A Breath of Fresh Air (16 page)

TWENTY-FOUR

ANJALI

Sandeep woke me up at five in the morning. Harjot’s train arrived at six and he had to go to the railway station.

He kissed Amar on the forehead and looked at him for a long time. I knew each time he went away he was afraid that when he came back, Amar would be gone.

I was afraid, too, because I couldn’t imagine how I would tell him that our son was no more.

He kissed me on the mouth and told me to go back to sleep, even though he knew I wouldn’t.

After Sandeep left, I opened a book of Yeats and started to recite Amar’s favorite poem. He loved “The Second Coming.” I had asked him if he even knew what it meant.

“No,” he had said honestly. “But I like the words and I like it when you say ‘
Spiritus Mundi
.’ ”

Amar’s eyes flickered open when I reached the
Spiritus
Mundi
part, and I smiled.

“I like that part,” he whispered.

He opened his eyes wide and I thought, Maybe I should call the nurse so that she can give him more morphine.

“Are you in pain? Do you want more painkillers?”

He shook his head. “Too many tubes, Mummy.”

“I know,
beta,
but it will—”

“Can you take them off?”

I didn’t know what to do. I stood up and looked around helplessly. I wanted to argue with him, but how could I?

“I want to go outside, Mummy.”

I wanted to cry out, “Wait, wait, my son, please wait. Just a minute more, an hour more, a lifetime more.”

“Outside,
beta
?” I managed to say through the constriction in my throat.

“I want some fresh air.”

I didn’t hesitate. I carefully removed the IV needle from the back of his hand and separated the electrodes, which were counting the beats of his heart, from his chest. The machine made the insidious beeping that implied death. I ignored it and carried him. He was so frail, like he had been when he was a baby.

I put him on the wheelchair, wiping my tears away because I didn’t want him to see me crying.

I wheeled him through a small corridor and opened the door to a balcony. It was a cold morning so I put my shawl around him.

“It is nice here,” he said, but his voice was weak.

I sat down on a chair next to him and held his hand.

He struggled to breathe, once, twice, three, four times, and then he stopped struggling.

I held his limp hand in mine without looking at his face. I couldn’t see the rolling hills, the trees, or the garden glittering in the beauty of dawn. It was blinding, this moment. This unrecoverable, inescapable moment.

I sat there for a long time holding my son’s hand.

I stared into oblivion, my mind blank. No thought, no emotion surfaced as I sat numbly in the cold holding my baby’s hand.

“Madam.” A nurse’s voice jolted me out of my present emptiness and launched me into yet another.

“Madam?” she asked with concern.

I smiled through the pain. “He wanted a breath of fresh air,” I said.

A Breath of Fresh Air

AMULYA MALLADI

A Reader’s Guide

A Conversation with Amulya Malladi

Indu Sundaresan
is the author of
The Twentieth Wife
and
The Feast of Roses.

Indu Sundaresan:
I can remember 1984 as being a somewhat horrific year because of Indira Gandhi’s assassination and the Bhopal gas tragedy, both of which left the country reeling for a while. I don’t know that any other author has chosen to explore the Bhopal incident in the medium of fiction. Why did you? And why now, after so many years?

Amulya Malladi:
I believe that writers write about what haunts them. It’s the stories that keep us up at night we want to put down on paper. I am sure you understand, as it must’ve been a very strong passion for the Indian Mogul Period, Taj Mahal, and Noorjehan that propelled you to write not one, but two books about those times.

For me the Bhopal gas tragedy is part of my life, my childhood, and its images stay with me even now, after so many years. I was nine years old when my father, an army officer, was posted to the 3 EME Center in Bhopal. Indira Gandhi was assassinated first and it started to dawn on me that people went to war over religion in the present times. I think I always assumed that it was something of the past, something for the history books.

And before any of us could recover from the mayhem Indira Gandhi’s assassination brought, the Bhopal gas tragedy happened. Several victims found their way to the military hospital in the EME Center and we heard stories from army officers who were doctors and their children. I remember how everyone who had breathed in the methyl isocyanate gas described it as chili powder in their lungs. Those images stayed with me.

So this became a story I wanted to tell but I had no idea how to. I didn’t want to write about the statistical millions, but the one, the few who were affected. I thought that would make the tragedy more real than saying “x” number died and “y” number survived.

IS:
Neither Anjali nor Sandeep was interested in joining the class-action suit against Union Carbide, despite the fact that Amar might possibly gain from it?

AM:
I always read out what I write everyday to my husband—he’s my sounding board—and I remember when I read this part out, he asked the same thing. We didn’t have children then but I wondered what I would do if my husband was the victim of something like this. I realized that my first instinct would be to be with him, to continue to be part of his life, whatever remained, and not chase after lawsuits. I think a part of their reluctance stems from how lawsuits are perceived in India. They are not orderly or coherent and cost a lot of money and time. I think both Anjali and Sandeep knew their first priority was to be with Amar, not waste time in becoming part of a lawsuit.

IS:
In the space of just one year, Anjali makes a huge transition from a silly teenager whose mind is filled with fanciful ideas of love and marriage into a woman with tremendous strength of character. At what point in the story does she gain the courage to walk away from the marriage and defy almost every tradition she has hitherto bowed to?

AM:
It is the cliché I guess, that you almost die and then you take stock of your life and change it. The same thing happens to Anjali. Until she becomes a survivor of the Bhopal gas tragedy, she’s not sure how to handle Prakash’s infidelity and their loveless marriage. But after she sees people die around her, she realizes that life is ephemeral and she could spend all of it trying to figure out how to handle Prakash or she could get out of the marriage and build a new life. In the end the decision is an easy, almost inevitable, one for her. She has always known that the marriage wasn’t working; it just takes some poisonous gas and a near-death experience for her to find the courage to get up and do something about her situation.

