Cracking India (38 page)

Mini Aunty, sitting in her petticoat and blouse, fans herself harder. Her face is beaded with sweat. “Let me cool off a bit,” she says: “I haven't had a moment's respite all day.”

She is exaggerating of course. She has been flopped in that armchair for the past half-hour.

“If you think you have too much to cope with you can live someplace else,” says Godmother.

“I didn't say that, now, did I?” says Mini Aunty placidly.

“Oh? I need to oil my ears?” says Godmother. “I thought I heard you say you were overworked.”

Mini Aunty gets up with a sigh and, shifting her weight from one bulging bunion to the other, waddles into the kitchen.

By five o'clock we are seated outside, waiting. It is oppressively hot. The thin, pointed leaves of the eucalyptus droop in brittle clusters over our heads and rattle as the sparrows, twittering feverishly, settle for the evening. The table fan is ineffectual against the dust suspended in the air.

“We're bound to have a dust storm. It's too still,” Mini Aunty remarks. Raising her petticoat above her spread knees she flaps a punkah before her modestly averted thighs.

“I wish you wouldn't chatter so witlessly,” says Godmother, sounding unduly irascible. “Predicting dust storms in the season for dust storms is not very bright.”

I stall my restless movements on Godmother's lap. I realize how tense she is. We are all tense, waiting. It is almost six o'clock... then behold! The bridegroom comes. Lean, lank and loping, in flowing white muslin, raising dust with his sandaled feet, the poet approacheth.

Only now do I realize that one of the lean and languid poets flanking Ayah was Ice-candy-man.

Ice-candy-man acknowledges our presence through dreamy kohl-rimmed eyes and removing his lamb's wool Jinnah cap, touching his forehead in a mute and protracted salaam, squats bowed before Godmother. He has grown his hair and long oily strands curve on his cheeks. He smells of Jasmine attar.

“Live long,” says Godmother, leaning forward to stroke his shoulder—and crushing me in the process.

Ice-candy-man shuffles back and, pushing his hair behind his ears, draws us into the orbit of his poetic vision. He waits quietly while we absorb his incredible transformation. He has changed from a chest-thrusting
paan
-spitting and strutting
goonda
into a spit-less poet. His narrow hawkish face, as if recast in a different mold, has softened into a sensuous oval. He is thinner, softer, droopier: his stream of brash talk replaced by a canny silence. No wonder I didn't recognize him in the taxi.

“Where have you been all these months?” exclaims Godmother pleasantly. “It was impossible to trace you. I was worried. God forbid, I thought you died in the riots!”

For a startled instant Ice-candy-man's eyes lose their poetic mist and focus as clearly as an eagle's on Godmother. But quickly retrieving his composure he says: “I'm truly sorry. Had I known you wished to see me I would have presented myself earlier.” He recites Faiz:

Astonishingly, we are not amazed at the surge of words pouring from him: so well do they suit the poetic mold of his metamorphosed character.

“Shabash!
Well said!” says Godmother.

With a start, I scrutinize her face. Except for a thin smile it is clear of all expression. Yet, in some indefinable way, ominous.

“You have become a gifted poet! And not, as rumored, a Mandi pimp!” The thrust of her words is still smooth. “But tell
me,” she says, “why do you live in the Hira Mandi? It's the red-light district, isn't it? No wonder tongues wag. It is not a suitable place for a family man.”

The lines on the poet's face trace his hurt feelings. “Not a suitable place? No place could be more suitable,” he says, settling lower on his heels. “Why do you think the Mandi lies in the shadow of the Old Mogul Fort?”

“How should I know? I don't frequent brothels,” says Godmother.

An uncertain smile flickers on Ice-candy-man's face. But then he casts his eyes down: he doesn't know what to make of Godmother's remark.

“Baijee,
I don't want you to misjudge me,” he says circumspectly. “You know how deeply I respect you ... I want to explain something almost no one remembers anymore ... I want very much that you understand... Then judge me!”

Godmother nods slightly, gravely, her face deadpan.

“The Mogul princes built Hira Mandi—to house their illegitimate offspring and favorite concubines,” says Ice-candy-man, speaking with less assurance than before. “But you know our world... Who cares for orphans? Each emperor provided only for his own children, and neglected the sons of his father. The girls, left to fend for themselves, danced, and themselves became royal concubines. And the boys became musicians, singers and poets. Royal indulgences—in those days at least.”

Had I not been looking at Ice-candy-man as he spoke, I would not have believed it was him. Not only has his voice changed, but his entire speech. His delivery is flawless, formal, like an educated and cultured man's. And, continuing in that same confiding manner, he murmurs, “You are my mother and father... I've told no one this—they wouldn't understand ... You see, I belong to the
Kotha
myself... It is the cradle of royal bastards.”

Ice-candy-man's eyes shine with a curious, prickly mixture of shame and pride as he glances at Godmother.

Godmother's eyes on his face remain impassive.

“My mother was from the
Kotha,”
he says. “She moved to
Bhatti Gate when she married my father. He died when I was very young... He was a well-known puppeteer.

“My mother belonged to the old stock—she came from the House of Bahadur Shah. There's a strict distinction—the old families from distinguished houses don't mix with the new girls and their setup. They are nothing but prostitutes—young girls kidnapped by pimps! Anything goes where they're concerned. Poor girls ... Their lot is pitiful and hideous, I admit. They are forced into all kinds of depravities on pain of death ... and often die. But we protect our women. We marry our girls ourselves. No one dare lay a finger on them! They are artists and performers ... beautiful princesses who command fancy prices for their singing and dancing skills!

