A Portrait

Although she didn’t read, Mummy treated Papa’s books with a strange, almost sacred reverence. If a book fell from her hands, it would make her feverish with guilt; she would pick it up with trembling hands, check every inch of the cover for damages, wipe the dust, and murmur a prayer asking God for forgiveness – as if she had upset a very holy thing. At times I saw her peeping into one of Papa’s books when no one was around – her eyes shrank with concentration as she tried to reads the words from the barely opened book, trying to steal some knowledge, before she saw me and closed the book and pretended to clean it. Each day at five she took out time and we sat together, and she reminisced her college days; she proudly told me how she used to be a bright student then, reading thick books all the time, and how a professor once called her parents to praise her. I was awed and asked her why she didn’t read now. She said she didn’t get time.
I was ten when I first went to Mummy’s village with her. In her absence, Nani told me anecdotes from Mummy’s childhood. She told me that Mummy really liked going to school, and shared a special bond with her school books. She wouldn’t allow anybody to touch them, took them wherever she went, and each day she cleaned the covers with a damp cloth and put a tilak on top. Mummy didn’t eat food for two days when Nani told her that she can’t go the school anymore, because of financial problems. Mummy was in third standard then. And when Nani tried to sell her books, Mummy threatened to leave the house and jump in a well.
I had planned that when Mummy will speak about her college next time, I’d mock her and tell her what Nani had told me. But each day Mummy looked forward to that one hour she spent with me. It made her so happy. So I didn’t tell her.

Unlike anybody Mummy ever knew, Papa was a well-educated lawyer who wore intelligent-looking glasses, spoke English, and read thick books all the time. Mummy always told me that I had to study a lot, and become as smart and intelligent like Papa – though she doubted if I could. While Papa read in his office, Mummy kept loitering around to make sure nothing disturbed him. If I made noise she silently picked me up and took me upstairs and loudly smacked me. When Papa ate food, she would peep from behind the kitchen door to see if he liked it or not. If he made a wry face, she would remain glum rest of the day, and shout at me for no reason; if he looked happy, she became so excited that she gave me money for ice-cream. As a child, I had grown up believing that Mummy and I were living with some mythical creature, someone who knew everything and was always right, someone who was to be revered as much as Radha-Krishna, and that we ought to consider ourselves the luckiest people on earth, and thank God each day for it. Mummy felt Papa deserved a lot of fame and money, but people had never understood his intellect. Though she loved God very much, she remained slightly angry with Him for this.
Papa had a habit of reading aloud a quotations or a phrase that had struck him. If Mummy was around, she would peep inside his office; her forehead furrowed and her face inclined forward as she tried to catch his words. She looked like a student who was about to hear the most important result of her life, and was afraid that she would miss it out if she didn’t pay enough attention. She would continue looking at Papa for a few seconds after he had spoken, as if not sure if he had completed. She knew Papa had spoken something knowledgeable, and rest of the day she kept reeling his words in her mind, trying to gauge the meaning. Later she would tell me those words and ask me if I knew what they meant, which I didn’t because I was too small. Then she would make me look up in that thick dictionary. But the words that were meant to simplify things were equally unfamiliar to her. I could see disappointment on her face. The more she revered Papa, the more she was disappointed with herself. She often asked me if I could teach her English. But I didn’t have time.

