank hoisted Ramesh onto his lap so that he

could hand the money to the sad-eyed woman. Scores of hands tried

to push their way into the opening, but although he was scared,

Ramesh held on to the note until he could shove it into the hand of

the mother. And then they were gone, leaving behind a swarm of

squabbling, jostling beggars to descend onto the next car.

Inside the car, with Ramesh still in his lap, Frank touched the

boy’s sweaty forehead and then put his right hand over the boy’s

heart. As he had thought, Ramesh’s heart was racing, beating fast.

Frank let his hand remain until he felt the boy’s heart slow down its

frantic jabbering. It was a trick he had discovered with Benny, how

simply laying his hand on his son’s small chest could calm the boy

down. Out of the corner of his eye he caught Ellie staring at him and

knew that she, too, had remembered the times he’d tried this with

Benny, suspected that she resented this easy (in her mind) substitution of one boy for another. But at this moment, he didn’t care. They

1 2 6 Th r i t y U m r i g a r

hadn’t even reached their hotel yet, and already he was experiencing

a feeling of liberation at being in Bombay with Ramesh and Ellie.

He hoped that Ramesh would come to see this also—how, despite

the fact that the city felt like a trap and caught its citizens in a deathlike vise, its sheer size, its mindless momentum, conferred upon you

a kind of anonymity and freedom. It occurred to him that he wanted

Ramesh to return to Girbaug a citified boy, realizing his hometown’s

limitations, chafing at its smallness, feeling its squeeze, like a pair of

shoes one has outgrown. Someday, the boy would see New York,

London, and lose himself in the paradoxical freedom that big cities

conferred upon their residents.

But he was getting carried away. The first task was to console

Ramesh, prep him for the wonders of the old colonial buildings of

South Bombay, prepare him for the opulence of the hotel room that

they would occupy in less than an hour. And also, to draw Ellie into

the fold again, make her a part of this adventure, so that for a few

precious days they could pretend to be a family. He gave Ramesh a

light shove. “You’re getting heavy,” he grunted. “All muscle.”

As he had predicted, the boy beamed. “Yes,” he said. “That’s

why only I’m beating you at basketball.” He moved off Frank’s lap

onto the seat. “I beat him six games in a row, Ellie,” he added.

Ellie smiled. “That’s good,” she said, but her voice was absentminded, distant.

“Whatcha thinking, hon?” Frank said.

“Nothing, really. Just about all this.” She swept her hands to

indicate the sprawl of humanity all around them and then leaned

forward. “You have family in Bombay, right, Satish?”

“Correct, madam. My sister’s family live in Mumbai. Close by to

where we are now, actually.” He lowered his voice. “She married to

a Muslim man, madam.”

“Muslims eat cows,” Ramesh declared.

They ignored him. “Your parents okay with that?” Frank asked.

He stretched his arm so that he was cradling Ramesh as well as pull-Th e We i g h t o f H e av e n 1 2 7

ing Ellie close to him. She rested her head on his arm and he smiled

at the familiarity of the gesture. He remembered a winter’s night in

Shaker Heights, on a double date with Ellie’s sister Anne and her

husband, Bob. They had gone to Nighttown to listen to jazz and on

the way home, he and Ellie had sat in the backseat, Ellie leaning her

head on his arm.

Satish turned to give Frank a quick glance. “Better now, sir. At

first, lots of fightum-fighting. My mother say she will never see

Usha again. But after first baby born, my mother ask me to take her

to Mumbai to see baby.”

Frank sighed. While in college, he and Pete had once rented a

Bollywood movie, curious to know what all the fuss was about.

They had hooted with laughter at the sappy dialogue, the exaggerated gestures, the caricature of a villain, the melodramatic reconciliation between mother and son, and of course, the interminable

musical numbers. But after living in India, none of this seemed as

exaggerated or unrealistic as before. Every family, every home, in

India seemed to have its own saga of melodrama and heartache. For

the second time, he opened his wallet. This time, he took out two

hundred-rupee bills. “Buy some chocolates for your sister’s children

from us,” he said, leaning forward to hand the money to Satish.

“No need for this, sir,” Satish protested, but Frank noticed

that when he looked at him in the rearview mirror, the driver was

smiling.

“I want some chocolates too,” Ramesh said, and Frank smacked

him lightly on his hand.

“How’re you going to be a world-class basketball player if you

get all fat?”

“I’m not fat,” the boy said indignantly, and they all laughed.

“No, you’re
doobla-sukla
,
yaar
,” Satish said.

“What does that mean?” Ellie asked.

“Like this, like this,” Ramesh explained, holding up his little

finger. “Thin-thin.”

1 2 8 Th r i t y U m r i g a r

“I see,” Frank smiled. “Tin-tin.” He was always teasing Ramesh

about his inability to make the
th
sound.

“No, not tin,
thin
.” Ramesh caught the smile on Frank’s face and

punched him on his shoulder. “Stop making fun of me.” He turned

to Ellie. “Make him stop.”

“Stop,” Ellie deadpanned, and they grinned at each other over

Ramesh’s head.

The car pulled into the arched driveway of the Taj Hotel. Getting

out of the car, Ramesh pulled his head all the way back to take in the

tall tower of the Intercontinental, nestled against the original domed

building. “Frank,” the boy breathed. “We’re living in a palace?”

Frank laughed. “Yeah, I guess we are, kiddo.” He tried to pick

up a suitcase from the open trunk, but Satish came racing back and

looked affronted. “Leave it, sir,” he said, nodding his head to where

a skinny bellboy was standing dressed in a heavy red uniform. “He

will take.” The driver lingered long enough to make sure that the

bellboy had all their belongings and to make final arrangements with

Frank as to where and when to pick them up for tomorrow’s picnic.

Handing the keys of the Camry to the valet, Satish walked briskly

away to catch the bus that would take him to his sister’s home.

Striding into the Taj’s opulent lobby, Frank kept a protective

hand on Ramesh’s shoulder. The boy was subdued, though his eyes

were wide with awe as he took in the enormous chandeliers, the

clusters of white-skinned businessmen and tourists, the soft-spoken,

dazzlingly beautiful women receptionists, the unmistakable scent of

luxury and opulence that the place exuded. He waited on one of the

leather couches with Ellie while Frank got them checked in. He was

quiet even as they rode the gilded elevator that led to their room.

Once they were in their large room, he silently toured the carpeted

bedroom with the large, comfortable bed, the red-and-gold mahagony chaise longue near the large window that overlooked the

Arabian Sea, the marble-tiled bathroom with the tub and a vanity

Th e We i g h t o f H e av e n 1 2 9

dresser in one corner. Then the boy sat down heavily on one of the

antique chairs and, for the second time that day, burst into tears.

“What’s wrong?” Frank asked. “Ramesh, are you sick?”

The sobbing boy shook his head. “Not sick.” He tried to say

more, but he couldn’t. Frank made a move toward him, but Ellie

stopped him. “Let him cry,” she whispered. “He’s just overwhelmed.

He needs to get it out.”

While Frank looked at her uncertainly, Ramesh dug into the

pockets of his pants. He fished around and finally came up with a