Seeing Boudi as the centre of all attention broke my heart. She felt important, loved, believed she was a part of this family. Luckily, she asked me to give away the money to Helpage India. Dada was disappointed in me, saying I was getting too blasé too early in my life. He fussed over me the entire day, goading me into going somewhere with Brahmi, Arundhati, anyone.
‘It’s depressing to see you sitting here on your birthday,’ said Dada. ‘I couldn’t celebrate it the way I wanted to this time around so I thought I would live a little through yours but you’re such a disappointment.’
‘How does it matter, Dada? Just one year after another.’
‘Oh, c’mon. Don’t be this sad, okay?’
‘Why would I be sad? Everything is just perfect, isn’t it?’ I asked.
Dada laughed. ‘Yes it is, did you see how Maa asked Zubeida what she wanted? I never thought it would come to that.’
‘We are fortunate to have such loving parents, aren’t we?’ I said, the sarcasm again lost on him.
‘Sometimes I think that if all Maa–Baba wanted was a child to reconcile with my marriage I should have planned it that way. Do you look at Maa when she looks at Zubeida? Like she’s got back our Mina,’ said Dada.
I was confused whether to pity him or feel anger so I just nodded.
‘Hey? I forgot to ask? What happened with Brahmi?’
‘I broke up with her,’ I said.
Dada started to laugh. He said, ‘You broke up with her? You?’
‘I don’t know why it’s funny.’
Dada put his arm around me and said, ‘It’s okay, Raghu. It happens.’
‘Of course it does.’
Later in the evening Boudi had a severe coughing bout. Her doctor asked if we had a dog at home. We told him about Mina and the doctor advised not to have the dog inside the house until the delivery. Boudi is at a severe risk of developing allergies, he told us. When we came back, Maa made us all take long baths and scrubbed the house clean of Mina’s fur.
‘Didn’t I tell you? Maa would do anything for Zubeida now. It’s so cute,’ said Dada, smiling.
I think this experiment has been great, writing to myself, but I think it will soon come to an end. And I know when to end this. Once I help Dada tide over the birth of his child, tell them about Maa–Baba, and settle them in the humdrum routine of raising a child. Earlier I thought I would do it the day of the birth but I think that would have been selfish and would be like stealing the child’s thunder. I am sad, I’m not crazy. As I was writing this, I saw Richa on her balcony staring at the road. I snapped and shouted at her, ‘NOW WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU STANDING THERE FOR?’
She said in a low tone, ‘I’m not here for you,’ and got up and left.
30 January 2000
This year it’s a school holiday for Mahatma Gandhi’s death anniversary. He died fifty-two years ago today. Nathuram Godse, a Hindu fanatic and a member of the Hindu Mahasabha and the RSS before that, fired at Gandhi, whom he blamed for helping in the partition of India.
‘It’s good that Godse killed him rather than a Muslim,’ said Dada. ‘Imagine the riots that would have caused.’
But I guess we do a good job at hiding that we dislike someone for our own gain. Like Maa–Baba, who have been fussing over Boudi like she is their child, or Brahmi who had loved me till the time she didn’t. Had I not heard Maa–Baba that day in the kitchen I would have fallen for their charade as well. Had I not asked Brahmi to leave me, god knows how much longer she would have played out the charade of being in love with me. Brahmi hasn’t reached out, which shows how devastated she is. Not even a courtesy call to ask if I’m doing well.
But the pain they have caused me would have been worse had I not known they were capable of lies, of betrayal. Brahmi had shown signs from the very beginning by lying to me about her parents, by hiding things about her past even though she told me she loved me, and the less we talk about Maa–Baba the better. It’s like all these years some hateful creatures lived in a little shell buried inside Maa–Baba which broke forth and took over their minds and their hearts the minute Boudi walked into Dada’s life.
Every time Maa holds Boudi, laughs at her quips, caresses her face, or is kind to her, my stomach churns. How many times did Brahmi tell me she loved me when she really didn’t?
Maa, my beloved Maa, turns into an evil, conniving crone, like a shadow of Didimaa. It’s in her blood, so why not. I don’t want to say it. The word has a finality. You can’t come back from it unless you use it frivolously. I have started to hate Maa. Even as I write this my hands tremble. But I’m sure this is what I feel inside.
HATE. It’s as simple as that.
I hate her pretence, I hate her capacity to fake love and concern, I hate her machinations, and I hate her refusal to accept Boudi as a human. I hate that she thinks of the life inside Boudi as Dada’s and Dada’s alone. I hate that she smiles the same smile with me. I would pick Baba’s rants, Maa’s tears and Dada’s rebellion over the stage performances of Maa–Baba any day. I would pick a splintered family than this excuse of one any day.
The choice to end this lies with me. I can tell Dada about the conversation I had overheard, ask him to take Boudi and go, make a life somewhere else, forget he had parents, bring up his child as an atheist . . . but I won’t right now. I want to see what else Maa–Baba are capable of. So that when I abandon them I can tell them WHY in a list that runs endlessly. I want them to regret their decisions for the rest of their lives.
Moreover, if they could use Boudi to spawn their grandchild then why shouldn’t Boudi use Maa’s care that she so evidently needs during the pregnancy?
