7

Departures

JAIPUR, 1964

Iloved every visit that my future brother-in-law, whom I now called Jijaji, made to Jaipur. Every few weeks he used the pretext of a tennis match or a business meeting to drive hundreds of miles just to spend a short visit with his wife-to-be. I thought it was incredibly romantic, but Amma was not impressed. She made sure that Didi had a constant chaperone—me.

Didi pretended to be ambivalent about these frequent unplanned visits, but I could see her glow under the undivided attention of her handsome fiancé. He introduced us to the Beatles, and we nearly swooned when he played the guitar for us. He took us for joy rides, on picnics, even to movies. Amma kept her disapproval contained, though she regularly voiced her concerns about our final exams. But Didi and I understood that this was an important year for both of us, and in between Jijaji’s visits we really did study hard.

Babu was back in his solitary cocoon, and the gaps between Kamala mausi’s visits were lengthening. It was now Amma’s turn to pester Kamala mausi to look after her health. Her tall frame was often bent under recurring spells of fever and coughing. When she failed to show up two Sundays in a row, Amma decided to pay her a visit, and she took me along.

We crossed to the other side of the imposing Ghat Gate, leaving the broad avenues of the city behind to enter the haphazard crisscross of narrow streets behind the central jail. The lanes were irregular in every way, and the houses ranged from old shacks to newly built mansions. We came to one of the dusty bazaars, where narrow multi-storey buildings stood cheek-by-jowl in a shabby cluster. After some enquiries we were shown to one of the dark and narrow staircases that led from those dark and narrow streets. We climbed it to the top of the house, where it opened onto a rectangular cement terrace. A brick room with a tin roof stood at one end, a small pile of unwashed dishes outside the closed door.

Amma stood outside for a moment, listening and looking around, holding my arm to keep me from knocking. Then she quietly pushed open the door. Late morning sunshine rushed into the room, stirring a sluggish wave of strong odour. On a thin mattress on the floor, Kamala mausi’s long body lay, curled up like a question mark. The lumpy pillow and thin cotton sheet were stained with phlegm and streaks of blood. Amma took her handkerchief from her shoulder bag and tied it around her nose and mouth, instructing me to do the same with mine. Then, gently, she spoke Kamala mausi’s name, talking to her as one does to a sick child. A feeble groan acknowledged our presence, though the sick woman’s eyes remained shut. In the same soft voice Amma asked me to go to the bazaar and find the nearest phone to call an ambulance. While I did that, she set about straightening the room and packing a bag.

We rode with Kamala mausi in the ambulance to the SMS Medical College hospital, the largest public hospital in the region. Although samples would need to be sent for testing, the doctors suspected that she was suffering from tuberculosis, and so she was admitted to the TB ward. Amma and I were given instructions about how to protect ourselves against this highly contagious disease.

Amma’s routine now included daily visits to the hospital. Didi and I visited much less frequently, partly because we were dismayed at the dramatic decline in Kamala mausi’s health and partly because we were trying hard to remain focused on our impending exams. Before many days had passed, we learned that the tests were indeed positive. At this news, despite her dear friend’s feeble protests, Amma wrote a long letter to Kamala mausi’s son-in-law, Pratap bhaiya, apprising him of her illness and of the doctor’s assurances that, although the infection was chronic, with proper medication and care her health could be restored. A week later, Pratap bhaiya arrived with Kanti bhabhi, determined to take Kamala mausi back to Wardha.

Kanti bhabhi was angry rather than sad, at least at first. Over the past few years, her only contact with her stubborn mother had been through letters. She complained to Amma that Kamala mausi had repeatedly declined Pratap bhaiya’s requests that she come to live with them in Wardha, on the grounds that doing so would violate traditional customs. And yet, Kanti bhabhi pointed out rather acidly, when it came to the customs by which widows were supposed to abide, her mother had shown no such concerns—nor had she raised her daughter to defer to traditional ways. She and Pratap bhaiya had been prepared to defy tradition by taking her mother in after she fled the oppressive atmosphere of her family home, but, instead of trusting her daughter’s judgment in the matter, Kamala mausi had conveniently used the excuse of traditions to live far away from the only family members who would have her.

