The camera pulled the land closer and I saw what I loved most about Delhi: its trees. They managed a surprising unity, declaring themselves the first line to touch the city’s white sky. Not so white today. As the land came close, I could see a dust storm rage, blurring the camera’s vision. It stole through the trees like a spirit, ready to pounce on the city below.
Delhi vanished, the camera swung down and the runway’s bumpy, oil-stained surface came into view. The large dark woman, watching peacefully until now, let out a cry.
At home, in my mother’s study, Chamunda sat behind a silver tea set in a green chiffon sari. When she saw me, she extended a sharp, jewelled hand and clutched me to her breast; I tried to reach to touch her feet. ‘Welcome home, baba, welcome home,’ she said to the tune of may-you-have-a-long-life.
Then pulling away as if overcome with emotion, she poured me a piped column of tea. In her other hand she held the silver strainer’s handle. One wrist had green bangles on it, the other a Cartier watch and two inches of red religious threads, tight and damp from a shower.
‘You’re wearing so many,’ I said, amazed at the thickness of the red threads.
She glanced at them as she finished pouring the tea. ‘Politics, baba, all from politics.’
‘Oh, of course. Congratulations. How long has it been now?’
‘Nearly four years. Elections next year, baba. I want you to come and help me. Your mother will come too. It’ll be hectic, but we’ll have some fun. They’re early in the year, so the weather will be lovely.’
Chamunda was my mother’s best friend, and my girlfriend Sanyogita’s aunt. She had been married into a small princely state, but her husband had deserted her just months after their marriage. She had joined politics as a young bride, defeated her husband in his own constituency and risen steadily. She was a member of the legislative assembly in the 1980s, an MP in the 1990s, a junior minister in 2000. Then four years ago, she had gone back to the state as its chief ministerial candidate and won. It had made her the Chief Minister of Jhaatkebaal, a small breakaway state on the border of Delhi, important for its twin satellite cities, Sectorpur and Phasenagar. I had no idea what she was doing in my mother’s flat.
‘Chamunda massi, Ma is in Bombay, right?’
‘Yes, in Bombay. She asked me to be here to welcome you home.’
This was doubtful. Chamunda was busy and selfish; I couldn’t imagine her welcoming Sanyogita home, let alone me. And besides, I’d spoken to my mother on the way into town and she’d said nothing about Chamunda. I noticed that the edges of her hair were wet.
‘Can you imagine,’ she said, handing me a cup of tea, ‘me in politics? Who would’ve thought it?’
‘Is it difficult, being a woman and everything?’
‘Yes, very,’ she replied, pleased to be asked. ‘But there are advantages.’
‘Such as?’
‘I like to take advantage of, exploit one might even say’ – she smiled, showing little teeth and mischief – ‘the very things that make it difficult to be a woman in politics. So for instance, I always dress the part. I always wear beautiful saris, never any ethnic crap. I always wear make-up and jewellery. I make a point to look like the Maharani of Ayatlochanapur. And if I’m talking to some bureaucrats or opposition leaders, or even treacherous elements in my own party, and my pallu accidentally falls…’ She pushed the green chiffon end of her sari off her shoulder to demonstrate what she meant. Her cleavage showed soft and brown, dimpled in places. ‘Then I may let it stay fallen for a few moments till I’ve finished my point and sweep it up when I’m done.’ In one motion, she swung it back over her shoulder and the breasts were once again half-concealed behind a papery chiffon screen. ‘And inevitably the response in these cases to what I’ve been saying is…’ She paused, altering her accent to a strong Indian one and moving her head from side to side. ‘ “Yes, yes, madam,” or an emphatic “No, no, madam, of course not.” ’ Chamunda chuckled wickedly, her pert comic-book lips arched. ‘Or, I’ll lean forward and let the pallu drop, very slightly.’ She did; her breasts collected warmly, and though they remained hidden, the cleavage became long and dark. A gold chain with a Kali pendant dangled hypnotically in front of the tunnel.
Then suddenly, she was in a rush.
‘Baba, I can’t stay long. You might have heard, I’m having a small rebellion in my state. Bloody Jats. I have to go back and deal with it.’
‘Jats?’
‘It’s a sub-caste. They want reservations in government jobs and schools. I tell you, the Congress Party has let a monster out of the bag with this reservations business. Women, dalits, scheduled castes, Muslims, now Jats… Soon the Brahmins and Kshattriyas will be saying, what about us? Then we can go ahead and carve up the country and no one will have to do a day’s work again.
‘I can’t lose the election even before you and Sanyogita have come to stay with me. But enough about politics, tell me about your book.’
‘No, nothing, massi. There’s just interest in a revised version. Now I have to actually fix it.’
She smiled placidly.
‘And your relationship with Sanyogita, all good there?’
‘Yes, very good.’
‘She’s moved back too, you know.’
‘I know.’
‘Does she know what she wants to do?’
‘She wants to write too.’
Chamunda looked serious. ‘It’s a racket, this writing business. You’re writing a book, my friend Jamuni is writing a book, now Sanyogita wants to write a book…’
‘What’s Jamuni writing about? She hasn’t written anything in years.’
‘I don’t really know. She wants to do a funny book, a rehash of her earlier book, but about Indian ostentation.’
‘And Sanyogita?’
‘She doesn’t know yet.’
Chamunda bit at a cuticle.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘No, nothing. Nothing.’
‘Come on, Chamunda, tell me.’
‘It’s just that these girls, you know, these privileged girls, like I once was, I suppose, and like Sanyogita is – they feel that because these are modern times, the world owes them a job, a career. Your mother and I, we never thought this way. If our husbands hadn’t both been such rotters, we would have been quite happy to settle down and produce a brood of children. We worked because we had to work. You want to learn something about women in India? Learn this: India is a country where women work right from the top to the bottom, but they work because they have to work. And it’s the best kind of work. Always be suspicious of these rich and middle-class girls who go off to college in the West and come back feeling that the world owes them a living just because they’re modern women. I say this about my niece too and I’m saying it because you’re a smart boy, you understand these things; I want you one day to marry her, but don’t put up with too much of this silliness.’
‘Come on, massi, she can’t stay home and make me lunch and dinner.’
‘Tch,’ she spat with irritation. ‘Is that what I’m saying? Do I look like a woman who would say something so stupid? No. All I’m saying is that you’re setting out to be a writer, you’ve worked hard at being a journalist, you’ve secured a book deal -’
‘An agent.’
‘Whatever. All I’m saying is I don’t like the sound of my darling niece Sanyogita, who is basically just following you back, also wanting to write.’
There was a knock on the door. Shakti, my mother’s servant, came in with a cordless phone. She took it from him. ‘Yes, yes, Raunak Singh. Yes. Tell them I’ll be there very soon.’ She punched the lime-green button and looked absently at me, as if for a moment forgetting where she was.
‘Right, baba. I’m off. Come and see me soon with your mother, or with Sanyogita. Welcome back.’ With this she was gone, leaving a trail of tuberose perfume behind her.
I wandered about my mother’s flat for under an hour. Its familiarity, its inevitability, far from comforting me, oppressed me, seeming to force our old association. It made my few foreign possessions – a red Old Spice deodorant stick, an electric toothbrush, a Lush soap – appear out of place, as though I’d brought unwelcome friends