“Because of my family connection my wife and I live in the old quarter of the Mandi. They have accepted her. For my sake ... and for the sake of her divine gifts! She has the voice of an angel and the grace and rhythm of a goddess. You should see her dance. How she moves!” And then in another poetic outburst Ice-candy-man declaims:

I am hypnotized by the play of emotion on Ice-candy-man's elastic face: by the music in his voice conjuring voluptuous images of smitten Mogul princes and of Ayah dancing as statues of Hindu goddesses come to life. Considering his revealed lineage it is little wonder he sounds like a cultured courtier. His face, too, has acquired the almond-eyed, thin-lipped profile of the handsome Moguls portrayed in miniatures.

So carried away am I by the virtuosity of his performance that I don't notice Godmother's reaction until she speaks.

“Have you said all you wish to say?” she asks, and I turn on her lap to look at her again. Knowing her as I do I can tell by the hooded droop of her wrinkled lids, by the somber shape of her tongueless cheeks, that she is in a cold rage: and God help Ice-candy-man.

But Ice-candy-man doesn't know her as well. Quoting Wali, misjudging her fury, and as if presenting credentials, he declares:

Affected at last by Godmother's stony silence, Ice-candy-man lowers his eyes. His voice divested of oratory, he says, “I am her slave,
Baijee
. I worship her. She can come to no harm with me.”

“No harm?” Godmother asks in a deceptively cool voice—and arching her back like a scorpion its tail, she closes in for the kill. “You permit her to be raped by butchers, drunks, and
goondas
and say she has come to no harm?”

Ice-candy-man's head jolts back as if it's been struck.

“Is that why you had her lifted off—let hundreds of eyes probe her—so that you could marry her? You would have your own mother carried off if it suited you! You are a shameless badmash!
Nimakharam!
Faithless!”

“Yes, I'm faithless!” Stung intolerably, and taken by surprise, Ice-candy-man permits his insolence to confront Godmother. “I'm a man! Only dogs are faithful! If you want faith, let her marry a dog!”

“Oh? What kind of man? A royal pimp? What kind of man would allow his wife to dance like a performing monkey before other men? You're not a man, you're a low-born, two-bit evil little mouse!”

Ice-candy-man is visibly shaken. His hazel eyes dart frantically—like the sparrows he once trapped for the mems—as he glances at Mini Aunty, the road, me, for sympathy or a means of succor. And then, his yellow eyes narrowed, he stares at Godmother with naked malevolence.

I see him now as Godmother sees him. Treacherous, dangerous, contemptible. A destructive force that must be annihilated.

“You have permitted your wife to be disgraced! Destroyed her modesty! Lived off her womanhood!” says Godmother as if driven
to recount the charges before an invisible judge. “And you talk of princes and poets? You're the son of pigs and pimps! You're not worth the two-cowries one throws at lepers!”

Struck by the naked power and fury of her attack, Ice-candy-man's body twitches. His head jerks forward and his long fingers gouge the earth between his sandals. And, as if committed against his will to witness the litany of his transgressions, his gaze clings to Godmother's. “I s-saved her,” he stammers. “They would've ... killed her... I married her!”

“I can have you lashed, you know? I can have you hung upside down in the Old Fort until you rot!”

Ice-candy-man shifts his eyes to the ground. And in the pause that follows, tears, and a long strand of mucus from his nose, drip into the fissures at his feet.

“It's no good crying now. You'll be shown as little mercy as you showed her.”

“I don't seek mercy,” he says, his voice so muffled and blocked that it registers like an afterthought. “If I deserve to be hung, then hang me!”

It is frightening to watch the silent tumult of Ice-candy-man's capitulation. The back of his neck is stretched in a long, shallow arch and his head hangs between his knees. His arms move helplessly, not knowing where to rest.

“Get out of my sight, you whining
haramzada!”
says Godmother.

Ice-candy-man just squats there, excreting his pain and tears, and as I look at him, I realize there is more to his turmoil than the rage and terror generated by Godmother's attack.

“It's too late to repent,” says Godmother with a magnitude of grief that makes my eyes smart with sudden tears. “You have trapped her in the poisonous atmosphere of the
Kotha
.”

“Allah is my witness, I'm married to her,” he says in a horrible, gruff voice.

“There is no God for the likes of you
shaitans!”
Godmother says remorselessly. “You are no more married to her than I am.”

“What do you want me to do? Slit my throat? Stab my
heart?” His cap lies on the ground. His dusty hands, the nails dark with dirt, tremble on his knees.

“Restore her to her family in Amritsar.”

“What if she refuses to leave me?” says Ice-candy-man, as if dredging from a deep doubt in his chest a scrap of hope. “I have been a good husband... Ask her. I've covered her with gold and silks. I'd do anything to undo the wrong done her. If it were to help to cut my head off, I'd cut my head and lay it at her feet! No one has touched her since our
nikah.”

“When did the marriage take place?” asks Godmother, unmoved.

“In May.”

“She was lifted in February and you married her in May? What were you doing all that time?”

Ice-candy-man remains silent.

“Why don't you speak? Can't you bring yourself to say you played the drums when she danced? Counted money while drunks, peddlers, sahibs, and cutthroats used her like a sewer?” Godmother's face is slippery with sweat. Her thighs beneath me are trembling. I have a potent sense of her presence now. And when I inhale I can smell the formidable power of her attack.