Mrunal was in the kitchen when she heard the doorbell ring. Wondering who it could be so early in the morning, she lowered the gas flame, and wiping her hands on her apron, went to the door. She couldn’t believe her eyes.
‘Milind? You?’ she said, not hiding her surprise.
‘Yes, me. Unexpected, isn’t it? Thank goodness you recognised me,’ he said with a half smile.
‘Why wouldn’t I recognise you? You haven’t changed all that much. All of us have, a little bit … Come in, sit, I’ll join you in a minute.’
Mrunal went in. Milind followed her. He put the jhola bag he was carrying on the floor next to the wall. ‘Custard apples/ Sitaphal. You like them, don’t you?’
Mrunal was delighted. ‘You remembered? Saurabh would never think of it. He travels so much, but does he ever bring anything back for me? Of course not!’
‘Where is he? Still sleeping?’
‘No! He isn’t here. On tour, as usual.’
Milind clicked his tongue. ‘What a pity! I came early thinking I could meet him as well. Wanted to catch you both before you left for work.’
‘You got it all wrong,’ Mrunal laughed. ‘Saurabh isn’t in town, and I don’t go to work every day either. Schools closed last week, in any case. The situation is volatile. Not here, actually, but the government has directed schools and colleges to be closed for a fortnight. Law and order issue, they say…’ After a pause, she continued, ‘It hasn’t disrupted our lives, though with no studies, the children are running wild. But tell me, how are things with you? Busy as you should be? It’s your time now…’ she smiled.
‘Don’t take the situation lightly, Mrunal. Times are such. There is uncertainty everywhere. It is not much in evidence here, that’s true. But where I just came from – no one knows what will happen when.’
Mrunal switched off the gas. ‘Will you have something to eat? Or shall I just make tea?’
Hesitantly Milind asked, ‘What’s your plan for the rest of the day?’
‘I was thinking of visiting Dada. Have you ever met my father? He lives with my brother. It’s almost like going to another town. Takes about an hour and a half. And the buses are so irregular. But my visit will make him happy. I am preparing all this to take for him. Why?’
‘Just like that. I am quite free today, don’t have anything particular to do, thought I would ask you both to take the day off and…’
‘You, and free? That’s surprising.’
He laughed awkwardly. ‘Yes. I will explain why later. Don’t want to come in the way of your plans, though. You carry on. I will leave in a bit.’
Mrunal thought for a moment, then said, ‘Since I’d left a message last night that I was coming, I will have to go. They will worry if I don’t show up. There’s no telephone at their farm house, actually. I will have to call my brother’s factory and inform them … Look, why don’t you come with me? We can catch up on the way and Dada will enjoy talking to you. He is alone most of the time. What do you say?’ Milind said yes almost immediately. Mrunal packed the stuff she wanted to carry, then handed him a plate saying, ‘Here, eat this while I get dressed.’
As they sipped their tea, Mrunal glanced at the newspaper. ‘Whether it’s the newspaper or the television, the news is only about protests, rioting, violence … no matter what the issue the atmosphere is tense, waiting to erupt. Lawlessness is everywhere. Don’t you think so?’ After a pause she said, ‘Tell me, how did you get into politics?’
Milind looked into the distance. Then slowly he said, ‘How did I get into politics? It’s in the family as you know. My father was a politician and I grew up in that environment.’
‘But there was ideology, principles, discipline in his politics. Today?’ She stood up. ‘Shall we? This conversation is pointless. The three of us have spent endless nights discussing it, remember?’
‘Of course!’ he replied. ‘It’s not something one can forget. Both of you teased me sometimes, and tried hard to show me how unfit I was for politics!’
‘Made no difference, did it,’ she said as they climbed down the stairs. ‘You did exactly what you wanted.’
‘I had no choice, Mrunal.’
‘Really?’ Her laugh was disbelieving. ‘And why not? Perhaps if you’d got a job, got married, had a family, politics would automatically have stayed far away. But you did none of that…’
‘You know I never wanted any of those things. When I started, I had no intention of joining any party. In fact my father and I used to have serious arguments about that. I was purely a social worker. Whatever anyone else may say it was challenging, demanding work but emotionally satisfying.’
