Happy Birthday! And Other Stories Part 5

She grabbed a drink from one of the trays pa.s.sing by, took a long swig, and walked over to Dolly.

*I don't think we've met. I am Mrs Shroff,' Nadia said, extending her hand towards Dolly.

Dolly spun around with a smile that disappeared when she saw that it was Nadia. She pursed her thin lips firmly and said, *I know,' turning back to a nervous servant, treating Nadia the way Danesh did: as invisible.

Nadia pictured their legs wrapped together, Dolly's legs bent with the muscular grit of a tree's boughs, her interest severe, something he'd desire. She imagined him setting down his gla.s.s of sour, which he enjoyed after s.e.x, the tip of his little finger m.u.f.fling the impact of the gla.s.s.

*Are you sure you know me?' Nadia said.

Dolly's eyes hovered over the room, indirect but measuring looks, probably seeking Danesh. He must have been talking to someone, for Dolly returned her confused eyes to Nadia. A shroud of unspoken thoughts hung between them. Nadia didn't yield.

*Of course I'm sure who you are, Nadia,' Dolly replied, arching her rather hostile black eyebrows.

*Not Nadia, I am Mrs Shroff.'

*Is this some kind of a joke?'

Nadia sensed Dolly's stony energy, full of contempt.

*Is it? Tell me, who are you?'

*You, my dear, have clearly had too much to drink.'

Her *my dear' was cold and patronizing.

*Who. Are. You?' Nadia repeated.

*I am Dolly. This is my house. We are having a party. And you are a guest here.'

*You are not Dolly. You are Mrs Makhija. And I am Mrs Shroff. Do you understand me, Mrs Makhija?'

For the first time there was comprehension in Dolly's eyes. Her powdered face turned pale. Anxiety made her eyes blink.

*So, Mrs Makhija, how well do you know my husband, Mr Shroff?'

To her credit Dolly didn't flinch. The only outward sign she showed of any distress was an endless guzzle she took from her wine gla.s.s.

Nadia imitated her, but couldn't be as controlled. Her hand jerked and she spilled her drink onto the marble floor. She watched Dolly's pet.i.te feet step back and by the time she looked up Dolly was gone, hidden in one of the many rooms.

*So the hand has found a glove, eh?' she heard Baman's voice behind her.

Nadia winced. If she turned around, she could spend her night with Baman, a stranger who'd bring his life story to her like a gift she could gracefully unwrap. They would laugh, more than necessary, ask questions no one else had in a long time, and do what had been done to them.

Or she could confront Danesh; tell him that she knew. She could begin to exact his attention under the pretences of hurt and betrayal, claim lat.i.tude, some indulgence, in return for what she had undergone, and lost, love that could never be repaired. And he would come back to her, burdened by his guilt, her sadness, their emptiness. He'd promise never to talk to Dolly again or attend her parties.

But either recourse seemed like a huge effort, when all Nadia wanted to do was return to her house, her room, her bed and her pillow, where the hollow she'd created was at least her own. She was too tired to care that Danesh and she stayed in a marriage that had run its course, become a habit more than a necessity, and had taken so much out of her that she felt nothing but numbness for any other emotion, any other activity, any other man.

So she walked away from the loss of her actions, without another thought.

In the weeks after her mother died, Nadia had treated Danesh in the same way that he treated her now. But he was not deterred. Every night he scrambled into the cold cleft of mattress between them, lying perfectly still, holding her, till she rolled over and went to sleep. If she opened her eyes during the night, he was there, looking at her through the darkness that was never really black but diluted by the stubborn light of the city. Knowing she was safe, she'd drift back into another wretched sleep, his presence a gentle rope that kept her from falling too far.

Nadia looked at Danesh, who turned to face her for the first time that night. It seemed as if he was suddenly standing a long distance away. She considered the gap and whether it was wise to cross it.

Then he was by her side, smelling of cigarettes, of other people.

He leaned over and whispered, *Happy birthday, my love.'

THE GECKO ON THE WALL.

I stare in confusion at Dipti and Choti standing outside my front door until Dipti says, *Hi Papa,' carrying me into the centrefolds of our relationship.

*h.e.l.lo beta,' I reply, straightening my back like a superintendent on duty.

I smile to let it be known that I'm happy to see them.

*How've you been?' Dipti continues in a tired tone, wafting in with the smell of the neighbour's curry that, for the first time, curls my nose. She crosses the threshold with her leather suitcases, her clothes b.u.t.tered by fabric softener and a beefiness that visits, as she does, every second year from America. Immediately, my living room-a luxury in Mumbai-becomes smaller.

