Translated from the Marathi by Sahir Avik D’souza
As I was cooking in the kitchen, I heard Pravin and his uncle talking in the next room.
‘I’m going on a work trip next week,’ Pravin said.
‘I’ll bring Vasudha’s father back with me.’
‘For how long?’ Uncle sounded a little concerned.
‘He’s coming to live with us.’
‘What do you mean?’‘Ever since Vasudha’s mother died, he’s been finding it tough to manage on his own. His eyesight is deteriorating, he can’t hear too well. He doesn’t get to meet many people apart from his co-workers. Even his longtime helper Ganu went back to the village to work on his farm. Vasudha and I think that it isn’t safe for her father to live alone at this age. We’ve been telling him to come to us for a while, but he just wouldn’t listen. But now that he’s become a little more willing, I’m going to bring him here before he changes his mind.’
‘But there’s no space for him here!’ Uncle exclaimed.
‘We can easily fit another bed in your room.’
‘In my room? Chhe chhe! So inconvenient!’
‘Inconvenient how? You’ll be such good company for each other.
’Uncle muttered under his breath that he definitely didn’t need any such company, but seemed to accept his fate.
That day, he was uncharacteristically quiet. When Ajay went to him for their usual game of cards, he snapped, ‘No cards today! Go study!’ Poor Aju couldn’t understand why his beloved Uncle was in such a foul mood. Seeing him look down in the mouth, I sent him off to play cricket in the compound downstairs.
Uncle went for his customary evening stroll at Chowpatty. When Pravin came home from office, I took him into Uncle’s bedroom. We burst out laughing at what we saw there. Uncle had strategically moved his bed into the centre of the room so that there was no place for another one. Clearly, it was going to be an eventful few weeks! But once the new bed arrived, Uncle seemed to have swallowed his pride. Or at least, he understood that there was no alternative.
The real fun began when Pravin brought my father home. Uncle welcomed him into the house in good spirits. He might still have been a little annoyed, bu he upheld the usual middle-class standards of hospitality. I was about to lead Papa into the bedroom when he deposited himself on the divan in the hall, saying, ‘Let’s keep all my stuff here.’
I said, a little awkwardly, ‘Rest here for a little while. But I’ll take your stuff into this bedroom. We’ve put a new bed in there for you.’
‘What! No, no! A new bed! How will two of us fit in that tiny room? Even the pantry in the village house was bigger than that. I’ll sleep here on this divan, it’ll be great.’
I looked at Pravin. He lifted Papa’s bags and said, ‘It won’t be comfortable for you here, Papa. There’s a lot of coming and going in the living room, you’ll be disturbed. It’s better inside. Come see!’
Defeated, Papa followed. Uncle was standing nearby, fiddling with his watch. He looked as though he’d have preferred for Papa to stay in the hall, particularly since he’d suggested it himself, but he didn’t say anything.
Thus did Papa move into Uncle’s room.
*
Both of them were big readers. They read all day and discussed what they’d been reading; in the evenings, they went out for walks, played cards with Aju and caught up with the news on TV. This became their usual routine. Still, it wasn’t all smooth sailing. As though to prove that old age is like a second childhood, they regularly sniped at and needled each other.
The main point of contention was that Papa ate fish everyday. ‘I don’t need much—just the smell of it is enough for me,’ he’d say.
But just the smell turned everything topsy-turvy. Uncle was such a strict vegetarian that he couldn’t even put up with the smell. Truth be told, when I announced that I was marrying into a Kokanastha Brahmin household, my family began to make dire predictions about my being starved in my new home. But I’d spent my college years in Mumbai eating in my hostel, where I’d long since lost my daily fish habit. Ajay and Pravin enjoyed fish every now and then, though, so I cooked it sporadically. On those occasions, Uncle would shut himself up in his bedroom. Now that this became a regular occurrence, he got irritable. Papa woke up every morning and went to the market to buy the fish himself. On Sundays, though, he preferred mutton. Ajay and Pravin were also quietly pleased at these developments. It was only poor Uncle who had a hard time adjusting.
