Interfictions (29 page)

"Get ready for your guests, I'll do the chholey,” she said, and Divya went to change her sari and wash her face and put on some lipstick, feeling dazed, feeling as though something momentous had happened or was about to happen. The book she was reading,
The Aliens of Malgudi
, lay on the dressing table; she stared wistfully at the lurid cover, with the spaceship and the buxom space-bandit Viraa. The plot had to do with Viraa discovering aliens disguised as humans, living in the town of Malgudi. They were from some planet light-years away. Divya wondered how she was going to survive.

As for the Chaturvedis, she should have remembered from the gossip that they always came at least half an hour early, possibly because Mrs. Chaturvedi—an inveterate gossip and interlocutor—liked to have her victims to herself before the others came.

The party was in full swing. Divya dashed from kitchen to drawing room, from guest to guest, until the world became a blur of silk sarees and lipsticked mouths opening and closing, the clink of glasses; the flow of myriad streams of conversations, none of which made any sense to her. In the kitchen she took a moment to wipe her brow. Just then Mrs. Lamba loomed large in the kitchen doorway, resplendent in green silk.

"My dear, what a lot of trouble! Look at you, all sweating! You should have got the whole thing catered. I will give you my caterer's telephone number. He does some very nice European-style hors d'oeuvres..."

"Aha, but, Mrs. Lamba, you must try these pakoras...” Mrs. Raman said brightly, munching away behind her. Mrs. Lamba condescended to nibble at one.

"Not bad,” she said in a surprised tone. Damyanti, wiping the serving dish for the chholey, glared at her.

Vikas came in wanting more glasses. There weren't enough at the bar. The Saikias and the Bhosles were here. And where was the fruit juice for the children?

Over the next hour or so, Divya caught a few glimpses of her daughter. Charu wouldn't look at her. The girl's laugh was higher than usual—she was in the middle of her little circle of friends. At the periphery were the eleven-year-old daughter of the Pathanias and the fourteen-year-old nephew of the Lambas. Divya went over to make sure they weren't feeling left out. No, Charu was nothing if not kind-hearted—she had served birthday cake to everyone, and now the two had been invited to play a computer game in Charu's room along with the inner circle of friends, and they were all trooping off together. The Lambas' nephew looked frankly bored; the Ramans' daughter cast a despairing glance at her parents as she left the room.

So much unhappiness, Divya thought suddenly. She was feeling better, with some pakoras in her stomach, but now a wave of anguish swept through her. She looked at the women, clustered together, their face paint standing out garishly in the light. It was one of those moments when everyone had run out of conversation at the same time, like actors taking a break from their roles. Mrs. Lamba's fleshy face looked haggard, Mrs. Raman's, nervous. In that moment she had a sudden shock of recognition, a fellow-feeling she could not explain. Then Mrs. Chaturvedi leaned toward Mrs. Lamba with a conspiratorial look, and the buzz of conversation resumed. What were they hatching now? Whose reputation was being built up, or destroyed? By contrast the men seemed less sinister, talking in loud voices about the latest financial news—they were like little puppets, moving and twitching to order, while the women, with Mrs. Lamba at the center, controlled the strings. Why had Divya had that sudden moment of empathy with the women—no, empathy was too strong a word—but why she had felt what she felt, she did not know.

She had a sudden longing for the days when Vikas was still a junior manager in the company and birthdays, and life itself, were less complicated. Then, she could ensure everyone's happiness. Charu could be comforted with a hug. But look at her now, with that veil over her eyes, taking a tray of soda to her room for her friends. She didn't like the way I snapped at her, Divya thought. On her birthday too! She's getting all sensitive and dignified now. Every year she steps away from me, one step. Two steps. And look at Vikas! He looked the genial host, pouring the drinks, laughing at Mr. Lamba's jokes, but she could see the strain on his face. Her poor Vikas, growing up, growing old. Worried about creating the right impression. The old Vikas had enjoyed making cartoons of his superiors, shared jokes with her about how stupid office politics was. She felt sorry for him, having to laugh at those jokes of Mr. Lamba.

What was the point of it all?

