‘They seemed more your Dada–Boudi than mine.’
We both fell quiet, letting the possibility of that future slowly sink in. I smiled and saw her smile in the rear-view mirror.
7 October 1999
It was a good day today, sort of unbelievable. After the long cold war between Dada and Baba, where neither of them wanted to visit each other’s houses, Dada has softened his stand. He was home today. If I said it was all my doing, I might come across as pompous but there’s no other way to say it: It was all my doing. Like a tactful negotiator I used all the tricks in the book. Persistent cajoling, emotional blackmail, beady eyes, and anger—I used all my arsenal. ‘How different are you from Baba if you keep holed up here? He extended an olive branch, didn’t he? It was Baba who found this house, got everything fixed, got sick with worry wondering if everything is okay, and you can’t even come home? Boudi, why don’t you tell him to come home? How will things get better if neither of them soften a little?’
Fake tears and real tears were at the precipice of my eyes and Dada gave up.
He came home. They sat together in front of the TV where a cricket match was on and Baba and Dada didn’t even look at each other for the longest time. They weren’t father and son but two men. Their icy stares at the television left me cold. It was only after Ganguly did well that the two senior Gangulys melted and smiled and then clapped.
‘He should be the captain,’ said Dada.
‘Seeing a Bengali as captain, people will start respecting us again. He will restore our pride!’ exclaimed Baba.
On the dinner table, Baba mostly steered clear of any conversation related to Boudi, except the accidental advice. ‘Start spending less, save more; the little one has to have a good future.’
Maa and I went with Dada to his house. We carried casseroles of capsicum paneer and doi machh. Boudi insisted that Maa drink tea before she left. Maa stayed back because I knew by now that she had come to love Boudi’s tea. Though she had dared not ask her about the recipe. Was it the tea leaves? Was it some masala? Maa kept her curiosity to herself, not wanting to give Boudi a lead on what was principally her domain—good chai. So imagine my surprise when Maa gave me a tight slap on my head when I called Boudi by the nickname I had thought for her—Sunni Boudi. Boudi had told me a few days back that she’s a Sunni Muslim. Sunni. Sunni. Sunni. It coils funnily around the tongue, doesn’t it? I have been calling her Sunni Boudi, Sunni Boudi for a week now. Boudi had no problem with me calling her that but apparently Maa did and I have to stop doing it. I had asked Boudi if she would rather be a Shia, another branch of Islam. She said she wouldn’t. Had I been given a choice, I would rather be Shia. It sounds richer, like the sound of a formula car whizzing by.Shia.I have always wanted to be a Roy or a Chatterjee, regal surnames which spring to mind rich Bengali gentlemen with round spectacles and pocket watches.
Ganguly is too . . . clerk-like.
When we came back home, Baba asked me to call Brahmi back. Maa looked at me sharply.
‘It’s about some assignment,’ I offered as an explanation.
When Maa–Baba retired for the night, I called Brahmi. She told me she would leave home the coming week.
11 October 1999
My head’s bursting, my heart’s bleeding and my fingers are failing me as I try to write this down. Let me tell you what happened today in a chronological order so as to make sense of it all.
Maa–Baba and I were quite surprised when Arundhati, Sahil and Rishab landed at my place, unannounced. Dressed in white kurta–pyjamas, the boys looked like little princes, and between them stood Arundhati, stately and resplendent in her blue-and-gold saree.
‘Quick! Get ready. We are going out,’ they echoed.
‘Where?’
‘A party, at my place,’ said Rishab.
‘For what?’
‘That’s a secret,’ Arundhati answered.
I looked at Maa–Baba, who nodded. Maa helped me find my kurta and Baba ironed it. When I was all dressed up, Baba clicked a picture with his camera, and then one from Rishab’s new digital camera.
‘You can delete pictures and take new ones if you don’t like them,’ said Rishab.
‘We know how digital cameras work,’ said Arundhati.
‘I was just—’
‘Next you’re going to tell us how cars work, is it?’
We all supported Arundhati’s bullying of Rishab.
In the car to Rishab’s house, they told me Brahmi was throwing herself a farewell party since she wasn’t going to be a part of one in school. I felt slighted that Brahmi hadn’t told me about her wish to have one. I would have organized one for her. Neither did I know when Brahmi told them about her decision to leave school; she had categorically asked me to not tell anyone, not even Dada–Boudi.
Brahmi was waiting at Rishab’s house, looking wonderful in a red-and-black saree. ‘You look gorgeous,’ she said and stepped closer to me.