‘I don’t know why Saraswats are called brahmins,’ Uncle said one day, clearly spoiling for a fight. ‘I think it’s just what you call yourselves.’
‘What does that mean? We are brahmins!’ Papa fired back.
‘What sort of brahmins eat fish, though?’
‘Don’t you know the history of this? There was once a drought on the banks of the Saraswati river and all the brahmins living there began to die. One of their rishis, a man named Saraswat, ate the fish in the river and survived. We’re his descendants. Some of us migrated to Bengal, some to the south and some to the Konkan coast. That’s why we’re allowed fish.’
Uncle was silent. Papa went on: ‘Actually, in Bengal, they even offer fish to the goddess. I wish I’d been born there. I wouldn’t have to skip fish on Mondays and Thursdays, or on Ganesh Chaturthi!’
Now I think of it, Uncle himself had once told me this story about Saraswat Rishi. Either he’d forgotten now, or he’d deliberately wanted to bait Papa.
Uncle and Papa were both used to eating lunch at one o’clock in the afternoon. There was no real problem if they ate one after the other, but who was to go first? Eventually, I took to serving them at the same time at opposite ends of the dining table.
*
No sooner had Papa settled in than he began to roam around Bombay, using whatever means of transport he could – buses, taxis, local trains. I used to worry about him, but he never listened. Once he was late coming home. Uncle was standing on the balcony. It looked as though he was waiting for Papa. As soon as he saw him turning into our street, he called out to me, ‘Here he comes!’ He came back inside and sat down with his copy of the Dnyaneshwari.
As Papa came in, he asked, ‘Have you eaten?’
‘Cheh! I was waiting for you,’ Uncle barked.
‘I’m not very hungry today. You should eat.’
‘Where were you?’ Uncle’s cross-examination was in full swing.
Expressionlessly, Papa replied, ‘Sonapur.’
‘Sonapur? They burn bodies there!
’Uncle had no filter, but Papa was unperturbed. Without blinking, he replied, ‘Yes, exactly. Near there.’
‘Why were you there?’ Uncle’s determined questioning knew no bounds.
‘There’s a restaurant there that serves great steak, the kind you get on cruise ships.’
‘Aha!’ Uncle clapped his hands as though he’d caught Papa red-handed. ‘I knew there had to be some explanation for you not being hungry!’
Papa looked a little sheepish at being found out, but they both laughed.
*
Papa enjoyed attending lectures around the city. Every morning, he looked up interesting events in the newspaper. Once, I overheard him asking Uncle, ‘Aho, where’s Dombivli?’
Dombivli is very far from where we live in South Bombay. It wasn’t going to be possible for Papa to go there and I was about to tell him, when I decided to see what Uncle said instead.
‘I have a map, wait.’ Uncle ferreted out an ancient map of his. It was quite bedraggled from having been in the cupboard a long time. After poring over it with his magnifying glass, he declared, ‘I can’t find Dombivli here... But I can see Ambivli.’
‘Well, what use is Ambivli to me?!’
Eventually, Papa found a lecture on a topic he enjoyed that was happening in Dadar. It was meant to begin at six in the evening. I told him the trains would be very crowded after five o’clock, but he was still determined to go, so I admitted defeat. It was decided that he would leave home at four and that I would go with him too.
We got there without a hitch and we enjoyed the lecture. On the way back, the trains should have been empty. But you can never tell with Bombay locals. I have no clue what was happening that day, but the trains were packed to the gills. I decided to get into the gents’ compartment so I could keep Papa company. But as Papa got on the train, it set off and I was left behind on the platform.
My heart was pounding. Would he be able to get off at Charni Road? What if somebody pushed him? I was worried sick. I jumped onto the next train. As it pulled into our stop, I saw Papa waiting for me on the platform. As we looked at each other, we both heaved sighs of relief.
