Neel Mukherjee - A Life Apart

Ritwik flails about in his head for a bit, then remembers exactly what she is referring to. He says, ‘Greasy. Drenched in animal fat and, by extension, disgusting things exuded from the body.’ He toys with the idea of saying something more about Hamlet’s obsession with his mother having sex but decides there is no need.

She appears not to take notice of what he has said. ‘Come into my room, I want to show you something. Come. Don’t make any noise.’ She beckons with her right hand, like a witch trying to lure a child into her cottage.

Anne leads him to the window looking out into the garden. ‘Look at the horse chestnut tree. Somewhere in the middle. Do you see what I see?’

Ritwik has spent a lot of hours in the summer disciplining the garden — weeding, uprooting, cutting down and even burning the more recalcitrant unwanteds, mowing the grass down to a stubble with the lawnmower borrowed from Mr Haq. It doesn’t look good — it is still not a garden — but it isn’t a contained bit of jungle any more. The three trees — the ceanothus, the lime tree and the horse chestnut — look grand and imposing in the bare space. Right now, the tops of the two big trees are beginning to get tipped with the morning.

In the wet, pewtery light, it takes Ritwik a few seconds to find the exact area that has drawn her interest but when he does, he wonders how he could have missed it. Sitting on the middle branches are a pair of improbable birds, each no bigger than a small pigeon but with red breast and stomach and a regally curving swoop of lustrous green fantail, long, elegant and utterly out of this world, Ritwik thinks. They couldn’t be real. And then he notices the small sparrowy head of one of them move jerkily. As if in response, its companion shifts clunkily sideways on the branch.

Anne is speaking and when he manages to listen to her equally improbable words, he doesn’t know which amazes him more, what she is saying or the presence of these magical birds. ‘Quetzals, I think. Though I may be wrong, my eyesight isn’t exactly perfect. Trogonidae. The genus name is Pharomachrus . Found only in the mountain forests of southern Mexico and Panama.’

Ritwik is rooted to the ground, unblinking in his gaze. He wants to let the images of the birds sink into the deeper lairs of his head and hold them there forever because he knows they are going to disappear soon, very soon, but this sudden discovery of the ornithologist in Anne distracts him. He is ashamed to discover his unquestioned assumption that an eighty-six-year-old should have no interests, should remember nothing from the heydays of her life, but should be content only to count the last hours off in infirmity, dependence and mindlessness.

Anne breaks the rapt silence. ‘They are never found in these parts of the world. What are they doing here?’

She has put her finger on the other nodule of unease in Ritwik. These are not British birds. Of course, he doesn’t know , but creatures such as these don’t perch on trees in south London gardens, that’s for sure. Call it a prejudice but England cannot harbour these birds.

‘You know, they were sacred to the Mayas and the Incas. I think it was first described for Europeans by Francisco Hernández in the 1570s.’

Ritwik is so amazed by this sustained focus, even narrative, that he turns around to face her. ‘How do you know all these things?’ There is astonishment in his voice; it comes out hoarse and unsteady.

‘Oh, it’s one of those things I was interested in. I wanted to become an ornithologist but in those days women didn’t go to universities. So I kept reading, collecting books, pictures. . I even started an album of Indian birds of the foothills of the Himalayas. The Garhwal region.’

The world is unfolding in tiny furls of amazement for Ritwik. It is not the sight of the bird that has made him speechless, it is this hidden maze in Anne, this gradual illumination of the penumbral spaces he didn’t know had existed.

‘I met this quite remarkable woman out there. Ruth Fairweather, her name was. She had embarked on this ambitious project of compiling a comprehensive account of Indian birds, region by region. Much like your Audobon in the United States. I learnt so much from her,’ she continues.

‘I wanted my son to become an ornithologist. He did.’ Pause. ‘Richard loved birds.’ A longer pause. ‘Ruth loved him, treated him as her own son. She taught him how to look, how to listen, how to hold the pen and brush and pencil to draw birds.’

Ritwik’s mind is jammed with cogs whirring away and turning, turning unceasingly. When the right clicks happen, and one cog locks into the groove of another, he holds back all reaction, even to the new knowledge of Anne’s son, an ornithologist, having killed himself in the room where he is staying at the moment.

Anne is silent for the longest time this morning. Ritwik senses that a door has been shut. He will have to wait until it opens of its own accord. He turns around and looks out of the window again. He is not surprised to see the quetzals gone. Has he dreamed the whole thing? The morning is brightening but the lower reaches of the trees are still in a mothy gloom; it is only the top branches that hold today’s light.

The Haq house was a teeming, heaving slice of the subcontinent, filtered through first world glitz and polish, in a south London street. The throws on the sofas were Indian, a couple of chairs, a low wooden table, a hookah centrepiece on it, the red curtains with mirrorwork, the three framed mirrors with gold Urdu lettering on them, presumably passages from the Koran, all reeked of a home the Haqs had left behind and studiously tried to recreate in a foreign country. The predominant effect was of density: cupola-like curves instead of straight lines, intricate and busy craftwork, zari , mirror, colour. The wallpaper, an electric pink, was picked over with golden stars and the gold was repeated in the picture rail, which ran the length of three walls.

Two girls, noses running, had come downstairs and were now standing at the doorway to take in the stranger who had just entered their house. They had chubby cheeks, wore nearly identical salwar-kameez, and looked very similar. Ritwik guessed one was about five and the other, six. He smiled at them and said ‘Hello.’ One of them, the one who looked slightly older, turned her face away and ran upstairs, barely able to contain her shy smile. The younger one stood staring at him. Mrs Haq — or so he assumed — chided her in Urdu, ‘Now, say “hello”. Don’t be rude.’

The girl ignored this with perfect insouciance and continued staring. The older girl now reappeared, peeped into the room, and said, ‘Ma, can you please turn on the CD player again?’ Perfect South London English, down to the splayed out vowels in ‘again.’

Mrs Haq replied in Urdu. ‘No, not now. Look, we have a guest. We’ll talk to him now.’ She turned to Ritwik and ushered him into the living room. The English she spoke was heavily accented. ‘Sit down, sit down.’ She made a moue of mock-exasperation and added, ‘There’s not a moment’s rest from these children. Mr Haq’s helping Saleem with his homework. He’ll come soon.’

Ritwik’s first impression was of a woman who seemed very much in control of her household. She chattered on, ‘It’s good to know there’s someone looking after Mrs Cameron. We’ve always been worried about her. She’s so old. She should be living with her children and grandchildren. Why does she live alone? I always ask her, Mrs Cameron, you must live with family, that is what they are for, to take care of you in your old age, but she says nothing, just smiles. You tell me, would this have happened in Pakistan or India? The English like to live alone. Only their own self, that is what they think about all the time. Not mother, not father, but just own self.’