They stood at the bus stop in the pleasant morning sunlight. There was a huge crowd – office goers, young people and old, men and women, children even.
‘And now?’ Mrunal asked, continuing the conversation.
‘I don’t know. I’m not sure about anything anymore.’ Then he quickly added, ‘But I am only admitting it to you. I would never say it to my colleagues.’
Mrunal smiled to herself and waited. A bus, jam-packed, arrived. A few passengers got off, many more got in. The conductor exhorted them to move forward, while the driver waited patiently for everyone to board.
‘What a rush,’ Mrunal said to Milind as they waited for their bus. ‘They’ve reduced the number of buses it seems. As if there were too many in the first place. But no one complains.’
‘That is the real problem,’ Milind interjected. ‘No one protests when they should.’
‘But they do. About irrelevant things. Tell me, do you think these current issues are worth fighting for? Do they merit so much anger? No decent, educated person will say they are. It’s all games the politicians play, inciting the public into violence by picking on some delicate sentiment and then while the common man burns in the fire, the politicians reap the benefits.’
Milind grabbed her arm. Startled, Mrunal looked at him, then laughed. ‘Oh no! That was not directed at you, Milind. No one can question your credentials. But the herd that you’ve joined – they are becoming more contemptible every day. If we the middle class feel this way, what about the others?’
Milind was silent, his arms crossed. Just then the bus arrived. ‘Get in quickly. Look at the crowd,’ Mrunal said. They were literally shoved in by those behind them. She managed to grab a handrail with one hand while in her other hand was the money for the ticket. Conversation was impossible. As the bus started to move, the crowd settled into the available space. ‘We will change buses at the terminus. At least we will get a seat there,’ Mrunal said, turning around to address him.
But even there, they found a long queue. As expected, there was no shade at the bus stop and the sun was hot. ‘So what else do you do these days?’ Mrunal asked Milind.
‘No time for anything else.’
‘So how is it you are free today?’
‘Only for you and Saurabh.’
She felt like laughing. ‘Oh yes, anyone will believe it!’
He didn’t explain. After a while he asked, ‘How is school?’
‘Closed now, I told you. It’s good. Very good.’
‘What classes do you teach?’
‘Five, six and seven. Science – biology, physics and chemistry.’
‘You enjoy it?’
‘Of course. Why? Are you offering me another job?’
‘What can I offer!’
‘If not you, then who? One of these days you will become a big shot and we will have to come to you for favours.’ Mrunal smiled.
‘Mrunal,’ he said, his tone changing, ‘You are not the kind who would every ask.’
‘You mean Saurabh and me? True. It is highly unlikely. We already have good jobs and there are no children or anything to…’ she left her sentence incomplete.
As soon as an empty bus stopped in front of them, a horde appeared from nowhere and began to push in. Mrunal managed to find two seats. ‘Ha! Now for half an hour we are okay. I normally fall asleep but today I have you to chat with.’
After a while, Milind said, ‘Mind if I ask you something? Don’t answer if you find it offensive.’
‘What?’
‘You have any regrets about not having children?’
Mrunal started laughing. ‘You are mad. What made you think we cannot have kids? It is possible that we made a conscious decision not to have any.’
Milind looked surprised. ‘Really?’
‘Isn’t it possible?’
‘Yes, but rarely…’
‘Rare may be, but certainly possible, isn’t it? We often feel life is getting more difficult every day. The present is bleak, the future looks grim. We are relieved there is no one to follow us. What kind of bequest would we leave for them? Bring another life into this world and the worries start at birth – first about earning enough to provide for the child, then about who makes the compromises with career and home. As the kid grows up, the run around for school admissions begins even though we know that the education system is pathetic. And then the raving and ranting that there is no alternative. Next, slog to make the child stand on its own feet. Instilling values like hard work and sincerity is almost a negative these days. But then what does one do? Encourage ruthlessness and dishonesty to make them eligible for success? When our life itself has become a conundrum, why start another one?’
