Maa asked about the bruise and believed me when I told her that Sahil and I had gotten into a friendly scuffle.
17 November 1999
I have tried to rationalize my love for someone who might be a little—how do I put it politely—unhinged, by saying I have the capacity to love anyone, but it’s not that. I know I just love her and I love her no matter what.
Maa–Baba’s eyes were glued to the television. Thousands are dying as I’m writing this. Maa at one point lamented, ‘Why! Why would something like this happen to the poor Oriyas?’
‘Like the Punjabis?’ I asked.
Maa nodded. ‘Yes, like them.’
Baba chimed in, ‘All thieves, every single one of them. That property dealer? He told us the kitchen was waterproofed. It drips every night now. He has the gall to say that we should look for another flat! Imagine! All of them are the same!’
‘They don’t have a coastline,’ I argued.
I don’t share Maa–Baba’s sense of empathy. Who’s them? Who’s us? The definitions are fluid. For today, the Oriya people sinking in their watery graves are ours, Muslim or not. And that Punjabi property dealer who hadn’t got the kitchen roof waterproofed is them. And Zubeida Boudi, a Muslim, is ours, her child is ours.
And whose is Brahmi? Who’s going to cry for her if something happens to her? I have struggled to conjure up a future for Brahmi and me. But whatever it is, I will have my place in it. I have been checking on Brahmi every day. She still comes to the balcony every afternoon. She still looks like absolutely nothing’s wrong with her life which explains a lot now. Grief and she have been with each other for so long that suffering silently is second nature to her.
I have waved from beneath her window, written placards, thrown pebbles at her to catch her attention but nothing has worked. Yesterday, the watchman came running after me.
I got myself a buzz cut and returned today. And thank god, I did. I saw Vedant enter her house. I paced around outside, waiting for him to emerge with Brahmi. After a while, he emerged alone from the building.
Before I could reach Vedant, he drove off on his motorcycle.
Having had enough, I rang the bell to her house. Luckily, it was Brahmi who opened the door.
Before I could say anything, she said, ‘Don’t do anything stupid. I can help myself.’
Her name was called out.
Brahmi shouted back, ‘SALESMAN!’ and slammed the door on me.
‘I love you,’ I said but the she was long gone.
Now as I’m writing this I’m trying to recreate what had happened. Was she being hit? How sad was she? Did she have something on her mind? Does she still love me? Can I kill her Tauji–Taiji? How long will I have to wait to see her again?
19 November 1999
In the evening, we went to Boudi’s house. Her bump is considerably larger now. Only yesterday, Maa helped Zubeida Boudi redo a stitching of her burqa. Maa’s guessing it is going to be a boy from the size of her bump. It’s surprising to see how irrational she can get despite her education. For the most part of the evening, Maa sat right next to Boudi, one hand firmly on her stomach as if she didn’t trust her with the life growing inside of her.
‘I have had three children, so I know,’ said Maa. ‘You should rest at this time, Mamoni. Work can wait but at this time you should concentrate on yourself.’
‘She can’t miss office now. She was just made the team leader. A holiday will set her back,’ said Dada.
‘That is such good news!’ said Maa.
‘Maa? Do you even know what it means?’ Dada joked.
Maa frowned. ‘I know that it means more money and respect, doesn’t it, Mamoni?’
Zubeida Boudi nodded.
Maa–Baba had decided to call Zubeida, Mamoni, a common Bengali nickname which roughly translates to ‘little girl’. ‘Zubeida’ was too . . . Muslim.
Maa continued, ‘I won’t ask you to not go to office but it is a risk. That’s what I will say. Anything can happen. I have been working for so long now and everyone around me takes a holiday. If you don’t want to it’s okay but it’s for the good of the baby.’
Boudi stole a glance at Dada. Saying no would have been rude, and I guess, saying okay wasn’t what Dada and Boudi wanted.