As the evening wore on, she knew that she had achieved some degree of success. Damyanti had left around the middle of the evening and she had managed the serving of the dinner mostly on her own, with some help from Mrs. Bhosle and Mrs. Raman, two ladies on the outer perimeter of Mrs. Lamba's circle. Whether it was Damyanti's cooking or whether Mrs. Lamba had been feeling indulgent, she felt as though she had passed some kind of test, that she had crossed an invisible barrier and was now one of Them. She didn't like it, didn't like pretending to like it. She wasn't as good at acting as the other women. But for Vikas ... she looked across at him, and he raised his head and met her gaze, and in his look was relief and humor and the reassurance that the evening would soon be over ... yes, she would do it for him. At least for another half an hour, or however long it took for the last glasses to be set down, the last goodbyes said.

Then she heard a child scream.

The children had been running around, playing some kind of crazy game, after having sat still through dinner. The Lambas' nephew, Ajeet, had started them on it, Divya thought, against Charu's wishes. But he had the authority of being fourteen and having traveled all over the world with his parents (his speech was peppered with references to London and New York and Sydney), and he was already beginning to develop an air of studied cynicism, a man of the world. Divya could sense Charu being pulled in, and repelled, and pulled in, and repelled, and had suffered for her daughter, who still would not look at her. She wanted to tell her that the world wouldn't care for her hurt feelings, that she needed to be stronger and less vulnerable to everyday hurts if she were to survive; she wanted to tell her that the kind of men that grew from boys like Ajeet were bad news, all preening, fake charm and pretended indifference ... look at him, manipulating the younger ones just because he was bored and wanted whatever entertainment the situation had to offer...

In the split second after the scream Divya established that it was not her Charu, and that the sound came from outside the apartment, from the vicinity of the back door. She was already moving toward it, and so was Vikas, and Mrs. Pathania, whose daughter it was who had screamed. At the back door she saw that the children were clustered at the top of the stairs that led to the terrace; there was a faint smell in the air, not urine. The landing was very quiet, with only one light burning over the stairway, and the servants' quarter door (she noted as she ran up the stairs) was locked.

The children moved aside to let her see; Mrs. Pathania's daughter was already half-falling down the stairs into her mother's arms. What Divya saw was the old man curled up in a nest of rags, clutching his throat with both hands, quite dead. His hooked nose, protruding from his too-thin face, gave him the appearance of a strange bird; his heavy-lidded eyes were open and staring at some alien vista she could not imagine. At the same time she was aware that Vikas was gently ushering the children down the stairs, and the Lambas were coming up to look. She started to say:

"He's sick, poor man, I'll get the doctor,” for the sake of the children, but the boy Ajeet interrupted her.

"He's dead,” he said scornfully. He gave her a defiant half-grin. “I kicked his foot, so I know."

At the precise moment before the Lambas reached the landing, Divya saw two things: the piece of paper in the dead man's hand, and the blue vial of rat poison standing quite close to his ragged pillow. In that instant she had swooped down and gathered both items, covering them with the pallu of her sari. She turned to face the Lambas. Mrs. Lamba gave a high-pitched cry and fell against her husband, who, not being built to handle the weight, tottered against the wall. Mrs. Bhosle took over, muttering words of comfort and calling for brandy, giving Divya an unexpectedly sympathetic look. Mr. Lamba drew himself up to his full height. Divya noticed that the tip of his nose was quite pale.

"What is the meaning of this! Who is this fellow?"

"The father-in-law of my neighbor's servant,” Divya said. “They don't feed him—"

"I don't care who he is,” Mr. Lamba said. “How can you tolerate having riffraff living in your building? The man could be dangerous! Or have a disease! Like AIDS!"

Mrs. Lamba shook herself loose from Mrs. Bhosle's grip. She pointed an accusing finger at Divya.

"What will I tell my sister when she gets back from London! Her son has been subjected to this ... this unspeakable sight! The poor boy! And you call yourself a hostess! Wife of a vice-president!"

She turned to the other guests standing in shocked silence on the steps.

"Let us leave this horrible place ... these ... people,” she said. “They have no standards.” She turned to Divya, shook a finger in her face. “Never have I been so insulted in all my life!"

Divya looked from the dead body of the man to the upturned faces. Mrs. Bhosle shook her head, but nobody said anything to contradict Mrs. Lamba.

