She hugged me till her tears trickled down my shoulders.
‘See, it’s you who’s crying,’ I said. ‘I’m absolutely fine. I will be totally fine without you. Like who are you? I’m not going to miss you at all. Not even a little bit.’
‘Shut up,’ she said and she laughed and cried some more. She left me wondering if I would see her again.
As I was writing this and trying not to cry like a baby, Maa knocked on the door. I looked at the watch. It was 3 a.m. I was prepared with what to say to her if she had found me sneaking out again.I have friends, Maa, I need to see them. Everyone was there so why couldn’t I be?So I opened the door. She came and sat on the bed and stared at me for a good minute. Quite possibly to give me time to confess before she would begin laying out what I was accused of.
‘I know you’re getting older,’ she said, her tone serious and full of regret. ‘Dada and you think that we come in the way of your happiness and so we have stopped interfering in your lives. All we can do is what parents are required to do for their children. We know you go out every night and we don’t know where you go, what you do with your friends, and we don’t ask. We had decided not to say anything to you. But as your Maa–Baba, we worry. That much right we have as parents, don’t we? Your Baba doesn’t sleep till the time you come back home. We feel bad, we worry, but we think there’s no point telling both of you what your boundaries are. You are free to do what you want. Times are changing. But there’s one little request I have of you.’
‘Yes, Maa?’ I asked.
She opened her palm and there was little sachet in her hands. Rough Man Rider, the sachet said, on a graphic of a man riding a horse. It was a condom, not shampoo as I had suspected for a second.
‘Maa. That’s not mine,’ I said.
‘I found it in our dustbin outside,’ she said. ‘Raghu, you will lie now and I don’t want to hear anything from you. All I wanted to tell you is that you’re too young for this. I’m requesting you to concentrate on your studies.’
‘Maa, I do!’
‘Your practical files are shoddy, assignments are not up to the mark. Amarjeet ma’am says you don’t attend all the classes because of your extracurricular activities.’
‘You met my teacher?’
She got up to leave. ‘Think about the girl who’s doing these dirty things with you. What kind of a girl would she be? She’s spoiling both you and her future.’
‘Maa, I—’
‘I am requesting you again, shona. Don’t do these dirty things in my house,’ she said and left.
One of these days, I’m going to slap Richa Mittal. Who else would have placed that condom? But full marks to her for finding the courage to go and buy one.
1 October 1999
Maa and I went to the railway station today to pick up Dada and Zubeida. Baba told us he had to oversee work at the Durga Puja Committee and hence couldn’t come with us, which was a lie because Baba had bowed out of the committee a month ago. I had heard Maa–Baba talk. With a Musalman daughter-in-law at home he said it was embarrassing for him to be among his friends. Dada and Zubeida’s train was late by three hours. Every hour the railway announcer would regret to tell us about the unavoidable delay. Maa and I played cards and drank tea and ate oily pakodas to pass the time. By the time Dada’s train reached the platform my stomach was struggling to hold all that in.
Maa and I boarded the bogie and found Zubeida and Dada waiting with their suitcases. Zubeida Boudi smiled as she saw me. Her face had filled up and there was a visible bump beneath her burqa. I counted the weeks. About seven months to go. I searched for the pregnancy glow I had heard people talk about. Zubeida touched Maa’s feet; Maa half-heartedly and unsuccessfully tried to stop her from bending. We took a prepaid taxi to Saraswati Vihar. Dada ruffled my hair and asked me about Brahmi. Luckily, Maa wasn’t listening.
‘Baba was busy,’ said Maa in the taxi, looking at Zubeida with a rehearsed politeness, but looking at the bulge in her stomach with love. At the society gate, a man was waiting for us. Baba had instructed him to carry the luggage to their third-floor flat.
‘It is nice,’ said Zubeida to Maa as she looked around.
‘We were looking for a two-bedroom but rents in this neighbourhood have gone through the roof. Then we found this,’ said Maa.
‘This is perfect,’ said Dada.
‘The fridge is stocked for two days. If you need anything else I will get it. You two rest now,’ said Maa and turned to Dada and spoke in Bengali. ‘Baba must be reaching home any time. I should leave now.’
‘Isn’t Baba going to come?’ asked Zubeida.
There was a little silence, an infinitesimally small amount of time, as everyone absorbed Boudi calling Baba, Baba. I looked at Maa, and said a little prayer, beseeching god to make her see Mina in Boudi.
‘He will. He’s a little busy with work. You people rest. It’s been a long journey,’ said Maa hurriedly.
‘Raghu, you can stay here and tell me what’s happening in your life,’ Dada said to me.
‘I have homework,’ I answered.
‘Yes, he has,’ said Maa. ‘He has been roaming around quite a lot.’