IS:
We see these two sides of Sandeep: the calm, self-possessed, confident and quiet man—the man Anjali sees; and then, when the narrative switches to his point of view, we see a Sandeep fraught with insecurities. Yet he does not volunteer his fears to his wife. I think of this fierce reluctance to reveal oneself, even to those beloved, as a very “Indian” cultural affliction (for lack of a better description).

AM:
Oh, you are absolutely right. Indians are very private; I am starting to realize that as I travel abroad and meet people from different cultures. We are very careful about who sees what about us. But part of it is also gender. Men, I believe, inherently carry the burden of being macho, and weeping on your wife’s
pallu
about your insecurities hardly fits the manly image.

Sandeep, by and large, is more broad-minded than most Indian men of his generation, yet he has insecurities and even I was surprised to discover them. When I first started writing, only Anjali spoke; others were silent. Then all of a sudden, Sandeep started speaking, and then Prakash. I think if I hadn’t delved into their minds, I’d never have found out what they were feeling; they would never have willingly volunteered that information.

IS:
You know, it surprised me when Prakash came on the scene, but he took on this third dimension by speaking in his own voice, and that helped me see him as not just evil. Speaking of villains . . . Komal too is not a very attractive character. Did this keep her from remarrying? You say on page 95 that she was a “pariah in society.” Is this still true of modern Indian society? Are widows still treated as nonentities?

AM
: Things are different these days. Don’t you agree? My generation deals with divorce, widowhood, remarriage in a completely different light. I was talking to an old classmate about other old classmates and was shocked to know that two of the girls I went to high school with are now divorced. The India I left eight years ago appears to be different from the India today, at least for my generation.

Now my mother and grandmother’s generation look at divorce and widowhood very differently. Anjali is more my mother’s generation than mine and so is Komal. But in Komal’s case I can’t help but feel that she is a pariah in society because she believes that is her fate, her destiny. I remember my grandmother, who I barely knew, always shaved her hair off as demanded by tradition of widows. I was quite young when I tried to convince her that maybe she didn’t have to do it anymore, and I realized that this was not about me and my convictions, it was about my grandmother’s belief that this was her duty, her obligation.

IS:
What about that other unspoken rule in Indian society that a woman must be dependant only on her son, not her daughter? Anjali’s mother talks of this briefly when she worries about the possible consequences of her father’s heart attack. What typically happens to women who have only daughters?

AM:
In Telugu we say “adapilla” for girl; where “ada” means “theirs” and “pilla” means “girl.” In defining a girl, the language-makers set the standard. The girl never belongs to her parents, always to her in-laws. Several parents and daughters I know would scoff at this unsaid rule, but I know many tradionalists who would think it wrong to rely on a daughter for financial support of any kind.

Women who have only daughters find themselves alone or they find a home with a brother or some other male relative. I also know several older women who make a home with their daughters and son-in-laws. But Anjali’s parents are quite conservative and would stick to the old traditions and not feel comfortable living with her in their old age.

Did you feel that this was too much like a Hindi movie? Or does this fit with your image of India as well?

IS:
(
laughs
) Well, yes, like a Hindi movie, but that’s just an over-dramatization of real life, isn’t it? I think this is true, still true for many people.

For me, one of the most uplifting moments in the book was on page 174 when Anjali and Indira meet in the bazaar. Why does Indira think it necessary to apologize for her husband’s behavior? And why does Anjali respond to this apology?

AM:
I am so glad you liked that scene. It is my favorite scene as well, but before you no one seemed to notice it specifically.

Indira is a little rattled after hearing her husband’s confession. He’s a cheat and he did Anjali wrong. And when Indira sees Anjali, she feels the need to wipe away some of Prakash’s sins and is compelled to apologize. As a woman she also feels terrible for what Anjali went through and wants to show that she understands.

That apology leaves Anjali happy. Not because she’s been waiting for her first husband’s second wife to apologize to her, but because it makes it clear to her that divorcing Prakash despite social pressure was the right thing to do. From the first time she sees Prakash and Indira, she wonders if Indira is living the life promised to Anjali. But after the meeting in the bazaar Anjali realizes she doesn’t want Indira’s life; she doesn’t want a husband who she needs to apologize for.

IS:
Who is your favorite character in the book, and why? I know authors get asked this question and it’s very difficult to choose, but I’d still like to know! Mine is Indira; I think for all her flaws, she is endearing, for she knows how to forgive.

AM:
Hard to say, I do like all of them; everyone, including Komal and Anjali’s parents. They are all doing what they believe in and living their lives as prescribed by society to them. But . . . since you ask, I think I have to go with Indira and Harjot. I like it that Indira has balls, so to speak, and she knows her mind. Harjot appeals to me because she’s such a budding feminist and I like seeing that in Indian women.

IS:
I know that there’s no magic formula to creating a novel and that every writer works at her own pace, in her own voice and style, and obeys her own discipline. And yet, it gives a struggling, fledgling writer heart to know how an established writer works . . . so what is your typical writing day like? Do you write everyday or only when you are working on a novel?

AM:
I have no ground rules; I go against all the books there are about writing everyday at the same time in a disciplined fashion. I write when I need to and that makes every writing day unique. Sometimes I write during the day when my son is away at daycare; other days I write at night after everyone goes to sleep. On some weekends I kick my husband and son out of the house and get a few hours. For me it is all about: How badly do I need to write? Some days the need is very intense and other days I’d rather read a book or worse, sit and watch television. If I didn’t have the writing demon sitting on my head at all times, I probably would never finish a book.