‘Do you know how scared I was?’ he exclaimed. ‘Someone who got on behind me slipped and I heard them fall! I worried it was you! I asked one of the guys in the compartment if it was a man or a woman, but he just said, “Kya maaloom!” My heart was in my mouth until I saw you.’
At home, Pravin, Aju and Uncle were waiting for us. I badgered Papa into promising not to tell them what happened. But who could stop him? I think he told Uncle every last detail that night. The next day, Uncle scolded me severely: ‘You at least should have been more careful! There’s no need to gallivant all over town to these lectures! Madness. He was asking me yesterday where Dombivli was and I fobbed him off by saying I didn’t know.’
Clearly Uncle had just pretended to pore over that map!
*
One day, Papa didn’t find any lectures of interest listed in the newspaper. So he asked Uncle, ‘Where do you go in the evenings?’
‘I just go for a walk along Chowpatty. I meet with some friends there: we have a specific bench that we always sit on. Whoever gets there first reserves the bench. Sometimes there’s already a couple sitting there. We sit next to them and let them know the bench is only for people from our hometown. Then they have to get up.’
‘Cheh! You shouldn’t do that!’
‘Aho, these young couples can go anywhere they like! We’re the ones who aren’t able to go far. That’s why we’ve decided that’s our bench. We’ve named it the Teenagers’ Bench.’
‘Teenagers? Wow!’ Papa and Uncle slapped hands and chuckled.
The next day, I asked Papa, ‘Why don’t you go join them at the Teenagers’ Bench?’
‘I don’t like the idea. I’ve seen them! Your uncle and his friends make fun of passersby!’
‘What nonsense, Papa!’
‘I’m telling you! When four old men get together without any work to do, they gossip like girls. Your uncle told me himself. Once, a young boy said hello to his friend, Bhide. Your uncle asked Bhide, “Who’s that?” Bhide replied, “That could’ve been my son.” Your uncle asked what he meant and he said, “That boy’s mother and I had once been introduced for marriage!”’ Papa and I both laughed at this.
‘Uncle told you this?’ I asked.
‘Yes!’
Neither missed a chance to poke fun at the other.
*
Uncle had studied homoeopathy. If Aju or I was a little under the weather, he’d give us the pills. One time Papa came to me quietly and muttered,
‘There’s no truth in this homoeopathy. A big fraud!’
‘What do you mean?’ I asked. ‘The pills do help.’
‘Sweet sugar balls and a little hope: that’s homoeopathy!’ In one line, he’d eviscerated the entire discipline.
On the other hand, Uncle was a total atheist. Papa also called himself a rationalist, but his grandfather was a kirtankar, so he had grown up with some religious influence. Every so often, he’d go to sessions at the Spiritual Centre. Once, a swami was visiting town and was due to give a sermon at Madhav Bagh. News had spread that the swami had performed many miracles. Devotees showed up in huge numbers to listen to him. Papa went too. But then he came back shortly after.
‘What happened?’ Uncle asked.
‘It’s raining. The sermon was going to be in an open air park, so they had to cancel it.’
‘Ah, but hasn’t this swami performed all those miracles?’ Uncle asked, absolutely deadpan. ‘He couldn’t stop the rain? Shocking.’
Papa looked daggers at Uncle.
This was all very entertaining for Pravin and me, but it would sometimes be confusing for Aju. Papa taught him a little prayer that he took to saying everyday. One day I found Uncle asking him, ‘Aju, what does your god look like? Like the clock? Like this radio?’
Aju looked at him, bemused. Quickly, I shepherded him away saying, ‘Finish your homework!’
*
The Teenagers’ Bench gang liked to celebrate each other’s birthdays. Earlier, whenever I suggested cake on his birthday, Uncle would scoff, ‘Who cares about my birthday? This is stuff for Aju to enjoy.’ But ever since he began to hang out at Chowpatty, he would ask me for some pieces of cake on his birthday: ‘Everyone else brings some. Give me a small box.’