‘How cynical you sound, Mrunal!’ Milind said.
‘Am I not right?’
‘How can I say you are not! But you believe things will never change?’
‘You feel they will? Tell me honestly, not as a politician, but as a dear friend … Awkward question, isn’t it?’ Mrunal laughed.
‘It isn’t that Mrunal. What you are saying is partly right. You say nothing is going to change. But we don’t know that. We cannot go forward believing there is no option, no alternative, that everything will remain as it is. Things must change. Someone must bring about a change. Who knows, in twenty years from now there will be a complete turnaround!’
‘Ha, ha, Milind, sounds good, but there is no conviction in that statement. I told you to speak in your own voice, but it seems that politician’s tone has become a habit!’
‘Please Mrunal…’
‘Then what? What kind of answer was that?’
‘I am not as pessimistic as you.’
‘Good.’
‘I’m serious, Mrunal. Think if it was your and Saurabh’s child. Brains, good looks, talent, sensitivity, a deeply ingrained value system, that’s how it will grow up, na? Both of you have so much to give it. We need individuals like that today, Mrunal.’
‘That’s nonsense. Being virtuous in today’s world is useless. Makes you a misfit. Being principled can be extremely stressful at times.’
‘Don’t say that.’
‘Why not? Saurabh often comes back from a tour thoroughly frustrated. He rarely meets people who think like him. But forget that. Even in school, hardly any of my colleagues have views similar to mine. If I feel strongly about something and speak earnestly about it, they either laugh it off or dismiss it as impractical. They have no inclination to introduce the students to something new, to teach them something more than prescribed. In fact not a single teacher thinks there is anything wrong when angry parents bring their children’s answer sheet and haggle over a couple of marks. Their main concern is how to get the better of the parents. It’s disgusting, their attitude.’
Milind sighed softly. ‘I wish I had met Saurabh,’ he said.
‘I know. He would have been very happy too. He should be back in a couple of days. But in these uncertain times, trains can get cancelled without warning and then … Can’t you stay?’
‘No, that’s why I feel bad.’
‘Then come again, soon. Not after several years like this time!’
Neither of them spoke for a while. They had reached the outskirts of the city, but there were signs of new developments everywhere. At the last bus stop they got and began to walk along the tarred road, lined with shops and large bungalows.
‘Nice place,’ Milind remarked.
‘It used to seem way out at first. Not any longer. Once the shops came up, the neighbourhood grew … There, that building you see in the distance is my brother’s factory. The house is here.’
Mrunal clattered the gate. A large dog rushed out barking. A boyish looking servant came and took away the animal and tied it in the courtyard. They opened the gate and walked in. Dada was seated in the spacious verandah. ‘See that?’ Mrunal laughed, ‘He is waiting for me!’
She introduced Milind to her father. ‘You’ve probably met him at our place long ago. You might not remember, but some time back his father… you must have heard of him?’
‘What do you do?’ Dada asked Milind.
‘Strictly speaking, nothing,’ Milind smiled.
‘What kind of answer is that?’ Mrunal scolded. ‘He is in the same line, Dada. Politics, among other things. Even I won’t be able to say exactly what he does. But he is a good friend.’ So saying Mrunal went inside to meet her sister-in-law and the children. She knew Dada would keep Milind engaged in conversation. Vahini was in the kitchen and the children glued to the tv since they had holidays. Soon Mrunal and Vahini joined Dada and Milind on the verandah. The servant had brought glasses of fresh lime juice. The desultory conversation continued until her brother came home for lunch a little later.
They all sat at the large dining table which was neatly laid. The simple but full meal was served piping hot. Vahini served everyone once then sat down. The servants took over after that.
‘Things are going from bad to worse,’ Mrunal’s brother said. ‘Our consignment has been held up for weeks. How can we fulfil our commitments if we don’t get our supplies? If we cannot meet the allotted quota, we will lose business. And thanks to the cost of living going up, the workers’ demands never cease. Now they have started threatening us!’