Amma agreed with the need to challenge traditional customs that were designed to deprive daughters of a source of support and solace by weakening their ties to their parents. But, she asked, could Kanti bhabhi not appreciate Kamala mausi’s point of view? Her refusal to live in her daughter’s home had more to do with an ingrained sense of self-respect than with any faith in antiquated traditions. She just didn’t want to be dependent on her daughter if she could possibly help it.

Kanti bhabhi’s anger was not assuaged. “In other words, my mother didn’t trust me to understand her or be able to help her.”

Amma tried again to explain. “She knew you genuinely cared about her. And she also wanted to protect you.” Amma went on: “Think about your own daily struggles as a wife, mother, and daughter-in-law, and add to these the loneliness of a widow, the travails of a single mother, and the strains of reinventing your life multiple times in unfamiliar places. What do you think kept your mother going? It was her unshakable belief that she deserved dignity, and, to your mother, that came from self-reliance.”

It was hard to see the tall, dark Kamala mausi as the mother of this petite young woman with the pale complexion. But if you closed your eyes sometimes it was hard to tell whether it was the mother or the daughter who was speaking. Fortunately, in addition to her determination, Kanti bhabhi had also inherited her mother’s generosity, which allowed her, with a little time and effort, to look past her own hurt.

Over the next few days, Kamala mausi’s health began to stabilize, much to everyone’s relief. But when the suggestion she move to Wardha was made, her protests were only half-hearted. The fire in her spirit had been dimmed, if perhaps not entirely doused.

With Kamala mausi’s care safely entrusted to her family, Amma turned her full attention to the other pressing matter—planning Didi’s wedding. Thakur saheb had completely won over Amma by agreeing to every one of her conditions. As a gesture from her side, Amma was willing to hold a traditional wedding, although the ceremonies—which could continue for as long as two weeks—would in this case last for only four days.

While Didi and I were busy with our exams, Amma bought twenty-one khadi-silk saris, some dyed in the most vibrant colours and others covered with silk brocade. Thakur saheb expected no dowry, so Amma bought lengths of khadi-silk fabric as gifts for the groom and his immediate family. I was not sure whether Babu disapproved or was just uninterested, but he was noticeable through all this mostly by his limited presence. The busiest person in the household was Shafiji, who joyfully lent Amma his reliable shoulder to lean on, jetting about on his bicycle, running endless errands all day, taking as much of the burden from her as he could.

My last exam paper was a week before Didi’s, and as soon as it was done I plunged into the fun of preparations. I was thrilled to see our relatives from Bhagalpur and our freedom-fighter-family from different parts of the country arriving to participate in the ceremonies. The furniture in the house was stacked away to make way for rows of overstuffed cotton mattresses in every room, to maximize the sleeping area. The kitchen and the dining room were hubs of constant activity. Mangi bai and her helpers served endless rounds of snacks and meals throughout the day. Two days before the wedding, the groom and his family and friends arrived. Several rooms had been booked for them at Jaipur’s elegant LMB Hotel, but, as a mark of extreme respect, Thakur saheb and his eldest daughter, Jayanti ben, insisted on staying in our house, thus adding to the general chaos.

For the wedding itself, Amma had rented the premises of the Maharaja School, which was closed for the summer. Those days the school was housed in an imposing building just a few streets from us. A high, arched doorway led to a large courtyard open to the sky, surrounded by scores of rooms on three levels. We moved into the building the day Didi wrote her last paper. From that point on, a whirlwind of festive customs and preliminary rituals, live shehnai music, singing, dancing, dressing up, and lavish meals filled our days and nights. Still, by the standards of the wealthy business community that surrounded us, the arrangements were decidedly humble.

On the second day of the ceremonies, the bride’s gifts from the groom’s family arrived. In addition to a trunk filled with a dazzling array of silk saris, two men carried in a round silver tray, easily a yard wide, piled high with gold jewellery studded with precious stones. I looked excitedly through the pile of ornaments, at times unsure which part of the body they were intended to adorn. The aunties laughed at my bewilderment, reminding me that Didi would have help from her sisters-in-law in figuring it all out. Such gifts were to be delivered to the bride before the wedding but only worn afterwards, at the reception organized by the groom’s family.