*Hi Nanu!' says Choti, the little one. She flings her arms around my waist with such force that I stumble backward, almost slipping on my dead wife's rug. In my old house with the grainy floors the rug was a solid thing, but this shiny new house with its slick flooring has made it dangerous, an accident waiting to happen. I catch my balance at the same moment that my eyes fall on my granddaughter's face, and I'm falling again. Choti looks so much like Sheila-her features that of a child, but the same triangular face, the black-bean eyes held close together, hair sprouting from the rim of the face as if her scalp is not large enough.

*Ashirwad, Choti,' I say, patting Choti's head and inching away at the same time, so that my intimacies remain prudent and una.s.sertive, causing no one harm. *Your hands go round my waist now, eh?'

*Dad,' Dipti interrupts, abandoning the sweet softness of Papa. She is scanning the apartment and I wait for her verdict. *This new place is sw.a.n.ky. Look at the cream pillars, the false ceiling and-wow-French windows!' She walks to the balcony, *And the view! We can see the pool. No more looking into the Guptas' toilet.'

I don't mention that paying for that pool's maintenance shaves off a third of my pension money.

Choti and I follow Dipti as she strolls around the house, picking up things, casually dropping them back.

*Looks like our family is finally moving up, huh Dad?' she says, and then adds softly, *Maa would have loved this.'

She wouldn't have, I silently say to myself. Unlike Dipti, Sheila hated the cosmetic, the ornamental. We had that in common.

The sound of Dipti's stilettos ricocheting off the floor stops as she turns to me and says, *Three bedrooms? What do you do with so many?'

*Enjoy them,' I lie. For before this I've only ever lived in my father's home, which belonged to his grandfather, our treasured legacy from Mumbai's disappearing s.p.a.ces. In the body of a hundred-year-old, the flat was-as Dipti never failed to mention-dowdy. Yet, I saw myself in it as though it was a mirror; my ident.i.ty bound to its lime mortar walls from which paint constantly dripped, the rusting iron-framed windows and the c.o.c.kroaches that scurried around each morning as the house came to life.

I continue to live there though it no longer exists, its body destroyed by that builder with the toothy smile who offered me two choices over a cup of adrak chai. A bigger, sw.a.n.kier flat in lieu of vacating, like the other residents-so he could build a 33-storey high-rise-or the streets. I've desperately searched for my old flat's soul here, in this new flat whose ceiling I can touch, but all I find is my hollow reflection.

*Yuck, Mommy, look! A gecko,' Choti yelps, pointing to the freshly painted living room wall. I turn around sternly, no idea what a gecko is, and fix my eyes on a light pink lizard. The pest control I'd done a week earlier has obviously had no impact.

*Choti, this is our friend Chameli. She has come to say h.e.l.lo,' I say, my voice mock-childish, like one adopts when talking to a seven-year-old. Choti looks at me with her eyebrows raised, and I recoil in surprise. When has she learned to think for herself?

I clear my throat to say that I'll take their suitcases to the guest room. I can't find my voice. I cough.

*Are you all right, Dad?' Dipti asks, furrowing her perfectly shaped thin eyebrows.

*Fit as a fiddle-er on the roof,' I say, an old joke between her and me. No, judging by the way her lips pinch together, it's an old joke between Sheila and her, for their love of the same musical. I wish Sheila were here, so I didn't have to steal her jokes or fumble for words with my daughter and granddaughter.

I lift their wheeled suitcases and put them next to the new bed inside the second bedroom, which will finally be used. When I come back, Dipti is sitting on the edge of our old striped sofa with Choti on her lap. A bottle filled with pink tablets is lying open on the cushion next to them.

Dipti strokes Choti's hair and asks me, *Are you eating well? You've lost a lot of weight since I last saw you. Diabetes in control?'

*Yes,' I answer, distracted by the maid-what's-her-name-who is carrying two gla.s.ses of c.o.ke towards us, rather than the three I'd told her to bring.

*Namaste, bibiji, baby,' she says and I'm grateful for her follow-through of at least one instruction. I've hired her for the exact duration of Dipti's stay: three weeks, and though I can barely afford a maid I don't want Dipti, with her crisp American life, to wade through the deprivations of her childhood again.

*How is Udit, beta? He did not come?' I ask Dipti, as she touches her lips to the c.o.ke without sipping. They leave mauve lipstick marks on the gla.s.s.

She looks down at the carpet, before levelling her eyes at me. *No, Dad. He's busy, busy with work. He doesn't get more than two weeks off, and you know how things are in New York.'

I don't know, having never been invited to what Dipti calls her *slice of lovely madness'. Udit too exists in my mind only as an attachment to Dipti. After all, I've met him only during his wedding with Dipti nine years ago and when he came for a visit four years later. That was his third time in India, he said, and he seemed uncomfortable here, stressing repeatedly that after his first trip to India-when he'd met Dipti at a client party-he hadn't intended to come back. He didn't attend Sheila's funeral three years ago, using Choti as an excuse to stay put, and the next year Dipti came alone with Choti.

