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Authors: Tishani Doshi
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he’d known that this business wouldn’t end well. And because there was loosening, there was need for immediate hardening. Rock-stone-hardening.
‘Fine, then, if that’s the way you want it. But I’ve taken your passport away, so you can forget about going back to that godforsaken country of colonizers. Let’s see how long this great love of yours lasts while you’re on the other side of the world.’
With that said, Prem Kumar yanked Trishala off the bed by one flabby, bangled arm, and led her out of Babo’s room, into the obliterating silence of Sylvan Lodge.
5 God Made Truth with Many Doors to Welcome Every Believer Who Knocks on Them
Barely a week after the passport palaver, the entire Jain community in Madras had heard about Babo’s failure to keep good on his betrothal with Falguni Shah. News travelled like a virus, rapidly and insidiously, so that even Babo’s grandmother, Ba, all the way in Anjar, had already heard some version of the white woman story before Babo got a chance to tell her himself.
Babo decided that the only place he’d rather be, other than back in London with Siân, was at Ba’s house in Ganga Bazaar, where he’d spent all his childhood summers. To make this announcement, he marched downstairs at 8 a.m., where his family were gathered, putting on their assorted footwear for the day, and announced in his most self-righteous voice, ‘I’m leaving tomorrow. There’s no point trying to talk me out of it. I’m going to stay with Ba.’
To Babo the village of Ganga Bazaar in Anjar had always been a magical place where time ceased to have any meaning. He remembered going there as a child with his mother; taking the train to Bombay and then an onward train to Navlakhi Port, where they’d climb on to a dhow and cross the open mouth of the Gulf of Kutch until they hit the shores of Kandla. In his parents’ time they had to take a bullock cart from Kandla to the village of Ganga Bazaar, but Babo only ever remembered taking a bus or a taxi for that final, exciting leg of the journey. The journey from Madras to Anjar took so long, and was so full of adventure, that Babo, thinking about it now, was filled with the idea that anything he wished for could happen.
It was exactly what he needed now. He was going mad in Madras. His father refused to speak to him, and had instructed the whole family to do likewise, although they flouted the rules when Prem Kumar was out of sight; Trishala especially, who waited till the house was empty before she settled in for her daily attempt to knock sense into her son.
‘Beta, why don’t you see Falguni one more time? Maybe if you see her, everything you once felt for her might return? It’s been a long time. There’s no harm trying, is there? You never know what can happen. Shall we do that? No need to tell Papa or anything. I’ll just tell Meghna-behn to bring Falguni over, and if you still think it can’t work out, then we’ll forget about it.
‘Do you want to see some photographs of other girls? Much prettier than Falguni, and cleverer too. See – how about this one? Pretty, no? Just like Saira Banu, her eyes are.’
And when all this judicious coaxing failed, ‘Look, Babo, you can’t sit like this for ever doing nothing and saying nothing.’
But Babo intended to do precisely that. He was building a wall around him to preserve his memories. Already, the picture of Siân in his head was slowly disappearing. It was hard to believe that not so long ago they’d been lying in bed, naked – Siân utterly touchable and sha-bing sha-bangable – talking about what they were going to see in Germany and beyond. And now, Babo was reduced to solitary pleasures in the bathroom with the help of his trusty hand, which offered temporary relief, but was nothing compared to the bliss of Siân’s body.
He’d written to Siân every day, every single day , explaining the situation at home and reassuring her that he was steadfast in his love. But it
‘Fine, then, if that’s the way you want it. But I’ve taken your passport away, so you can forget about going back to that godforsaken country of colonizers. Let’s see how long this great love of yours lasts while you’re on the other side of the world.’
With that said, Prem Kumar yanked Trishala off the bed by one flabby, bangled arm, and led her out of Babo’s room, into the obliterating silence of Sylvan Lodge.
5 God Made Truth with Many Doors to Welcome Every Believer Who Knocks on Them
Barely a week after the passport palaver, the entire Jain community in Madras had heard about Babo’s failure to keep good on his betrothal with Falguni Shah. News travelled like a virus, rapidly and insidiously, so that even Babo’s grandmother, Ba, all the way in Anjar, had already heard some version of the white woman story before Babo got a chance to tell her himself.
Babo decided that the only place he’d rather be, other than back in London with Siân, was at Ba’s house in Ganga Bazaar, where he’d spent all his childhood summers. To make this announcement, he marched downstairs at 8 a.m., where his family were gathered, putting on their assorted footwear for the day, and announced in his most self-righteous voice, ‘I’m leaving tomorrow. There’s no point trying to talk me out of it. I’m going to stay with Ba.’
To Babo the village of Ganga Bazaar in Anjar had always been a magical place where time ceased to have any meaning. He remembered going there as a child with his mother; taking the train to Bombay and then an onward train to Navlakhi Port, where they’d climb on to a dhow and cross the open mouth of the Gulf of Kutch until they hit the shores of Kandla. In his parents’ time they had to take a bullock cart from Kandla to the village of Ganga Bazaar, but Babo only ever remembered taking a bus or a taxi for that final, exciting leg of the journey. The journey from Madras to Anjar took so long, and was so full of adventure, that Babo, thinking about it now, was filled with the idea that anything he wished for could happen.
It was exactly what he needed now. He was going mad in Madras. His father refused to speak to him, and had instructed the whole family to do likewise, although they flouted the rules when Prem Kumar was out of sight; Trishala especially, who waited till the house was empty before she settled in for her daily attempt to knock sense into her son.
‘Beta, why don’t you see Falguni one more time? Maybe if you see her, everything you once felt for her might return? It’s been a long time. There’s no harm trying, is there? You never know what can happen. Shall we do that? No need to tell Papa or anything. I’ll just tell Meghna-behn to bring Falguni over, and if you still think it can’t work out, then we’ll forget about it.
‘Do you want to see some photographs of other girls? Much prettier than Falguni, and cleverer too. See – how about this one? Pretty, no? Just like Saira Banu, her eyes are.’
And when all this judicious coaxing failed, ‘Look, Babo, you can’t sit like this for ever doing nothing and saying nothing.’
But Babo intended to do precisely that. He was building a wall around him to preserve his memories. Already, the picture of Siân in his head was slowly disappearing. It was hard to believe that not so long ago they’d been lying in bed, naked – Siân utterly touchable and sha-bing sha-bangable – talking about what they were going to see in Germany and beyond. And now, Babo was reduced to solitary pleasures in the bathroom with the help of his trusty hand, which offered temporary relief, but was nothing compared to the bliss of Siân’s body.
He’d written to Siân every day, every single day , explaining the situation at home and reassuring her that he was steadfast in his love. But it
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