"Yes, please leave,” Divya said firmly. Charu had begun to sob against her father's chest. Poor Vikas—he looked completely shocked. Mrs. Bhosle and Mrs. Raman helped everyone find purses and shawls, and then ushered them all out. Divya did not say any goodbyes except to thank Mrs. Bhosle and Mrs. Raman for their help. Already, as the party was going down the stairs, she could hear Mrs. Chaturvedi's high, whining voice, eagerly discussing the incident. The ladies would feast off it for many parties and dinners to come.

While they waited for the police to arrive, Charu cried against her mother's shoulder, her sobs shaking her whole body. Divya could do nothing but hold her. Waves of guilt washed over her. If only she could go back to that moment in time, when the old man had knocked on the door and Charu had been taking the parathas to him! Perhaps the parathas would not have saved him (the damned things were still in the fridge)—but who could tell? The poor man, to die like that! It wasn't fair—to raise your son and grow old, and be turned out to starve ... Nor was it fair that she, Divya, was to be punished for one moment of carelessness, one instant where she had forgotten the right thing to do—and that this oversight should carry so much weight that it outweighed all her earlier acts of kindness to the old man, the giving of food, and the chance to earn a little money and respectability. Had none of that counted for anything? Would she now have to tiptoe through the world, watching for any lapse, any moment of forgetfulness? If the punishment was to be hers alone, she could bear it—but how cruel of the world, to punish a child instead: Charu in her new blue dress, who had learned on the day she turned twelve that Death lived in the world, and in time it would devour everyone she loved. And that it was possible to die alone and unloved. How does a child of twelve recover from that?

That moment ... she kept returning to it in her mind. If only she hadn't been so hungry at the time! If Damyanti hadn't given Vikas those pakoras, or if Vikas hadn't been asking her about the rat poison...

The rat poison. A cold terror swept over Divya. How had the rat poison gotten to the old man's bedside?

She heard Vikas pacing to and fro in the drawing room, waiting for the police.

She had put the blue vial back on the bathroom shelf, behind the shampoo. The little square of stiff paper that had been in the dead man's hand she had put in the little dresser drawer where she kept her jewelry. It was a black and white picture—she hadn't had time to look at it properly. Now she made Charu sip some water.

"He was an old man, Charu,” Divya said. “He was ill. Nothing we could have done would have saved him."

And so we lie to our children, she thought bitterly.

Charu choked on the water, coughed.

"He said the rats were running all over him at night..."

Divya held her breath. “Did you give him the rat poison?"

Charu nodded. “He said the rats were really big and he was afraid of getting bitten..."

Divya steadied herself, patted the child's hair.

"Listen, Charu, what you did was fine, but I don't want you to mention it to anyone. All right? Don't say anything about what the old man said or what you did. Let Papa and me talk to the policemen."

Charu's eyes went wide.

"Oh mama, do you think ... oh, do you think..."

"No, no, child, quiet now. Everything is going to be fine."

Two policemen came, took notes, banged on the servants' door and on Mr. Kapadia's as well, but there was no answer. It was Saturday and Ranu and her husband were out—if Mr. Kapadia was in, he didn't care. The policemen didn't seem to care either. They nodded when Divya talked about how Ranu and her family had neglected the old man, but shrugged when she asked if they would be brought to task.

"If we launched an investigation each time some old fellow dies of starvation, we would be overwhelmed,” said one. They got up and left the family to the silence, the splendid ruins of the birthday party.

During a visit to the bathroom, Divya got a chance to look at the picture the old man had been holding when he died. It was a black-and-white photo, creased with age, and it was nearly impossible to make out whose picture it was. Divya would look at it many times in the next few months and wonder if the person was a woman or an animal or something entirely different.

Divya slept next to Charu that night, something she had not done in many years. They both slept fitfully. Divya felt sorry for Vikas, tossing alone in the big bed in the next room. It would soon be time to worry about what would happen to his job. How strange that their fates should be tied to one old man whom nobody had known, whose speech nobody had understood (except for Charu—she realized, with a shock, that Charu must have been able to understand him to carry out his last request). Simply by dying, the old man would change their daughter's view of the world, and affect Vikas's career and the delicate network of social connections and links in which he existed, and change Divya herself in ways that she was yet to discover. She wondered what the old fellow had been trying to tell her these past years, in his broken voice; she should have listened more closely. She should have ... she should have...