Mummy wanted me to become as intelligent as my father, and had asked him to get me admission in the best school of the city. She pleaded and even offered to sell her jewellery. He agreed, though he couldn’t afford it. After kindergarten, Mummy couldn’t help with my studies, but she made sure I didn’t flinch from it. She sat in front while I studied, and kept near her a clock, with a three-hour alarm, and an orange candy, to be given in case I studied extra. She took me to the temple each Thursday, and told me to ask God for good marks. To prevent future problems in getting me admission in the best college of the city, she bought a savings box and hid it in the cupboard. She wrote on it, ‘Money For Piu College’. Each night she secretly put coins in it. I was tired of her all the time forcing me to study, so I told her one day that I wanted to drop out. She beat me with a baton that day. I told her that I hadn’t said it seriously, but she still spent the whole day kneeling in front of Radha-Krishna, crying and begging them to never let such words come out of my mouth again.
Though I always studied on time, and didn’t say anything, Mummy was still disappointed with me. My school books were thin, and this made her feel that I wasn’t learning anything. She often asked me why I didn’t read any of Papa’s books. I told her they had nothing to do with my course, but that didn’t seem to satisfy her. She had a simple equation in her mind – books give knowledge: thin books less knowledge, thick books more knowledge. But as I grew up, the thickness of my books increased, and so did my reputation in her eyes. She often patrolled outside my room if I was studying. I studied till late during my exams; Mummy slept at ten, but religiously woke up at twelve to make Bournvita milk for me (somebody told her it increases marks). I loved the way she passed her fingers through my hair, and told me to wake her up without any hesitation if I needed anything. The pride in her eyes scared me at times.


*


It was my English exam the next day, and I was pulling my hair off because I couldn’t understand anything. Mummy knew I was tensed, and kept peeping in every five minutes, asking me if I wanted one more glass of Bournvita milk, if she should switch off the fan, or if she should fetch me a pen from the nearby store. Finally she came over, passed her hand through my hair and asked, “Piu, what happened? You look so tensed, my child.”
I didn’t reply.
She asked, “Can I help you with something? What subject is this?”
I chuckled and muttered, “You will help me?”
She stood for some time, silent, then withdrew her hand and walked away. After sometime I stood up, sighed, and went to the kitchen and said, “Mummy, if you are free, can you to listen to these answers?” She dropped the half-cut potato and knife on the counter and said, “Yes, my child, I am free.” She dashed towards the sink, washed her hands, and took the copy from my hand. I recited all the answers wrong, but Mummy kept saying, Very good, very good. She handed back the copy and complimented me. She remained happy rest of the day.
Despite Mummy’s cajoling God – promises of coconut, threats of disbelief – my result was bad. “I want to make you a very intelligent woman. How would that happen if you don’t get first rank, huh?” she said through a tear-choked voice. Nevertheless, she gave God his coconut, and told me to study hard next time. I was expecting Papa to be angry, but when he came upstairs from his office, he was looking unusually happy.
“Sit down, sit down all of you. I have something very important to tell.” He said it in English, and this made us attentive at once. He reclined back on the chair, and smiled like a child who is hiding something behind his back.
Papa said, “Mr Danny Rover is coming to meet me and my client. He is coming all the way from New York.”
His stress on the last word led to a large O from my mother’s mouth; not because she knew where New York is, but because she knew it was something important.
Papa continued, “Yes, New York. Mr Rover is a very famous in his country. He studied at Oxford University, and later taught there. He is coming here to make a documentary on our city. He is looking for a legal adviser. If he is impressed with my work, I might become his permanent adviser.”
At the dinner table we all were smiling unreasonable smiles, basking in a strange excitement, as if it was Diwali tomorrow. It was the first time any of us was going to see a white person. We all forgot about my result, and I was only happy. After the dinner, I was watching TV when Mummy drew a chair besides me, all shivering with excitement, and asked, “Piu, Piu, tell me, what is permanent legal adviser?” I told her what it is, and also that if Papa becomes the permanent adviser his work will expand and he will earn more. Mummy thanked God for having finally listened to her, and then asked me where is New York. I told her at length about New York, America and the people there, and even invented some details which led to large Os from her mouth (her Os fascinated me in a strange way since I was an infant). When I grew tired of talking, I switched to Discovery Channel and told her to see for herself. She was surprised that all the people in America are white. We watched a cookery show on Travel & Living, and then I switched back to Discovery Channel, where we saw a documentary on modern buildings. She looked at the screen – her palm covering her mouth, she uttering an O now and then – while I translated the narration in Hindi.