A third day passed in a blur of noise, perfume, flowers, food, dancing, singing, ceremonies, and laughter, mixed with the sad knowledge that my sister would soon be going far away. But then, just a few hours before the main event, an unseasonal downpour flooded the courtyard where the holy fire was to be lit. Amma was stunned to see this punishing rain in the middle of summer, at least two months ahead of the monsoon season. It seemed bent on wiping away all of the wedding preparations. The rain only lasted a couple of hours, but it left the streets ankle-deep in runoff and the sunken courtyard under several inches of water.

However, while Shafiji and Amma were still trying to come up with a plan, scores of men who were expected as guests for that evening’s event descended on the school with pails, buckets, and brooms and set to work emptying and drying the courtyard. Among them were several members of the state legislative assembly, municipal councillors, presidents of unions, and patriarchs of some of the largest business families in the city. Amma was moved beyond words. She stood near the entrance with her hands folded and tears in her eyes, silently radiating her gratitude.

A few hours later, the groom arrived, riding on an elephant mounted with a silver howdah covered in gold brocade. Dinner was served soon after the bride and groom exchanged heavy floral garlands. The marriage was sanctified in front of the holy fire, accompanied by Sanskrit hymns in a ceremony that extended into the wee hours of the morning. Most of the guests departed at some point during the night, but Amma and Babu sat through the whole ceremony, as did Shafiji, his family, and nearly one hundred of the guests.

Early morning marked an abrupt end to the merriment of the past several days, as friends and relatives bade the bride an emotional farewell. Traditional songs, sung by the older women, conveyed blessings for a peaceful and prosperous new life. The songs reminded the bride that today she ceased to be a daughter and stepped into a new life as the daughter-in-law of another family. They exhorted her to keep her husband’s family happy at all costs, to bring them luck and many sons, to love her new family more than her old, and not to leave her husband’s home except on her funeral bier.

A procession of the remaining guests followed the bride and groom to the exit, with the women singing the heart-rending songs bringing up the rear. Amma and I embraced Didi, standing on either side of her as she cried her heart out. Everyone was moved to tears except for Amma, who almost seemed angry. Her stony face was focused on the waiting car, barely visible under the rows of floral garlands decorating it.

At the last moment, she kissed Didi’s forehead in blessing. “Remember, none of these songs applies to you. You will always be my daughter. You do not have to wait for pallbearers to rescue you from a life you do not want. Just one phone call to your mother, and she will come running to protect you.” Only then did Amma’s tears begin to flow, as she asked Thakur saheb and Jijaji to look after themselves and her precious daughter.

Didi did not let go of my hand as she got in the car. She wanted Babu, whom nobody had seen since the end of the fire ceremony. I wiped away my tears and ran into the building, calling out for him; I ran up and down the three storeys of the school and even checked the terrace. But Babu had vanished.

All I could do was run back down to the car and tell them that Babu was nowhere to be found. Shafiji suggested that maybe he had stepped away for something important and offered to go looking for him, but Thakur saheb’s pandit was getting impatient with the delay, which could make them miss the auspicious hour of departure. Amma knew how important it was for Thakur saheb to follow the rigid cycles of planetary movements. So she caressed Didi’s brocade-covered head one last time and told Thakur saheb not to wait.

We returned home to be greeted by the sound of Babu’s harmonium. I sat at the foot of his bed, Amma leaned against the door frame, and we watched Babu’s tear-streaked face, his eyes closed, as he sang like the sound of a breaking heart—Giridhari lala, chakar raakho ji, mhane chakar rakho ji, “O Lord, mover of mighty mountains, make me your servant, please. Take me to your abode, I beg of you.”

The mood of chaotic joyfulness sank without a trace into the void left by Didi’s departure. I was thankful for the many guests who had stayed after the wedding to tour the city, as this provided me with a welcome distraction. But Amma’s gruelling routine was back with a vengeance, especially after Babu failed to return home from his morning walk one day soon after the wedding.

Thakur saheb had expressly told Amma that he did not expect her to observe the numerous customary obligations traditionally borne by the daughter-in-law’s family several times a year. His only request was that someone be sent to accompany Didi back to Jaipur within a fortnight of the wedding, as was the custom in his family. This short absence from her new family, needing to last only a couple of days, was considered auspicious. It would also be a welcome break for the new bride from the long stream of house guests and visitors, from the constant exposure to unfamiliar customs and surroundings.

