1 February 1999
Baba has been working in a government bank for some twenty years now. In the evenings, he takes Sanskrit and English tuitions for tenth-standard students at a nearby tuition centre. Maa has been a lecturer of mathematics at Shaheed Bhagat Singh College in Delhi University for as long as I have been in this world. In their hands lie the futures of scores of young children who might or might not be the future of our great country. But no matter how important their jobs might be, they will never require them to go on business trips in airplanes like the one Dada went on today, clutching a briefcase and wearing a suit, looking dapper.
‘We are so proud of you. Now all I want is to find a nice Bengali girl for you. Don’t worry, we won’t get you married to the first girl you see. You can pick and choose carefully. Who wouldn’t marry my beautiful son?’ said Maa.
Once we reached the airport, Maa clung on to Dada’s sleeve and wailed for his impending three-day absence, wiping her tears and snot on herkantha-stitch saree. It was lovely and sad to watch.
After we dropped Maa home, Baba took me to his bank, probably to show that he was still relevant, despite Dada’s newfound economic freedom, his jacketed airline tickets and his office-funded stays in a four-star hotel in Bangalore. Baba has a decent cabin with teetering stacks of smelly files jammed with pages that have yellowed over time and a desktop of his own.
‘No matter how senior you are in these private companies, they still make you sit in a cubicle,’ said Baba. ‘Don’t make the mistake your Dada did. Join a government company. Why work for other people when you can work for the country?’
‘Of course, Baba,’ I said playing the dutiful son.
‘You can also take the UPSC after IIT.’
‘That’s always an option.’
‘Are you reading the newspapers every day?’
‘Yes, Baba.’
‘Who’s the defence minister?’
‘George Fernandes.’
‘Good, very good,’ he said.
A few of Baba’s colleagues walked in at this point.
While I played Fury 3 on the desktop, piloting a black jet, Baba and his colleagues sat arguing Atal Bihari Vajpayee’s decision to start the bus to Pakistan to improve diplomatic relationships. Baba might not have the strongest arguments but he has a heavy baritone which helps him browbeat even the most learned men into submission.
When we got home Maa’s bloodshot eyes stared back at us. ‘He still hasn’t called. What if something happened on the way?’
We huddled around the phone and waited for it to ring. It wasn’t the first time Dada simply forgot us, like we didn’t exist, like he could live without us. How hard was it for him to understand that Maa–Baba would only be at rest when they know we were safe and well-fed?
Dada called three hours later. Maa broke down again and told Dada he’s never going to any business trip again, at which Dada laughed.
‘I love you,’ he told Maa.
Earlier these words never came easily to Dada. It’s only recently that he has picked it up from me. We know these words work like magic on her. Till a couple of years back I used to say it at the drop of a hat—probably another reason why Maa keeps me close to her bosom—but it doesn’t come naturally to me any more. Saying those words now seems like a betrayal. Who knows what happens tomorrow? When they read the letter I write them before I go, if I choose to go, will they think I didn’t really love them and I was lying all this time?
So now I let Dada say it more often. He may have to take my place some day. Be the favourite son. Be the only son.
Later when Maa–Baba had gone to sleep, Dada called again to say he had something exciting to tell me once he’s back. He told me it will be our secret. SECRET. I feel bad for Dada when he thinks I will be his confidante, his brother in blood and soul. Last year I caught him smoking and he told me it was our secret. I made sure Maa–Baba found out about it and emotionally blackmailed him into stopping.
He has to learn to be twice as good a son, make up for my absence. He can’t afford to be careless like this.
I will have to take a break from writing this journal for a few days. The board exams start in a couple of weeks and I have got to do well. We need to keep up pretences, don’t we? For as long as I can, I will give my best to this role. I will see you in about a month.
7 March 1999
Welcome back.
Today’s not a happy day.
It’s one of god’s cruel games, tempting me with happiness, luring me into a friendship and then splintering my heart. I know god well. He’s not kind and benevolent. He’s like us, capricious and evil and corrupted by power. How twisted do you have to be to invent birth and death? One moment you’re just nothingness, air, vacuum and poof . . . suddenly you’re a foetus trapped in a womb, a helpless baby, a confused toddler, an angst-ridden teenager, a depressed young person, a burdened middle-aged person and then you slowly rot to death. Great art never dies but he made us mortal. That’s if men are really god’s best creation. He loves to play around with us. That’s what he did with me. He reminded me of my place, telling me that no matter how hard I try he can fiddle with my fate.
Brahmi Sharma is in my class again.