Mummy had a habit of collecting tension. She woke up in the morning with a plain forehead, and picked up tension as she went through her day. She picked it up from the vegetable peddlers if they charged high prices, from Papa if he sneezed more than thrice in a day, or from me if I got bad marks. Each tension contributed one furrow, so that by the night her forehead looked like Papa’s shirt before she had ironed it. She would come to my room at night, carrying a glass of milk, and with all those furrows piled up on her forehead. Then one by one she would tell me about her problems. In a confident tone, I would tell her that important scientists had declared that one doesn’t get cold until one sneezes more than ten times in a day, and Papa had sneezed only thrice; and that I had got bad marks but a better rank than last time, and that I was made the monitor for a day, which was a good thing. As Mummy kept looking at me with her serious and shrunken eyes, her furrows kept melting away, and soon her forehead again became plain. I had been lying, but it still made me feel happy in a strange way. Some days when she failed to collect enough tension, she would praise Papa, telling me how intelligent he is, and how hard he works but still never gets what he deserves. She would look relieved after saying all this.
That day when she came to my room, she had only one big furrow on her forehead. She asked me, “Piu, Piu, will Papa really become permanent adviser?”
“Yes Mummy, Papa will definitely become. Yesterday I asked God, ‘Godjee, will my Papa become the adviser?’ And suddenly a flower fell on my head. It means even God thinks Papa will get it.”
She still seemed to have doubt. The furrow remained on her forehead.

Mummy knew that things won’t happen on their own, and that it was she who had to do something. She began watching TV with me. We watched cookery shows and she kept nothing things down. She knew Mr Rover wouldn’t like Indian food so we began work on Project Food. Whenever I came from school and saw that big bright smile on Mummy’s face, I knew I was going to become a guinea pig of some experiment. First she made Italian Grilled Sandwiches, which she had cooked on the stove because we didn’t have a grill. She stood by my side, wringing her fingers, waiting for my reaction. I looked at the rock-like black bread, and told her that it is veryyyy tasty, but she only had to cook it a little bit less. Next she tried pizzas, burgers, Chinese dishes, and pastas. After all the hard work she had done, I didn’t want to dishearten her, so I hid the food when she wasn’t looking, and later said that it was veryyyy tasty. At night I threw it at the dogs; they sniffed it, barked at me, and went away, unaware that it was something to eat. Mummy pinned a paper to the wall, on which it was written in English, ‘Dishes Make For Mr Rover When He Come’. When my praises were unanimous – which they were when the food was tasty, surprisingly – she wrote on the paper the name of that dish along with the exact measure of ingredients, and said, “Roverjee will keep licking his fingers after eating this, and will make your Papa the adviser without thinking twice.”
She knew food alone can’t convince Mr Rover. To get the positive energies in her odds, she kept arranging and rearranging the furniture of Papa’s office according to her Become a Vaastu Expert handbook. To get the holy energies in her odds, she opened old prayer books and chanted from them, and doubled her temple visits. Having done this, we began working on Project English – “Mr Rover would be impressed if he comes to know we all speak English here”. She took out old primers from the storeroom, and spent hours reciting from them; I gave her lessons in my free time. Soon she started speaking in English in the house.
And as the days passed her excitement grew. She stood near the main gate, pretending to water the plants, and if some familiar face passed by, she would drag the person in, saying, “No, no, I not listen a word. You come in tea means you come in tea. No, no.” At first she talked about general things, but in the end, she always came down to the same thing: “You not believe – a cream man coming to see Piu ke Papa! Uh-huh, a cream man! He coming from Amrika by flying in plane. Very important man. Piu ke Papa get big work and become famous. Coming Monday. Uh-huh.” Seeing her talk in English, her relatives sat shrunken-faced, nodding, saying, “Hmm…yes yes…ok…ok.” To prevent their lame English from being revealed, they said as soon as Mummy stopped speaking, “Now I go, Chintu ke Papa waiting. Ta-ta.” When she wasn’t able to find any catch in the streets, she would pick up the receiver. But no avail: “Chit! One week and phone now also dead,” she would say. Then she would rush to the terrace and wait for the neighbours to come out to hang clothes. She was behaving like a child who goes around telling it’s her birthday in a few days. It was embarrassing for me at times. I told Mummy that it was getting enough, and that she should stop talking in English and doing these silly things. “If I don’t speck English, then how I talk to Mishter Rover, huh? Then how your Papa become adviser? Silly girl.” All our relatives and neighbours laughed at her, but she remained undeterred. Had I been in place of her, I would have cried and given up long back.
Papa remained in his office for most of the time, pouring over his consultancy books. He would come upstairs late, sometimes at one o’clock in the night, and recline on the chair and tell me and Mummy about his plans to sell the old scooter and buy a new motorbike, if he starts working with Mr Rover. This encouraged Mummy to work harder.