He said to Papa one day, ‘One of the bench group is an industrialist. He’s having a birthday party at the Taj. Would you like to come along? I’ve told them about you.’
Papa thought about it. Privately, of course, he thought of the Teenagers as troublemaking gossips, but now that they’d invited him to the Taj he was a little more inclined.
‘Will there be non veg there?’ he asked, coming straight to the point.
‘Bound to be,’ Uncle said evenly, casting a sidelong glance at Papa, ‘but this friend of ours is Jain.’
That was it. Papa got the drift. He didn’t go. After Uncle left, he said to me, ‘I’m not interested in hanging out with these purist fanatics. To go all the way to the Taj and eat nothing but sabudana khichdi! The steak I get at that restaurant, Chira Bazaar, is a much better idea, don’t you think?’
Uncle came home after dark. Papa was awake.
‘What did you eat, then?’ he asked. ‘Banana shikran? Mosambi juice?’
Uncle said nothing. He seemed tired and his face was drawn. I got a bit worried and asked gently, ‘Are you feeling all right, Uncle?’ He shook his head, but stayed silent. ‘How was the party?’
He paused and then began, ‘Our friend told us to come to his house, Zaver Mahal, on Marine Drive, at five o’clock. We were meant to ride in his car to the Taj. But when we got there, we found the house filled with family. We asked, “Where is Lakshmichand?” One of the men told us quietly, “He’s gone.” At first we thought that he’d gone to the Taj, so we explained that he was meant to take us with him. Then the gentleman had us sit down, gave us water and then sat down himself and said, “You’re his friends from Chowpatty, no? You probably haven’t heard yet. He had a heart attack last night. This morning we took him to hospital. He was feeling better by then. But then he had another massive attack in the afternoon and died. The body hasn’t been brought home yet, it’ll take a while. His daughter lives in the US; she’s just leaving and should be here by tomorrow. Then we’ll have the funeral.” We didn’t want to wait until the body came. For what? He’d so excitedly invited us when we met him yesterday. That’s how I’d like to remember him. None of this feels real.’
In silence then, Uncle sat on the sofa. Papa and I kept him company. Later, Uncle refused dinner. ‘I’ll just have some milk,’ he said. Papa had brought steak back from Chira Bazaar, but he didn’t eat it. ‘Give it to Pravin and Ajay,’ he intoned.
After that day, Uncle stopped going to Chowpatty. Some of the Teenagers gang came home to see him and entreated him to come back, but he didn’t feel like it.
‘Get some fresh air, Uncle,’ I told him. ‘Don’t be cooped up in the house all day.’All he’d say was, ‘If I feel like going, I’ll go. I don’t feel like it right now.’ What could I say?
We had a bookshelf filled with books at home. Previously, Uncle would read in the mornings and afternoons. Now he began reading in the evenings as well. He and Papa found a common thread: the Dnyaneshwari. Papa was of course a little religious, but Uncle’s reason was, ‘Even though I have no time for religion, I love the Dnyaneshwari for its literary quality.’ The two of them would discuss that great text, including particularities of its poetic form, and its words and their etymology.
The Sahitya Sangh organised a lecture on the Dnyaneshwari around this time. Papa was, of course, going and he urged Uncle to join him. But Uncle didn’t, saying instead, ‘You go. And tell me afterwards what they talked about.
’The speaker was renowned and his speeches had been widely acclaimed. Uncle waited eagerly for Papa’s return to hear all about it. By eight o’clock, he was pacing to and from the balcony. The bell rang and I opened the door. There were two young people there I didn’t know.
‘Is this where Mr Ketkar lives?’ they asked.
As I said yes, I realised there were actually four of them and they were carrying a stretcher. Whom were they carrying on it, was it Papa? I felt a swooping in my stomach. Quickly, I opened the second door and ushered them in. It was Papa on the stretcher. He was still, his eyes closed, his head bandaged. The four of them laid him out to sleep on his bed.
