Maneck will need his good trousers, the grey gabardine ones? How much soap and toothpaste, Farokh? And which medicines shall I pack?”
His answer was always the same: “Don’t bother me with silly things. You decide.” He refused even to come near the growing pile of clothes and personal effects, as though denying its existence. If he had to pass by the open suitcase on the table in the upstairs passage, he would avert his eye.
Mrs. Kohlah understood perfectly well the meaning of her husband’s behaviour. She had assumed that inviting him to share in the planning and packing might help him, make it easier for him to get through the days that were causing so much pain to all of them.
After his brusque responses, she preferred to leave him alone. In any case, she was the stronger of the two when it came to coping with such matters, though neither of them had experienced this long a separation from Maneck. Distance was a dangerous thing, she knew. Distance changed people. Look at her own case — she could never return now to live with her family in the city. And just going to boarding school had made Maneck shun the good-morning hug that he had never missed, ever, not even on days when he was sick, when he came down so lovingly, put his arms around her, then went back to bed. What else would he shun after this separation? Already he was getting more solitary, harder to talk to and share things with, always looking so depressed. How much more would he change? What things would the city do to her son? Was she losing him now forever?
Musing and worrying, in the midst of serving customers, she wandered absentmindedly from the shop to Maneck’s boxes. Mr. Kohlah sensed something amiss upstairs, shut off the soft-drink machines in midflow and came bounding up the cellar steps to apologize to the lingering clientele.
He curbed his annoyance that morning. The next time it happened, however, he burst out, “Aban! What emergency are you attending to in the bedroom, may I ask?”
Sarcasm was difficult for him, and rare, so it surprised him and hurt her. But she refused to be drawn into an argument, answering mildly, “I remembered something very important. Had to check it right away.”
“Your mania will drive us crazy. Please understand once and for all — if you forget something we can always mail a parcel.”
But the things she was concerned about could not be contained or sent in parcels, and attempts to explain them also went frustratingly awry, the words coming out all wrong. “You don’t take an interest in Maneck’s packing, you don’t want the responsibility. And then you say things like mania and crazy to me? Don’t you fear for him? What has happened to your feelings?”
Despite his own confused anger, Mr. Kohlah understood the meaning of his wife’s behaviour. A week after this exchange, he was awakened in the night by her rising to leave the room. The clock had finished striking twelve a few minutes ago. He pretended to be asleep. He heard the swish and rustle of her feet as she felt about for her slippers. When she had shut the door behind her, he rose softly and followed.
The floorboards felt cold to his bare feet. He padded down the dark passage and, rounding the corner, saw her standing before the suitcase. He retreated a step. She stood motionless, her head bent, her hands immersed in Maneck’s clothes. When the cloud-hidden moon emerged, the silver light illuminated her face. An owl hooted, and he was glad that he had stayed silent, had followed her secretly like this, to see her so beautiful, so absorbed, as she stood there, embodying their years together, their three lives fused in her being, vivid in her face and in her eyes.
The owl hooted again. The moonlight wavered, hesitating, letting a cloud slide across. Her hands stirred within Maneck’s suitcase. The dogs on the porch barked — at what ghost?
Farokh Kohlah heard the ticking of the clock, and then the single bong of twelve-fifteen. He felt grateful to the night for giving him this opportunity, this vision by moonlight. He returned to bed, and did not disturb her when she slid under the sheet minutes later.
The time for last-minute instructions had arrived. More or less repeating the advice given all along, after Maneck’s going away had first become reality, his parents cautioned him against mixing at college with those who gambled or drank or smoked. They told him to be careful with his money, and to cultivate a healthy scepticism, for people were very different in the city. “All your life here, we never once discouraged your friendly nature. Whether your companions were rich or poor, and whatever caste or religion — those differences were not important. But now you are facing the most crucial difference of all, by leaving here for the city. You must be very, very careful.”
Mr. Kohlah was planning to accompany his son on the bus ride into the valley, and then by auto-rickshaw to the railway station. But the part-time assistant who had promised to arrive early to take over the morning chores did not show up. So Maneck started off alone on the long day-and-a-half trip to the city.
“Be sure to get a coolie at the station,” said his father. “Don’t try to carry everything yourself. And fix the amount before he touches the luggage. Three rupees should be enough.”
“Aren’t you going to hug him?” said Mrs. Kohlah, exasperated, as the two shook hands.
“Oh, all right,” said Maneck, and put his arms around his father.
The
The coolie had walked on, and he ran to catch up. Near the waiting room a vendor was roasting maize, fanning the crepitating coals. Maneck decided to come back for some after finding his seat.
“Fifty rupees from now on,” he overheard the Stationmaster, who was collecting his weekly tribute of maize and money. “You have the best location. That’s what others are willing to pay for it.”
“All day the burning smoke blinds my eyes and throttles my lungs,” said the vendor. “And just look at my fingers — charred black. Have some pity, sahab.” He turned the corncobs deftly to keep them from scorching. “How to afford fifty rupees? Police also have to be kept happy.”
“Don’t pretend,” said the Stationmaster, tucking the money into a pocket of his starched white uniform. “I know how much you earn.”
Now and again a kernel exploded with a sharp burst. The sound and aroma faithfully nudged Maneck’s memory of his first train journey: his mother and he, going to visit their relations.
Daddy had come to see them off. “You’re getting too heavy,” he had groaned playfully, lifting Maneck to give him a good view of the steam engine. How huge it was, and the train, like a string of bungalows, stretched so far, in a long, long line. Daddy carried him down to the end of the platform, close to the hissing, clanking monster, while Maneck busily tackled his corncob. He bit into it, and milk-white juice spotted Daddy’s spectacles.
Daddy made a yanking gesture, which the engine driver understood; he gave a smart tap to his cap visor and sounded the whistle for Maneck. The piercing shriek, so close it seemed to spring from his own heart, startled him into dropping the cob. “Never mind,” said Daddy. “Mummy will buy you another.”
He bundled Maneck through the window into his seat, next to Mummy, as the final announcement was made. The train moved, and the station began to float past them. Daddy waved his hand, smiling, blowing kisses. He walked beside the compartment, then ran a bit, but was soon left behind to disappear like the fallen corncob lying on the station platform. Everything familiar swept out of sight…
Maneck found his compartment and paid the coolie after the luggage was stowed away. The bungalow on wheels from his childhood had shrunk. Time had turned the magical to mundane. The whistle sounded. No time to buy the maize. He sank into the seat beside his fellow passenger.
The man did not encourage Maneck’s efforts at conversation, answering with nods and grunts, or vague hand movements. He was neatly dressed, his hair parted on the left. His shirt pocket bristled with pens and markers in a special clip-on plastic case. The two seats facing them were occupied by a young woman and her father. She was busy knitting. By the fragment hanging from the needles, Maneck tried to decipher what it might be — scarf, pullover sleeve, sock?
The father rose to go to the lavatory. “Wait, Papaji, I’ll help you,” said the daughter, as he limped into the aisle on one crutch. Good, thought Maneck, she would have to take the upper berth. The view would be better, from his own upper berth.
In the evening, Maneck offered his neatly dressed neighbour a Gluco biscuit. He whispered thank you. “You’re welcome,” Maneck whispered back, assuming the man had a preference for speaking softly. In return for the biscuit