Mummy and I were seeing a documentary on the Oxford University. After it ended, we both were stunned, and kept looking at screen for a minute. Mummy asked me for the third time, “Piu, it true what they said? Is Oxford really best place study in the whole world?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Piu, can other country people study there?”
“Yes, they can.”
“I send you there when you grow up.”
I laughed and told her it was not possible.
She became angry and shouted, “Why? Why can’t you go? You will go. I will send you. I will ask Mishter Rover about admission form. He shtudied there. He know.”
I grew angry. “Mummy, when you don’t know about something, don’t speak. We won’t be able to afford it even if we sell this house.”
“Silly girl! Nothing very coshtly. If man save from this very second, nothing very coshtly. You don’t know anything. Silly girl. I will send you means I will send you.”
“You go when you have collected the money. I am not interested.”
She slapped me. Her bangles broke. “Stop fighting your Mom! I want to see you be a very studied woman. And you go Oxford for that. You go means you go. That is it. If you say no, I drag you there.” She went out, leaving me behind, crying on the bed. As a child, I had also dreamt about studying at Oxford. But reality hit me hard. Mummy was trying to unearth that dream from its grave, which I had so painfully buried. It hurt me.
As a child when I got upset with her, I wouldn’t eat anything, and sit by the widow, refusing to talk to her. And then she would come to my room at night, carrying a plate of food. We both ate from it, and kept an eye on each other to make sure the other wasn’t eating frugally, because we both knew the other hadn’t eaten. We wouldn’t speak a word to each other; everything was understood. It was like a routine for us. After slapping me that day, Mummy spent the afternoon sitting by the window, quietly looking at the cars, not talking to anybody. I ignored her. She came to my room at night, carrying food, and watched me eat. Now and then she smiled and passed her hand through my hair. Not a word was spoken by us. She had brought a balm with her. The shards of her bangles hadn’t hurt me anywhere, but I still kept pointing her and there, and she kept applying the balm. It felt good. Ten minutes after she had gone, I peeped out and saw her eating. This time I forgot she hadn’t eaten. After eating, she sneaked towards the cupboard, quietly opened it and put three coins in her new savings box. The small note stuck on the box read, ‘Money For Piu Oxford Study’