One of them told me, ‘He slipped and fell while crossing the road in Girgaum and hit his head pretty badly. We took him at once to a doctor nearby. The doctor looked at the wound and said that there was nothing to worry about. He bandaged it and then discharged him. We found his card in his pocket. He’s really tired and he couldn’t walk. So we brought him home in an ambulance.’
I thanked them amply and offered them money, but they refused and left. I never even asked their names in all the confusion. Papa was indeed wearied and appeared to have fallen asleep. Uncle stayed next to him while I phoned Pravin and our doctor. Soon, they arrived together. The doctor examined him. Papa had lost his strength and couldn’t walk. Even sitting up was difficult. He had trouble talking and slurred his speech.
The doctor said, ‘It looks like there’s not enough blood flow to the brain. We’ll do some tests tomorrow. I’ll give him an injection to make him sleep tonight. Make sure he continues to have his meals on time.
’After the doctor left, Uncle took me aside. ‘Tell Pravin to go buy fish tomorrow morning.’
Taken aback, I repeated, ‘Pravin?’
‘Yes. What else will your father eat?’
‘But… Pravin doesn’t know how to pick out fish.’
‘Your father knows one of the Koli women in the market. Tell Pravin to go to her, she’ll give him the good stuff.’
I couldn’t believe the words coming out of Uncle’s mouth. First thing next morning he packed Pravin off to the market himself. Then he came into the kitchen and said to me, ‘Your father needed a bedpan, so I gave him one.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry, Uncle, you don’t have to worry about that! Pravin and I will do it.’
‘Actually that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Pravin goes to office all day and your father will be a little embarrassed asking you for a bedpan. I think you should hire a ward boy.’
A little later, Uncle contacted Harkishandas Hospital himself and asked them to send over a ward boy. He supervised as the man gave Papa a sponge bath and powdered his back to prevent bed sores. A senior doctor also examined Papa and declared he needed minor brain surgery. I was very scared, but there was no other way. Pravin and Uncle gave me strength. After all, this doctor was well-known and respected.
The operation was a success and on bringing Papa home, he began gradually to show signs of improvement. His speech got better, we could understand him clearly. He was still a little weak, though. The doctor said regaining his strength would take a little while. Now and then, he was able to sit up using the bedstead for support.
Ajay’s exams were nearing. I hadn’t been able to pay attention to his studies as a result of Papa’s fall. Now that he was more stable, I began to work with Aju. Uncle shouldered the responsibility of caring for Papa.
Pravin also had something new on his mind. The buildings in our colony had been granted additional FSI, which meant each flat had become eligible for an extra room. The committee voted on and swiftly passed a resolution calling for these rooms to be built. In order to finish as much of the construction before the monsoon as possible, work began soon and in earnest. We were surrounded by bamboo, stones, bricks, cement – dust just everywhere! I took to keeping the windows and door of Papa’s bedroom shut, so that he wouldn’t be disturbed by the noise and the dust.
Uncle read aloud to Papa in those days: often the paper, sometimes plays like Saubhadra or Manapmaan, even Shakespeare! He brought the TV in from the hall to the bedroom and positioned it so that Papa could see it clearly. They would watch the evening news together.
*
Ajay finished his exams and then it was his birthday. I invited four or five of his friends over to celebrate. I made a cake and some of his favourite food. Just before we cut the cake, Uncle said, ‘Wait, another of Aju’s friends is arriving.’ Surprised, we turned to see who it might be—and there in the doorway was Papa, standing up with the help of a walker. He came slowly forward.
‘Azoba’s come, Azoba’s come!’ Aju was dancing with glee.
Pravin and I were gobsmacked. We looked at Uncle and he explained, ‘The doctor had said we should bring him a walker. So I decided to give you a surprise. I brought the walker home quietly once when you were both away at one of the building society meetings. And your Papa has been practising walking everyday behind closed doors!’
That day, Papa sat with us and ate cake and bhel-puri. How wonderful it was.