‘It wasn’t like that earlier. There must have been corruption then also, but not like this. There was still respect for rules, laws and principles. Today from the lowest to the highest, unless a palm is greased nothing moves,’ Dada said.
Mrunal was disconcerted to hear this, but she said placatingly, ‘Don’t generalise like that. We ourselves are different, aren’t we? We might complain bitterly, but we remain straightforward, honest…’ She looked at Milind. He was concentrating on his food. ‘What do you say Milind?’
He looked up. Again, he was noncommittal. ‘What you say is true, but…’
‘How can it be untrue? I have been running this factory for so long, I know all the ins and outs.’
Immediately Mrunal retorted, ‘Which means we also contribute to the mess, doesn’t it?’
‘We have no option. To survive in business we have to adopt the tricks of the trade.’
‘Then why complain. Everyone is on the same path.’
Mrunal’s sister-in-law looked alarmed at the turn in the conversation.
‘Mrunal, you haven’t touched the kheer yet. I’m going to refill your bowl, okay!’ she said, changing the subject.
‘The food is delicious,” Milind said, then added, ‘I rarely get such tasty homemade fare, for free.’
‘Then you must come more often. We always have someone or other drop in, so one extra person won’t make a difference,’ Vahini told Milind.
Milind made the right, polite response, but neither accepted nor declined her offer. He turned his attention to the children and Dada joined in their conversation.
By the time Mrunal and Vahini finished clearing up and came out, Mrunal’s brother said, ‘I must get going now. Lots of work … Remember us,’ he said to Milind, ‘drop in if you are on this side of town. I will show you around the factory next time.’ Then with a smile he said, ‘It is good if people like you tread our way.’
‘Milind is a very good and old friend of ours.’ Mrunal’s tone indicated her displeasure at the implication of her brother’s remark.
Dada retired to his room and Vahini took the children inside. Only silence and the afternoon quiet were left on the verandah. ‘You don’t come here often, do you?’ asked Milind.
‘How did you…’ she stopped then continued, ‘I do, sometimes. To meet Dada. My brother’s life is always hectic. They have a lots of visitors, they entertain a lot … we don’t always fit in their lifestyle.’
‘Shall we go for a walk? You said there were fields behind the house?’ Milind asked.
‘Sure, come...’
The two of them went into the fruit garden behind the house. There was a well and below it there were small square patches of cultivation.
‘He bought this land long ago,’ Mrunal told Milind. ‘He’s smart. Land was cheap then. Now, his factory is here, they have their bungalow, the garden, lots of domestic help, he lacks for nothing.’
‘Really? I don’t think so.’
‘You don’t think so what?’
‘That he lacks for nothing. There is always something missing, Mrunal. Ask him when you are sure you will get a truthful answer. Not only your brother, your sister-in-law and even the children will give you a list of all that they don’t have.’
Mrunal stopped in her tracks and turned to Milind. ‘It seems you didn’t form a very good impression of them?’
‘No no, nothing like that…’ Milind hastily explained. ‘Don’t mistake me. They were very good to me, treated a complete stranger so cordially, fed me…’
‘That’s nothing special. They regularly have unexpected visitors. Since one never knows who can be useful in some way, they welcome everyone equally warmly. They are very hospitable. But if you felt that way, you are not wrong. I too wonder sometimes…’
‘About what?’
‘About our relationship. It exists because of our birth. That’s all. They are not indifferent or anything, mind you. They do care a lot about me and are very affectionate when I go over. But that’s not everything, Milind. A relationship is when one feels a deeper connect with someone. When we know we are on the same wavelength. But such relationships are rare and not valued enough. They are not even acknowledged. Everyone is stuck on the superficial, conventional connections of birth, caste, religion, language … Where and how do we find people who we share an affinity with? Is one lifetime enough for that? And suppose we do, can we bind them to us? Hold on to them? It is depressing, thinking about it. And exhausting.’
‘I was wrong to call you a pessimist, Mrunal. You are not. You want to continue searching for honesty and integrity even in this modern jungle.’