It was the day Mr Rover was to come. Mummy had been praying since morning; she had promised God two coconuts if Papa became the adviser, and had also threatened of disbelief if he didn’t. I was afraid Mummy’s English would mess up the things, so I had written her a script. She rehearsed if after her prayers. The script was limited to ‘hello’ and ‘how do you do?’ so she had asked me the day before if I could add some intelligent topic of discussion like politics, which would impress Mr Rover. I had refused. We both leaned by the balustrade and waited, our heads exactly one above the other, like you see in cartoons. Mr Rover, six-foot tall, wearing a kurta pyjama, came in a long black car. Mummy said, “O!” He shook hands with Papa and they both sat in his office, talking. After some time, Mummy adjusted her saree, and asked me if she looked fine. Then she went down carrying coffee. I joined my hands, and prayed for everything to go fine. Mummy kept the cups on the table with shivering hands.
Papa said, “This is my wi—”
Mummy joined her hands, and said, “Hello jee. How you? How journey?”
“Hello ma’am. How do—” said Mr Rover.
“I fine, Roverjee. Roverjee, my girl very intelligent. She good in studies.”
“Good, good,” Mr Rover said. “What’s her name?”
“Roverjee, how many sugar? One chammach? Roverjee, I want my girl admission in Oxford. Roverjee, you get her admission form? Roverjee, she very intelligent.”
“Just a second. Are you trying to bribe me?” Mr Rover said.
“Radha, go upstairs—” Papa said, in Hindi.
“No, Roverjee, I no bribe. I want admission form. Roverjee, my girl—”
Mummy was handing over the coffee cup to Mr Rover. It fell from her hands.
“Oh shit!” Mr Rover winced, and jumped aside from his chair. Papa bent to pick up the cup. Mummy shrieked.
“I sorry, I sorry, I very sorry,” Mummy said, and started wiping Mr Rover’s hand with her pallu.
“Get your hands off.”
“I sorry, I sorry.”
Mr Rover’s eyes and hand were red, and tears rolled down his cheeks. He jerked her hand away. “Just stay away.” He muttered under his breath, “Stupid woman.”
“I sorry, Mishter Roverjee. I very sorry.”
“Radha, go up,” Papa said, trying to control his anger.
“But I want talk Mishter Roverjee about my girl—”
“Radha go up—” Papa said, clenching his teeth.
I ran down and brought Mummy upstairs by her hand. Turning back, I saw Papa apologising to Mr Rover.
“You idiot—you fool, you have ruined everything,” I shouted at her.
“It fell by mistake—” she replied back in Hindi.
“Mistake? Papa will not become any adviser now. All because of you—you illiterate, you duffer.”
I leaned by the banister and saw Papa asking Mr Rover to stay for lunch in a pleading voice. Mr Rover, his hands and face still red, replied that he had other things to do, and stormed out. Papa went after him, apologising. For lunch, Papa ate the pizzas we had ordered for Mr Rover. He didn’t say anything to Mummy. She stood next to him, wringing her fingers. Now and then she looked at me for a consoling glance. I looked back in anger. After that Papa went away somewhere without telling us. I had planned that when Mummy would come to my room at night, I will shout and tell her to get out. But when she came and sat on the edge of my bed, I said nothing and pretended to be asleep. She shook me and then sat still for some time. Then she clanked her bangles to tell me she was there. I didn’t move. Then she stood up and went away. At two o’clock, I went out and saw her quietly sitting by the window. Just when I went back in, I heard Papa’s voice. He was having a quarrel with somebody outside. It was the first time I had seen him fighting.
Things permanently changed after that day. Papa often remained angry, and rarely talked to Mummy. When she went with water in his office, he always replied, “Go back. I don’t want it.” He came late at nights, and often had quarrels with people. Mummy always spoke in whispers after that day, but mostly she remained quiet – as if somebody was sleeping nearby, and she was trying not to disturb him. All day she did chores, and in the evening she sat for long hours by the window, looking at the cars and time as they passed by. Her face remained dull, blank most of the time, like those of widows in movies. If you looked at her for a long time, a strange melancholy would overcome you, and you felt that the world had suddenly become like a silent and grim place, like a graveyard. She never talked in English again, and sold the primers and which she had brought with so much zest. The raddi-walla didn’t buy the cookery books and her Vaastu handbook, so she tore them and used their papers for wrapping chapattis. She came to my room every night, kept the milk, and sat by my side, while I pretended to be asleep. Each week, she religiously went to the temple and bought a coconut for God, but she stopped trying to barter with Him. We rarely talked to each other now. I often saw her staring at my face, as if searching for something. I avoided her gaze. When I got really angry, I shouted, “Why are you staring at me?” Then she would stop staring. I started despising her and the melancholy silence of my house. I sought relief by staying overtime at school, or going for long strolls. Each night, after everybody had slept, she sneaked to the cupboard and quietly put coins in her Money For Piu Oxford Study savings box. I hated the sound of those coins hitting the tin base.