Slowly, he began to move around the house again, doing all his tasks himself now. Pravin said to me, ‘I’ve had an idea, Vasu. What if we put Papa’s bed in the new room once it’s ready?’
‘I thought of the same thing!’ I said happily. When Papa had first moved in, Uncle had been a little upset at having to share his room. Now it was possible that each could have his own room! There was no question about it.
That evening, Uncle went to Chowpatty. As I was giving Papa some soup, I said gently, ‘Papa, there’s some good news.’
‘Have Aju’s results come in?’
‘Not yet. You know that new room we’re building? We’ve decided it should be yours.’
Papa paused. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean we’ll move your bed, trunk and all your stuff in there. You’ll have an independent room. This one is Uncle’s.’
I thought Papa would be pleased. After all, he hadn’t been too keen to move into this room in the first place. But he didn’t say anything. That night, we were all gathered around the table. As I was serving the vegetables, Uncle asked suddenly, ‘What did you tell your father today?’ His tone was a bit strange.
‘What are you talking about, Uncle?’ I asked.
‘You mentioned the new room?’
‘Oh yeah! Pravin and I decided—’
‘There’s no need,’ Uncle cut me off. ‘How will he manage alone?’
I was a bit thrown so I looked at Pravin, who explained: ‘Alone how? We’re in the next room.’
‘Why all this trouble, though? What’s wrong with how it is? Your Papa said I’m being inconvenienced, but there’s no such thing. He’s just had a difficult recovery and is slowly getting back to normal. Plus, we’re good company for each other. And now you’ve come up with this new foolishness!’
‘No, it’s not like that, Uncle,’ I said quickly. ‘We just thought maybe you’d enjoy the independence.
’Uncle raised his eyebrows and said, ‘You didn’t even ask us.’
Pravin was trying not to laugh. Affecting with some effort a serious expression, he asked, ‘So you don’t mind sharing a room?’
‘Not at all!’ Uncle and Papa exclaimed together, exchanging a glance that disparaged our stupidity.
‘OK, then.’ Pravin shrugged. ‘We were getting a new room for no extra cost, which is why we thought about your comfort.’
‘Actually, we’ve decided what to do with the new room,’ Papa piped up.
Pravin and I stared.
‘Yep! That room will go to Ajay!’ Uncle declared.
Ajay, who had been silent so far, suddenly cried out in joy, ‘Thank you, Azoba, thank you, Uncle! Yayyy! My own room! Baba, you promised you’d buy me a computer, no? Put it in this room!’
The two of us listened and said nothing.
*
The next evening, as Uncle was about to leave for Chowpatty, who should be getting ready to join him but Papa.
‘What’s this? Papa, where are you off to?’ I asked, slightly anxious. There was no telling with these two, I thought.
‘I’m taking him with me today and we’ll take a taxi,’ Uncle announced.‘Is he joining your Teenagers club, then?’
‘No, no!’‘What, then, are you going to a lecture?’
‘Nope, you get a third guess!’
‘I can’t think of anything.’
‘We’re going to Chira Bazaar! To eat steak!’
I burst out laughing and Uncle did too.
I looked at Papa and he was grinning like a little boy.
Sadhana Kamat (1941–2018), author, professor, translator, wrote extensively all her life, in Marathi and Konkani, including fiction, non-fiction, children’s books, drama, songs, and pioneering academic texts. Her work was published in periodicals like Maher, Stree, Kirloskar and Kathashri. She taught psychology at Wilson College and served as president of both the Saraswat Mahila Samaj and the Kanara Saraswat Association.
Sahir Avik D’souza (@sahiravik) was born and raised in Bombay, studied English at St Xavier’s College and Film Studies at the University of Edinburgh, and worked two years at the British Museum, London. Sahir’s writing has been published by gulmohur quarterly, TimeOut, Film Companion, the BFI, EPW and the Indian Express. He is an editorial assistant at Marg magazine.