At that time even my daughter booked a hotel room, saying that she didn't want to stay in the place her mother had died. This was still the old flat then.

*It's moving,' Choti gasps and clutches her ladybug soft toy. The gecko, with its unblinking, soulless red eyes, dashes behind the white tube light, and Choti squeals. To distract her I take out a package that I've hidden under the sofa. It's a gift that I bought from one of those new toy stores that looks like its pa.s.sing through India on the way to some place nice. I wanted to buy Dipti something too, but my money can't meet the price tag of her expectations. Already, my life has been spent on giving Dipti its best chunk, driven by her sense of ent.i.tlement and my nurturing of it. The dredges of this, that sifted down to Sheila, were received with a smile from my wife, who only once, very shyly, asked me for a gold chain on her birthday.

*Surprise! Look what I got you, Choti,' I say loudly now, and wait, seeking Choti's thrilled expression to catch another glimpse of Sheila.

Choti tugs open the box I didn't know how to giftwrap and pulls out a plastic kitchen set. Her expression, devoid of emotion, tells me that she doesn't like it.

*It's lovely,' Dipti says, picking up a pink teacup. *Say "Thank you Nanu".'

*Thank you, Nanu,' Choti parrots.

I speak, quickly, before our disappointments become a guilty silence. *Your mother, when she was as little as you, used to love these, Choti.' Choti picks up a yellow ladle and stirs an imaginary pot with it, cooing. My granddaughter has learnt to feel apologetic about her feelings.

*I thought I'd get a doll but ...'

*She has too many dolls, Dad. Really, this is good. Something I'd never have thought to get her.'

*I also got you something that your Nani used to love,' I say to the girl, still hoping. I unwrap a green leaf bundle that reveals white steamed milk pudding. *This kharwas is from the best street vendor in Bombay. It is sweet and soft, better than your American cupcakes.'

Choti looks at her mother, as if for help. The Bisleri water bottle peeking out from Dipti's purse reminds me that they drink only mineral water and eat only homecooked food when in India. This is laughable, really, for Dipti spent twenty-six years here eating pani puri on the streets and drinking tap water.

I fold back the leaf when Dipti says-with a sigh that contains compromise, something my daughter has never done with me-*Go on, try it, honey. It is delicious.'

Choti takes a tentative bite of the pudding. A small hint of satisfaction skirts her lips before she gorges it down. I smile. A part of Sheila has lived on.

Dipti is looking at me closely, watching my reaction.

*Hmm ...' I grunt, not knowing what more to say. Sheila gave us the semblance of a fatheradaughter relationship, the glue without which the true nature of our relationship threatens to reveal itself. I need to postpone this.

*You must be tired,' I start, and become quiet, crumbling under my attempt to play host. But Dipti starts lobbing bombs into our minefield of emptiness. She asks me which room I sleep in, if I still eat chicken tikka every Friday or visit the Shiv mandir on the last Thursday of every month. We've never had a relationship partial to conversation, so I conclude, sadly, that perhaps Dipti is trying to reconstruct her lost relationship with her mother, even though relationships are not buildings that can replace annihilation.

Something about her troubles me. She has changed in a way that I'm unable to place. So I study her; her garrulousness allowing me this one liberty. Her face has become round and large, like a globe. Black kohl crinkles around the rims of her weary eyes, as her thin lips move against the strain of newly formed lines. Seeing my daughter age makes me feel older than my seventy-one. Yet, even now, although people say she looks like me, I am unable to find myself in her, and she probably prefers this too. I struggle to focus on her words, but my silence, my faithful companion, stands beside me, nudging me to give it attention. I point out that Choti has fallen asleep on the couch, she'll be more comfortable on the bed, and as soon as they enter the guest room, I turn off all the lights in the house.

The next morning, after b.u.t.ter-toast and tea, Dipti tells me that she's meeting an old friend from her hotel management college and will be back after dinner. I take in this information with surprise, since Dipti has made no effort to contact her old friends during her previous visits, citing lack of time as a problem even as she wilted away at home, fanning herself during the daily electric outages. She leaves Choti with me. After my initial hesitation, I'm glad, since this is the first time that I have been alone with my granddaughter.

Choti tells me that this time her mother has let her bring all her toys and games from America. She is at that wonderful age where she can amuse and be amused, adding colour to the games of Uno, Snakes & Ladders, and Monopoly that we play together. I let myself relax in her imaginary world. The maid loiters around, giggles at Choti's broken Hindi, goads Choti with tips for winning, takes her to the bathroom, insists on being called Kaki-older sister. I've never had to manage a maid before, so I don't know whether I'm being lax or strict with her, but each of us is laughing as though we've never laughed before and it isn't fair to splinter such rare perfection. I think of telling the maid-whose name it's too late to ask but whom I also begin to call Kaki-to make dinner, but she's teaching Choti some Hindi words. So I cook khichdi for the three of us, and though Choti t.i.tters that it looks like puke, she eats it anyway. Her day's energy spent, Choti leans against me as we watch a cartoon about a yellow sponge that wears pants, which she says is her favourite.