‘But what purpose will it serve, Milind?’ she said almost plaintively. ‘An entire lifetime will be spent just searching.’
Suddenly the peace was broken by a flock of birds that flew up chirping noisily. Milind and Mrunal looked in their direction. They could hear faint sounds in the distance … car horns, a muted siren, dogs barking, crows cawing, the slap splash of clothes being washed on a stone, a voice shouting….
‘I will be going now,’ Milind announced.
‘Where?’
‘I told you. I am properly trapped. There’s no stepping back. All this time I was doing small, odd jobs which I took upon myself. But now I am going to get enmeshed in the real thing – the big gaudy and glittering web of politics. Full time. Might even contest the elections. I will get elected. Adorn some important post. It is a point of no return. No getting out of it.’
Mrunal stared at him. ‘But that’s what you were doing all this while, weren’t you? We always thought of you as our politician friend.’
‘That was a small world, where honesty and integrity still meant something. It was a world on my terms. But no longer. Now it will be a messy, tangled, deceptive world of power and intrigue.’
Mrunal couldn’t believe what she was hearing. ‘You know all this and still…?’
‘And still, yes. How can I explain it? I thought only Saurabh and you would understand my predicament. That’s why I came to meet you. There was little time, and I had to travel far, but in spite of that I decided to see you.’ Milind’s voice suddenly thickened. He turned away, a lost look in his eyes. He swallowed a couple of times, and then looked at Mrunal again. ‘I am at that point in my life, Mrunal, from where there is no going back. Once I move forward the way back is blocked for ever. I no longer have a choice. I don’t think I ever did. I was shaped that way, right from my childhood. There were and still are, lots of expectations from me. But then there was a conscience deep inside. For the longest time I nurtured it despite all odds. Saurabh’s friendship, however brief and intermittent, helped keep it alive. But I don’t think that’s going to be possible now. I have been sucked into a vortex, and I will drown among those people. Having been inducted into the team – I must play the game of political expediency, of exploitation, for power, be it of circumstance, situation, or individual, for self-fulfilment. I wanted to take my leave of you and Saurabh before I lose myself completely.’
Mrunal continued to stare at him disbelieving and nonplussed.
‘But Milind, if you can see all this so clearly, why don’t…’
‘That’s the price one has to pay, Mrunal,’ he said agitated. ‘I know it, I understand it. Perhaps many don’t even realise it. Whenever I look at our leaders I wonder when and how the transformation took place in them. Now I see myself in that position, entrenched in it. And it burns me. I can see everything that is fine and subtle within me turning into something crude and opportunistic. It’s necessary to survive in today’s unscrupulous world. I wanted to meet you before it all melted away. You will continue to live your lives – fraught with problems, despair and frustration perhaps, and yet you will keep the faith. As for me, I will be in a world far removed from yours, a world of the power-hungry, corrupt people you despise. Where some people like your brother will curse me and yet spread out the red carpet for me, feed me, for the sake of the chair I am occupying, from which they hope to benefit. I will be a party to it all, Mrunal, because once you enter the playing field, you play by the rules of the game. Win or lose, play you must. And then it will not be possible for us to meet. Even if we run into each other, we will not be able to talk. Because I will have lost you forever.’
Milind’s face turned pale and he looked away, his lower lip clenched between his teeth. Mrunal was shaken to the roots. She understood exactly what he was saying. Even what he didn’t say. He was such an old friend, different from the others who came to their home, dined with them, spent hours talking, debating, arguing, laughing … Though they did not meet frequently, there was a close bond between the three of them. And now he was distancing himself. Never to meet again? Never to even communicate? When they looked for him in the crowd, would he be lost to them, never to be found again?
He will cease to be a person for us, become one of those anonymous people, a mere name one comes across every day in boring news reports that means nothing to one … What a tremendous waste of a life! A loss that can never be recouped …
Mrunal was utterly dejected. She felt drained.
