Amit Chaudhuri - A New World

No wonder, then, that Bonny sneezed once or twice a couple of days later; he wasn’t used to sneezing; it made him feel slightly conspicuous.

“What’s this, what’s this, when did this happen?” said Jayojit, showing his teeth in a smile.

The Admiral looked displeased, as if he’d contracted a cold himself.

“‘Running nose’ ache?” called Bonny’s grandmother from a distance, sounding concerned and professional.

“Let’s see if you have a runny nose, pal,” said Jayojit, getting up from the sofa. The light of the laptop he’d sat facing for the last forty-five minutes went off. “No, it’s f-i-ine,” reassured Jayojit, scrutinizing the boy’s face. “It’s a little moist, but it’s all right, really.”

He took his son to the museum that afternoon, and before the exhibits Bonny sneezed embarrassedly three or four times, and was at a loss to understand the beauty of Gandhara sculpture. Instead, he stared at an American couple in shorts, craning forward to examine a Buddha; they were something he could recognize. All the Buddhas were in meditation; half-smiling, they’d transcended the trauma of that first registering of disease, old age, and death with which the quest had begun; while Bonny peered at a card and said: “B.C. Hey, that’s Before Christ, baba!”

Outside, in spite of the runny nose, they had ice-cream, Bonny a vanilla cone, Jayojit an orange stick.

And returning, Jayojit told the Admiral without much amusement:

“The most interesting relic was the museum itself.”

Late that night, a blocked nose developed, and Jayojit, listening to Bonny’s breathing, had half a mind to switch off the run-down air-conditioning. When he went to the bathroom, the heat was disturbed by a flash of lightning, and then the sound of thunder. Jayojit experienced a stirring within him even as he tied the cords of his pyjamas.

Returning, he saw his son was breathing with his mouth open. He felt his forehead to see if it was warm; held his hand against his own forehead to see which was warmer; there was a flash of lightning outside the window. The boy had no temperature.

WITHOUT HIS SPECTACLES Jayojit looked blank; and he needed to take them off — a heavy tortoise-shell frame — and wipe them. But now it had begun to rain more frequently. Before it rained there was a breeze to herald the coming downpour. And this was making Jayojit sing:

Da da da da nai chini go she ki

Turu tu tu turu turu

That morning he read an editorial in a damp newspaper about how economic liberalization was urgently required, but how, too, if introduced without caution, it might lead not only to the loss of what was seen to be Indian culture, but to uncontrollable economic disparity.

Do we want to go the way of Brazil or South Korea? The former’s economic “progress” has been unstable to say the least, and darkened by undesirable social problems, while the latter has only consolidated itself. As Prof. Sen has pointed out, this consolidation is related to the successful campaigns for literacy and healthcare in that country: India must learn from this. The problem we face with liberalization is not, after all, the loss of our culture and native traditions. For what is Indian culture, anyway? It has been redefined at every stage in history by its contact with what at first was perceived as “foreign.” No, the problem is whether India can provide the basic infrastructure — not only industrial infrastructure, but the infrastructure of human resources — that can not only benefit from but contribute to liberalization.

“What are you reading?” asked the Admiral, hovering about his son. Since the weather had cooled he had become more energetic.

“I suppose it’s not uninteresting,” said Jayojit. “But mixed up. The eternal question: the chicken or the egg.”

Jayojit had had a dream while in university, like his fellow students, about socialism and a just world order; but no longer; now the important questions were whether there could be justice without economic well-being, whether, in a poor country, healthcare and literacy needed to be a prerequisite to deregulation, or whether deregulation would provide the economic wherewithal for literacy and healthcare.

Di di di nai chini go she ki

. . Jani ne, jani ne

Later that afternoon, he even wondered if he should write the Statesman a letter; leisure had slowed down his thoughts, and he’d been too long away from the lecturing mode; like a teething child, faintly despondent, he needed to bite into something. He even had a sentence running in his head with which to begin: “Sir, with reference to your article in the leader, one must begin by sounding a note of caution about assuming that economic deregulation will be a panacea to all our problems; but it will, no doubt, be one to some of them.” This sentence ran in his head, its shape changing slightly.

He considered putting it down on the computer on the dining-table. When he connected it to a socket, it flashed to life, its light at first hurting his eyes. Peering, he strained to read at a glance the crowd of icons; the cursor moved at his touch. Yet immediately he lost interest in the blank slate of the screen, and noticed that the time on the screen was wrong; it was the time in Claremont; “Damn thing.”

He went to the apple which had a bit of it chewed off; the arrow settled on it lightly. His mother, on the sofa, was saying:

“Bonny, let me see if you have grown taller.”

“Not now, tamma.”

“Why, what are you doing, shona?”

He was retrieving a toy car that had gone underneath a cupboard.

“I’m busy , tamma.” He was never not busy. Even the cold hadn’t slowed him down. Yet there were times when he just lay on his back, staring at the ceiling; was it the heat? He breathed deeply as he got up now, and wiped his nose.

“Come here and let me see,” said his grandmother. “Thhammar kachhe esho.”

“Okay.”

After looking him up and down and nodding, as if she’d been right, Mrs. Chatterjee said:

“How old will you be?”

“How old?”

“How old, next year, baba?” Teasing him, she looked at him. Just yesterday, before midday, when she’d closed her eyes for five minutes before the tiny gods and goddesses by the dressing-table, his face had come to her eyes. Sometimes she could see Amala in the boy’s straight eyebrows and in his small forehead.

The boy considered this question with gravity.

“Eight,” he said reluctantly.

“When will you be taller than me?” Mrs. Chatterjee said.

It began to rain. Bonny ran towards the verandah and pressed his face against the grille. “Wow,” he said.

The Admiral stood in the balcony, allowing the wind to unsettle his hair. He switched on an electric light, and Bonny’s shadow fell to his left and enveloped part of the furniture.

“Where’s it coming from?” the Admiral said, regarding what could either have been the grille or a point beyond it.

Jayojit had changed the time from 5:32 a.m., in which the colon between the numbers pulsed repeatedly, to 3:32 p.m. by simply moving the band from Detroit, U.S.A., to Calcutta, India. He rubbed an eye; the light from the screen had begun to hurt his eyes ever since the sky’d become dark.

His mother was now removing, rather unhappily, some of the damp clothes from the clothesline.

Kites descended at times as low as this balcony. Then they took off again.

It wasn’t clear whether this was simply a seasonal change; though it was true that they hadn’t been seen so close during the summer. Their wings hooded their bodies, and Jayojit had gone up quite close to one and noticed how pointed and talon-like its beak was. They usually sat on the parapets outside windows, or on the ends of pipes.