Dipti comes back an hour later with the city's grime and pollution settled over her skin. She flings her purse on the dining table as she used to while growing up, and Choti runs up to her-the way in which Sheila often did-as if she hasn't seen Dipti in weeks, as if the time that the two of us spent together was a mirage.

Dipti sits down and pulls Choti into her lap. Choti buries her face in Dipti's neck, while Dipti rocks her gently, cooing some language that only these two understand. I ask my daughter if she's eaten and she says *Too much,' like it's an inside joke. Then she takes Choti to their room and doesn't come back outside. I put Choti's things aside and retire to my room.

In the darkness I realize that Dipti hadn't mentioned facing trouble finding her way around Mumbai, a city whose daily transformations leave me confused. From an early age there's been no hesitation in Dipti, only a forthright boldness, an unnerving confidence. Every time I sent her out into the world-to the elite school with her privileged friends she never invited home, to the grocery store from where she returned with free milk sachets-she came back with the same body but a new soul, morphed by forces she didn't reveal to me, as if I was undeserving of it. By the time she became a teenager, she couldn't curtail her raw distaste of me, so I tried-as parents do-to inculcate in her my sense of self, forged in the rows of unkempt brown files at my income-tax office in Churchgate and my home with its dilapidated walls. But Dipti shrugged me aside. Ultimately it was Sheila, armed with the unending empathy and unyielding patience of a mother, who broke through Dipti's guileless ego and made herself privy to Dipti's world, which we otherwise could not have imagined.

How will I do this without Sheila?

The first week pa.s.ses with Dipti gone the entire day, and coming back after Choti has fallen asleep. I don't protest, adapting my old ways to suit her new ones. I often think of her presence as a favour she bestows on me, when there is no need for her-with her rich glowing skin, her body thickening with the sight and sound of that foreign land, her hairdryer whose voltage never matches-to come back.

That Sunday Udit calls. He skips over the obligatory question about my health and asks to speak to Choti even though Dipti is home. Choti walks towards the phone as though she's crossing a busy road, her hands curled tightly around her ladybug. She mumbles into the receiver, her back towards me, and after a minute when she turns around, the ladybug's b.u.t.ton-eye is pulled out.

Before I can react, she squeals, *Look, Nanu. Look! The gecko is back.' She runs to me and buries her head in my chest.

I take her face in my hands, holding it like a reward, *There is nothing to be afraid of, Choti. Do you know that Chameli brings good luck to our family? No? Then let me tell you a story. The day that Nani's doctor told her that she had two months left on earth, I saw Chameli for the very first time, right here, next to the bulb. I ran to kill her, so angry was I about everything, but Nani stopped me, saying the creature would bring us luck. Chameli came back every day after that and do you know what happened? Your Nani stayed with me for much, much longer, six more months. Six very happy months.'

Choti believes my story and looks at the lizard like a freezing man at a fire. *Maybe we can ask Chameli to bring Nani down from the stars,' she says.

*Each of us only gets one wish from Chameli. Your Nani's and my wish came true, now you make yours,' I say, wishing now that I'd made up some other story to make Choti less afraid of the lizard.

*Can I ask for Mommy to be happy?' Choti asks. She looks up at me wide-eyed, and I reel in shock. Never has she looked so much like Sheila, particularly as she did during the first months of our marriage when she liked to sit with me, drawing the Himalayan mountains that she'd never seen, sh.e.l.ling peas, knitting the blue sweater I wore on our one trip to Panchgani. It was the one time in our marriage when Sheila belonged only to me.

I lift the girl onto my lap and hug her.

*Your mother is happy. She has you, no? If I had you, I would be happy too,' I say.

*You will not leave me like her and Daddy?'

*They haven't left you, Choti.' I pat her head. *Now make your wish before Chameli goes away.'

*Do you mind if I make a secret wish?' Choti asks, and when she shuts her eyes, I pray for all her wishes to come true.

I'm in my white kurta ready to leave when Choti asks where I'm going. I tell her that I'm going to the post office, though I don't specify the reason-I need to see if my money order has arrived there by mistake. My pension is late, and since I've invested my savings to impress my daughter-paint, pest control, maid, Choti's gift, a bed and cupboard, Bisleri and Oreos-my money is running out. With eight hundred rupees and twelve days before Dipti leaves, I haven't refilled my insulin pencil, the only expense that affects me and no one else. There are three hundred units left in the pencil, and these will be gone in ten days.