Aravind Adiga - Between the Assassinations

Mr. Anantha Murthy raised several objections. Why were all the womenfolk so suspicious of Kamini’s “sportiness”? How rare to find such a free-thinking woman! The fault was surely his. Haven’t you seen him refuse promotion after promotion just because he would have to move to Bombay? What does that tell you? The man is lethargic.

“If only he would show…some more initiative …the problem of childlessness could easily be solved…” Mr. Murthy said, giving his bald head a sad philosophical shake.

He even claimed to have given Mr. Rao the names of doctors in Bombay who could solve his lack of “initiative.”

Mrs. Aithal reacted indignantly. Mr. Rao had more than enough “spunk” in him! Didn’t he have such thick facial hair? And didn’t he ride an entirely masculine red Yamaha motorcycle to the bank every morning?

The women enjoyed romanticizing Mr. Rao. Mrs. Shirthadi irritated Mr. Murthy by suggesting that the modest little bank manager was also in secret “a philosopher.” Once she had caught him reading the “religious issues of the day” column on the last page of the Hindu. He seemed embarrassed at this discovery, and parried her inquiries with jokes and puns. Still, the feeling had grown that beneath all his joking, he was undeniably “philosophical.”

“How else can he be so calm all the time, even without children?” Mrs. Aithal demanded.

“He has a secret of some kind, I’m sure,” Mrs. Murthy suggested.

Mrs. Karwar coughed and said, “Sometimes I fear that she might be thinking of divorcing him”-and everyone looked concerned. The woman certainly was “modern” enough to think of trying something like that…

But they had reached their cars now, and the group broke up and drove away one after the other.

Later in the week, though, the Raos were observed as they circled the Cool Water Well Junction on his Yamaha bike. Kamini sat on the backseat holding on to her husband tightly, and the observers were surprised to see how the two of them looked like a real couple just then.

The following Thursday, when the intimates returned to the Raos’ residence, they found Sharadha Bhatt herself open ing the door for them. The old woman’s silver hair was disarrayed, and she glared at her tenants’ guests.

“She’s having trouble with Jimmy-you know, her architect son in Bombay. She’s asked him again if she can come to stay with him, but his wife won’t allow it,” Kamini whispered, as she led them up the stairs.

Because of the anticipation of an extraordinary meal this evening, Mr. Shirthadi was putting in a rare appearance alongside his wife. He spoke passionately about the ingratitude of today’s children, and said he sometimes wished he had stayed childless. Mrs. Shirthadi sat nervously-her husband had almost crossed the invisible circumference.

Then Mrs. Karwar arrived with Lalitha, and there was the usual shouting and shrieking between Kamini and the “secret lover.”

After the sherbet, Mr. Anantha Murthy asked Mr. Rao to confirm a piece of gossip-that he had turned down another offer to be posted to Bombay.

Mr. Rao confirmed this with a nod.

“Why don’t you go, Giridhar Rao?” demanded Mrs. Shirthadi. “Don’t you want to rise in the bank?”

“I’m happy out here, madam,” Mr. Rao said. “I have my private beach, and my BBC in the evenings. What more does a man need?”

“You are the perfect Hindu man, Mr. Giridhar,” said Mr. Murthy, who was growing restless for dinner. “Which is to say, you are almost completely contented with your fate on earth.”

“Well, would you still be contented if I ran away with Lalitha?” Kamini shouted from the kitchen.

“My dear, if you ran away, then I’d be truly contented,” he retorted.

She shrieked in mock outrage, and the intimates applauded.

“Well, what about this private beach that you keep talking about, Mr. Rao-when are we going to see it, exactly?” Mrs. Shirthadi asked.

Before he could reply, Kamini came scampering out of the kitchen and leaned over the banister.

A stertorous breathing grew louder. Sharadha Bhatt’s face became visible as she limped up, one stair at a time.

Kamini was agitated. “Should I help you up the stairs? Should I do something?”

The old woman shook her head. Half out of breath, she stumbled onto a chair at the top of the stairs.

The conversation stopped. This was the very first time the old woman had joined the weekly dinners.

In a few minutes the intimates had learned to ignore her.

Mr. Anantha Murthy clapped his hands when Kamini came out with the appetizer tray.

“So, what’s this I hear about your taking up swimming?”

“And if I am?” she snapped, putting a hand to her waist. “What’s wrong with that?”

“I hope you are not going to wear a bikini like a Western woman?”

“Why not? If they do it in America, why can’t we? Are we less than them in any way?”

Lalitha giggled furiously as Kamini announced plans for the two of them to buy the scandalous swimsuits right away.

“And if Mr. Giridhar Rao doesn’t like it-then the two of us are going to run away and live together in Bombay, aren’t we?”

Giridhar Rao glanced nervously at the old woman, who was gazing at her toes.

“All this ‘modern’ talk isn’t getting you upset, is it, Sharadhaamma?”

The old lady breathed heavily. She curled her toes and stared at them.

Mr. Anantha Murthy ventured a comparison between the barfi that Kamini had put out on the appetizer tray and the barfi served in the best café in Bombay.

Then the old lady spoke in a hoarse voice:

“It is written in the scriptures…” She paused for a long time. The room went silent.

“…that a man…a man who has no son may not aspire to enter the gates of Heaven.” She breathed out. “And if a man doesn’t enter Heaven, neither can his wife. And here you are talking of bikinis and wikinis, and cavorting with ‘modern’ people, instead of praying to God to forgive your sins!”

She breathed heavily for another moment, then got to her feet and hobbled down the stairs.

When the intimates left-it was a truncated evening-they found the old lady outside the house. Sitting on a suitcase bursting with clothes, she was bellowing at the trees.

“Yama Deva, come for me! Now that my son has forgotten his mother, what more is there for me to live for?”

As she called to the Lord of Death, she struck at her forehead with the stems of her fists, and her bangles jangled.

Feeling Giridhar Rao’s hand on her shoulder, the old woman burst into tears.

The intimates saw Giridhar Rao gesture for them to leave. The old lady had exhausted her histrionics. Her head sank onto Kamini’s breast, and she convulsed in sobs.

“Forgive me, mother…The gods have given us each our punishment. They gave you a uterus of stone, and they have smashed the heart in my son’s chest…”

After they had put the old lady to bed, Mr. Rao let his wife climb the stairs first. When he joined her, she was lying on the bed with her back turned toward him.

He walked onto the veranda and turned the radio off.

She said nothing as he picked up his helmet and headed back down the stairs. The kick-starting of his engine rent the quiet of Bishop Street.

In a few minutes, he was heading down the road that went through the forest toward the sea. On either side of the speeding bike, serried silhouettes of coconut palms bristled against the blue coastal night. Hanging low over the trees, a bright moon looked as though it had been cleaved by an ax. With its top right corner sliced off, it hung in the sky like an illustration of the idea of “two-thirds.” After a quarter of an hour, the Yamaha bike swerved off the road onto a muddy track, thundering over stones and gravel. Then its engine went dead.