Anjali Joseph - The Living

You have to relax, he said.

The insistent finger probed. Thank God I was usually regular in the morning. Otherwise — But to my shame, the air began to smell as you would expect, if one person were poking around in another’s bottom. The thought gave me an adolescent giggle. I relaxed, and the finger shot up further, and probed in areas I wasn’t even aware of, rotated. There was a tingling behind my belly button; even at the base of my penis.

I moaned very quietly, feeling myself lose control of everything.

That’s it, he said, and suddenly I was uncorked. The smell persisted.

You can dress, he said. He walked past me, to a small steel sink where he stripped off the gloves and washed his hands many times. Please sit, he said, over his shoulder.

When we were face to face again I smiled bashfully, hoping he’d make a sign the encounter hadn’t horrified him. He didn’t. Well, he said, your prostate is a little enlarged. It isn’t hardened, which is good. We’ll do a blood test to get more information. He scribbled on a sheet of paper. Take this to the lab around the corner. The receptionist will give you directions. Collect the report, bring it back to me, and then we’ll know the next step.

I blinked. So you don’t know what it is? There’s nothing to be done?

We need to see what the blood test says.

What are the treatments? My voice sounded querulous, wavering.

He looked down. It really depends on what the problem is, and how much it affects you. There are medicines that could give relief. Surgery is possible, though usually that’s only if the symptoms are really making a patient’s life difficult.

It’s expensive?

It’s expensive, and has varying results.

So there’s nothing to be done?

Let me know when you have the test results, he said. He stood, and I collected myself, and the piece of paper.

When I got home I was still thinking about the lab, and watching a red line climb into a syringe, along a thin pipe, into a clear container. It had been a bad day for my body. Well, I began as I got in the door, that was an experience.

Sayali called, she said. Prakash has been arrested.

Oh for God’s sake, I said. What?

There was that demonstration, about the child’s rape. Sayali wasn’t sure what to do. Will you find out?

But what happened?

Maybe some sort of fight.

But that would have been expected, I said. I’d forgotten, there was to be a demonstration of sorts against north Indians, because the suspected rapist was a north Indian. Normally Prakash isn’t political, but neither are these demonstrations. Just some men drinking, shouting slogans, and maybe hitting some other men. The police let it go on.

Sayali has to stay home, to look after Anil, my wife said.

I’m going, I’m going, I said ill-temperedly.

At the station there was a knot of people. What happened? I said.

A man told me, A few people got into a scuffle at the demonstration. One of them hit a police officer. Then the police got angry and took three of them in.

I’m looking for my son, I said. I named him.

The other man glanced at me. I’m waiting for my brother, he said. Pawar, I think that was one of the names. Prakash Arun Pawar?

Yes. But he wouldn’t have hit a policeman.

Three hours later my son emerged, his eyes red, his clothing crumpled. His face was puffy.

Let’s go, he said briefly. They’ll be wondering where I am at home.

They are wondering, I said. I heard my voice rise. What happened?

Not here, he said. He began to walk off. He looked back. Oh, he said. All right. We’ll get a ride. Do you have money?

In the rickshaw he said, I wasn’t charged yet. Just … and he felt the right side of his face, which was darker and larger than usual. He sighed and leaned back. He smelled of stale booze.

You hit a policeman?

There was a lafda, he said. I felt someone grab me from behind and I stuck out my elbow. I think I caught him in the face. Then we got taken in.

You’re wasting your life, I said. It just came out.

He looked at me sideways. You’d know, he said. He stuck his tongue experimentally into a corner of his right cheek, and closed his eyes. His fingers, the nails unclean, travelled carefully over the side of his face.

I became very angry and said nothing. What a day I’d had.

At home I got out of the rickshaw, gave the driver some money and went inside.

Well? she said. Has he gone?

Your son is fine, I said. But he’s an idiot. He’ll get home in a few minutes. I hobbled towards the outhouse.

*

The next morning, I was stitching. Prakash’s remark still rankled. Let it go, I told myself. I had no authority. I hadn’t been much of a father to them. Especially Deepak. He’d borne the worst of the drinking — Prakash was married and moved out towards the end of it. The enormity of having children, being responsible, bringing them up into men, it had been too much. I’d sought distraction. After the fact, when they were married and older, I was remorseful. I wanted them to say I’d done a good job, that things were all right.

It didn’t happen. They remained closer to their mother. They rarely told me things. I couldn’t understand it. I’d treated them as equals. Perhaps that was the mistake. My father always maintained his dignity. If he had crises, I never saw them. Was it because of the way I’d been — the things I’d done? Not that they knew all of them.

As I pulled the leather thread, made another hole with the hook and threaded it through again, I was thinking about Ratna. All that time ago — fifteen years. More than my eldest grandson’s life. When I walked by her house, or the one I think it was, I felt time hadn’t passed at all. I could have gone in, pushed open the door as I did that first afternoon, on an errand to collect some hides because the delivery man, her husband, was new.

Her eyes were suspicious and amused. They were large, but not particularly beautiful: very dark, really black. Her complexion was dark too. There was a strong smell about her. Now I wonder if I remember this from that first time, or if I added it from what I knew later. It was the smell of sex, the way she smelled between her legs.

I explained what I needed, that a messenger from the shop had told me to collect some hides.

She opened the door. The back, she said. Shut the door.

I did so, and followed her ample hips as they swayed inside. The house was dark, boxes here and there. They hadn’t lived there long. It was damp; the rains were going on.

At the back of the room was another door. She went through it and I followed. This room was dark too; the door to the yard was shut. She indicated the corner and I, unable to see, went towards it. There was a mattress and I thought perhaps the hides were piled next to it, though I didn’t see them. I turned. She was quite close to me, smelling strongly. Suddenly her hand was on my crotch, where something happened. It was as though, there in the dark, under the knowing gaze of a woman who seemed to know what I wanted before it had occurred to me, I became unable to think in words. She opened my trousers and her rough hand held me, arousal so extreme it was nearly painful.

Don’t undress, she said. She pulled me down, sat on the mattress and pulled up her sari and petticoat. I remember looking up at the window, which had been covered with an old atta sack. She took my hand and put it between her legs. She was already moist, and I smelled her — she smelled of sweat, and animal.

She licked the end of my penis, and again painful things happened. Then she pulled at my hips and helped me inside. She was wet and muscular. She hooked her legs around my back, showed me the rhythm she wanted, and unfastened her blouse. Her breasts were round, not too drooping. I squeezed as hard as I wanted. I think I banged my head against the cupboard that stood behind the mattress. Soon, I felt a stronger gripping, and her breathing changed. I exploded, and lay quivering on top of her. A few seconds later, I wondered what I was doing.