‘Shall we turn back?’ Milind asked. ‘It will get late by the time…’
Dada was asleep when they returned. Mrunal said bye to the kids, told the servant to inform her sister-in-law and walked out of the gate. The bus was not too crowded. The two men on the front seat were discussing the present scenario in loud voices – who was going to win the election, how the government was going to collapse, blunders committed by some leaders. Milind looked at Mrunal and smiled.
There was no sign of the bus that would take Mrunal home. She told Milind, ‘If you are going in the opposite direction, carry on. I will wait here for the bus, or…’
For a few moments Milind said nothing. Then he replied, ‘Okay, I will go then. You will tell Saurabh? What else can I say?’
She wished they could have gone home together, that he could have stayed the night and met Saurabh when he returned. Saurabh would have been surprised and pleased to see him. She could have persuaded Saurabh to take a couple of days off, and they could have spent time together. It would have been a wonderful opportunity to have her two favourite people with her.
She looked up at Milind. He too was watching her awkwardly. A young man carrying a bundle of the evening newspapers with big banner headlines rushed past them. Faint sounds of an altercation came to them. They saw aggressive men, women, even children shoving and pushing their way past the queue. A destitute old woman was curled up in the far corner of the bus shelter. A little ragamuffin boy came slinking by them, touching them for money. When a very pregnant young woman approached them with an overloaded basket of fruit, calling out her wares, Mrunal broke out of her reverie.
She noticed her bus was alongside the shelter. ‘Oh, I wasn’t paying attention! My bus … if I miss this one the next one is only after half an hour or more.’
Milind looked relieved to hear her say that. ‘Yes, you better go,’ he replied. Mrunal joined the queue. She turned around to see Milind standing nearby. As she entered the bus he nodded and said, ‘Take care. Both of you … Bye…’
The bus was full but after looking around she found a seat. But not by a window. She reached across and leaned to look for Milind, but he was nowhere to be seen. The conductor gave her a ticket and moved forward when she heard her name being called. Apologising to the lady in the window seat she stuck her head out and looked around.
Milind, standing on tiptoe, thrust a garland of jasmine buds into her hand. ‘I was walking out when I saw the flowers. Beautiful, aren’t they? Ready to bloom. You loved flowers … I still remember … The buds should open fully by evening.’
She took the flowers and looked at Milind with wet eyes. Words stuck in her throat. No thank you, no goodbye … He smiled as if he understood, and waved. The conductor blew his whistle. Mrunal leaned back, then to stifle the pent up emotions rising in her she buried her face in the flowers.
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Excerpted from the book Of Closures & New Beginnings by Saniya and translated from the original Marathi by Keerti Ramachandra. Copyright © 2019 by Orient Blackswan Private Limited. Reproduced with permission of the publishers.
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Originally published in Marathi as 'Varsa' in Akshar, Diwali issue 1991.
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Saniya is an award-winning contemporary Marathi writer, with a large body of woman-centric writings. Her work includes the novels Sthalantar (1994), Awartan (1996) and Avakash (2001). Her numerous short story collections include Tyanantar (2002), Omiyage (2005), Bhumika (2010) and Punha Ekada (2015). She translated Shashi Deshpande’s novel That Long Silence into Marathi as Vat Deergha Maunachi. Saniya’s work has been widely translated.
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Keerti Ramachandra is a teacher, editor and translator of fiction and non-fiction from Marathi, Kannada and Hindi into English. Her translations from Marathi include Vishwas Patil’s Mahanayak (2019) and A Dirge for the Damned (2014) that was shortlisted for the Crossword Prize, Gangadhar Gadgil’s A Faceless Evening and Other Stories (2017), Saniya’s collection Of Closures and New Beginnings (2019) from which this story is taken, and most recently, a collection of Vijaya Rajadhyaksha’s short stories, The Song of Life (2019). Other translations include Joginder Paul’s The Dying Sun and Other Stories (2013) from Hindi and U.R. Ananthamurthy’s Hindutva or Hind Swaraj (2016), from Kannada. She has received the Katha A.K. Ramanujan award for translating from more than two languages.
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Out of Print thanks Keerti Ramachandra for selecting this story for publication in this edition with so much careful consideration.