Anuradha Roy - An Atlas of Impossible Longing

The first glimpse of the fort’s low, broken-down walls and the hillocks beyond it quickened his steps as always. Posted to Bikaner and Sindh, he had not seen it the past six years. Now, once more, excitement surged through him at the thought that he was about to live out a fantasy. For years in his youth he had dreamed of this; now he would find out if the hillocks hid cities and cultures, if the dry stream-bed was the leftover of some ancient river that had changed course, forcing the people on its banks to abandon their settlement.

He walked rapidly around, then, trying to calm himself, sat by the shallow pool and lit a cigarette. It didn’t seem that long, Nirmal thought, inhaling, since he had sat at that pool with Shanti, looking out at the dimming light, the broken lines of the ruin slowly erased by dusk. Yet the edges of the memories he had of that time were blurring, little details he had thought indelible had tipped over the edge into oblivion.

Annoyed at letting his thoughts stray from the work in hand, Nirmal took out a pencil and began to scribble into a notebook he had brought with him. He listed equipment, material, manpower required, he listed books and articles he needed to look up. After a while, accepting him as part of the landscape, plump grey pigeons pecked the ground around him. He saw flashes of green as parakeets swooped and chattered overhead, squabbling for food.

But now he felt distracted by an odd sound nearby, something between a squeal and a whine. He looked up, startled.

There was a woman’s voice now, saying, “That’s all, leave me alone.”

There was a silence, then the woman exclaimed again, “I said that’s enough, will you stop?”

Nirmal got up, brushing his trousers. Could there be someone in trouble? The voice had come from inside a domed room in the ruin, one of the few structures left with its ceiling unbroken. He walked into its darkness, strong with the smell of pigeon droppings and dust. For a moment inside, he could not see anything in the sudden blackness. He could hear a woman’s voice in the shadows of the dome, amplified by its emptiness.

“Nirmal Babu,” the voice said, “please don’t come any closer.”

“Meera?” Nirmal said. “Is that you?” His eyes got used to the lack of light and he saw that it was indeed Meera. He felt aggrieved at being told to stay away and said, “I wasn’t going to … come any closer. I only heard something and thought there may be someone in trouble. I should leave you alone.” He turned to go back to the pool.

“Oh no, that’s not what I meant,” she exclaimed, following him with a laugh. “Please don’t misunderstand … It’s just this … ”

Limping behind her was an emaciated dog, brown and black, fur eaten away in patches, swollen dugs hanging to the ground. It pushed its eager muzzle into Meera’s hand, whining.

Meera still had the fragment of a roti in her hand. She dropped it to the ground for the dog and said, “She’s had her puppies inside there and she can be quite ferocious about them. That’s why I had to ask you to stay away.”

Nirmal looked at the dog, wondering what Meera saw in it. It looked mangy and had a strong, unpleasant smell. Politeness made him enquire: “And do you come to feed her every day?”

“Almost … but sometimes it’s difficult to get away. I feel bothered the days I can’t come.” She stopped and gave a sheepish smile. “It’s silly, I know. They’d survive with or without me.”

“And you walk all that way to feed this dog? You must like dogs very much.”

“Not just to feed the dogs,” Meera said, “I like to walk — otherwise I feel cooped up — and also I sometimes sit here and draw. It’s a break from housework.”

Nirmal noticed a cloth bag hanging from her shoulders and was curious. “What have you been drawing?” he asked her. “Would you show me?”

“Oh no,” Meera said. “There’s nothing much. Just some sketches.” She clutched the bag closer and laughed self-consciously. “Lots of schoolgirls draw like me. It’s only for amusement.” Then she said, to change the subject, “Were you here to survey the site? I suppose it’s a site now, isn’t it, not just the old Songarh ruin?”

“Well, not quite survey … ” Nirmal began to explain. Twenty minutes later he realised they were sitting under the banyan tree, and he was still talking: about how he had wandered over the ruins as a boy; how he had found some shiny piece of metal there once and thought it an ancient weapon; how he had tried digging there with a garden khurpi after reading of Marshall and Mohenjodaro; how he had applied for a job to the Archaeological Survey, never thinking they would give him one. He stopped, embarrassed by his garrulity, and said, “I’m not used to talking. Either I can think of nothing to say or I talk non-stop. Really uncouth.”

“No, no,” she protested, “I’d have stopped you if I was bored. I’m not. But it’s late. I do have to go. It’s time for Bakul to come home from school. I’ll leave you to your work, I’ve disturbed you enough.”

Before he could protest or offer to accompany her, she had got up and started on her way back. “I did bore her,” he thought. “She couldn’t wait to get away.”

His eyes followed her as she walked away swiftly. He wondered if that was the first real conversation he had had with her. He sat down again by the pool and tried to return to his notes, but despite himself his thoughts returned to Meera. She had been taking care of Bakul for the past six — or was it seven? — years, but he hardly knew her. He knew she had been widowed young — even now she was probably no older than twenty-five or — six. A mutual relative by marriage had told Nirmal about her. He had then written to Meera, asking if she would live at Dulganj Road and look after Bakul. He recalled the brief postcard that came in reply, written in a hand that made the letters look like brushstrokes. Now when he thought back to that handwriting, he thought it logical that Meera should like to draw. Her handwriting was a set of beautiful lines you could look at and admire even if you didn’t understand the meaning. But he had understood the meaning, and what her letter had said, beyond its words, was that she would gladly come to Songarh, to look after a house and a child in exchange for a home.

* * *

It was a year after her husband’s death that a letter had arrived from Nirmal asking if Meera would live in Songarh, as part of their family, and look after Bakul. His wife had died in childbirth, he wrote, and his work took him away from home for long stretches. The woman who had looked after Bakul for the past four years was too old now, and besides, Bakul needed someone who could give her more than basic care — she would soon need help with homework, someone to talk to, confide in. Meera noticed he did not write that the child needed someone to give her affection, though that was surely what his letter was ultimately saying.

Meera’s own mother, a widow herself who was dependent on her son, had urged Meera to accept Nirmal’s offer: “The girl will be like a daughter to you. You will never have children of your own, make this motherless one your child! Maybe this is what God meant for you all along.”

Meera did not want a child. She wanted escape from her husband’s parents, to whom the mere fact that their son was dead and she was alive was an outrage. It had not taken Meera long to decide; she had packed a small trunk and taken the two trains to Songarh within the fortnight.

It was now eight years since her husband’s death. She knew she was supposed to mourn him for ever, but he was already slipping her guilty grasp. She recalled him only piecemeal — the way his stomach — he had a gentle paunch at twenty-three — sloped into his trousers. Or the way he couldn’t eat without crunching through a pile of green chillies alongside. But his voice — she could no longer hear it in her ears as she did before, if ever she put her mind to it. How had it felt when he touched her? How did he smell when he woke up from sleep and curled up again next to her? Her store of memories, rummaged through too often, had staled now, lost their incantatory power to bring his presence back.