Traditionally this duty of accompanying the bride back to her parents’ home fell to a brother or her father. But Didi had no brother, and now our father had disappeared again. So Amma and I bought boxes of Didi’s favourite sweets and boarded a train, this time travelling by a different route, to Indore, the rail link closest to Dhar.

Didi and Jijaji were there to meet us. As we drove away from the station, I asked about their honeymoon in Bombay. It was Jijaji’s favorite city, and they had spent three days there, away from the hubbub of post-wedding ceremonies and visitors. Didi had brought along pictures of the two of them in the luxurious Taj Mahaj Hotel, by the Arabian Sea, and at the Bombay Presidency Radio Club, of which Jijaji was a long-time member.

I was eagerly looking through the pictures, but Amma was peering out the window, distracted by what she was seeing. “Bhaiya,” she said to Jijaji, “it looks like something is wrong.” The street down which we were driving looked deserted except for a few large groups of people crowding around certain storefronts. Jijaji laughed that the famously contented Malwi way of life was on display for our benefit, since little work was done in the middle of a summer afternoon. He suggested that the crowds packing the storefronts were most likely listening to a new show tune or a radio drama.

However, we crossed two small towns on the way to Dhar and noticed the same deserted streets in each. As we entered Dhar, it became apparent that something momentous had happened, for there were many sombre crowds gathered around radios in the bazaar, and we saw police everywhere we looked.

Once at the house, we found Thakur saheb sitting in the drawing room, a large radio on the centre table, surrounded by nearly all the inhabitants of the household, serving and served alike. In a voice clearly choked with emotion, the newscaster was speaking about the death of Prime Minister Nehru.

Thakur saheb rose from his peacock throne to greet us, but Amma almost ignored him as she pushed past the people near the door to get closer to the radio and listen to the live description of the mourning enveloping the country. The newscaster confirmed the news one more time: Nehruji was dead. Only then did Amma sit down, as other listeners slowly started filing out of the room, many wiping away tears.

Thakur saheb listened sympathetically when Amma told him about how she had first met Nehruji during the civil disobedience movement. She was saddened by the news of his death and worried for the country, which had barely recovered from its defeat in the war with China. Thakur saheb asked Amma’s opinion about Indira Gandhi, whom he referred to as Nehruji’s obvious heir, but Amma bristled at the suggestion that family pedigree could have any place in a democratic society.

More than once, I had heard Amma and Babu discussing their concerns over the political rise of Indira Gandhi. Babu had denounced her growing influence as yet further evidence of Nehruji’s dynastic ambitions. Amma had argued that Nehruji’s refusal to offer his daughter a cabinet position was proof of his commitment to democratic values. Yet her confidence had been shaken in 1959, when Nehruji used his constitutional powers to dismiss the Communist government of E. M. S. Namboodiripad in Kerala, which had been democratically elected two years earlier. Nehruji had initially seemed prepared to accept the results of the election, and it was widely suspected that his subsequent decision reflected the influence of his daughter—who had, in 1959, spent a year as president of the Congress Party.

With Nehru’s death, I reflected, Amma had lost another link to her past. Her visits to Delhi had become infrequent since 1962, when President Rajendra Prasadji had retired in the middle of his third term. His death less than a year later had been very hard on Amma, who had travelled all the way to Patna to offer her condolences to his family. Babu, too, had been affected, despite himself. He wrote a moving poem about the loss of a generous, unassuming mentor, although he firmly rejected Amma’s suggestion that he send it to Prasadji’s family.

Now, only fifteen months after Prasadji’s passing, here we were, sitting in this ostentatious drawing room, mourning the loss of yet another great leader of our still young and vulnerable nation. Looking at Amma, I remembered her telling us about Kamla Nehru’s kindness to her in the Lucknow jail, so many years ago.

As I was aware, Amma had not always agreed with Nehruji’s choices. During the struggle for freedom, she had not considered herself objective enough to judge the merits of Nehruji’s pragmatic critique of Gandhian ideals, since she herself was committed to those ideals. Over time, however, her own understanding of satyagraha had gradually evolved, and she had begun to view Nehruji as the commander of an army of dedicated foot soldiers who could together transform a divided and impoverished nation into a place of equality and prosperity. While she continued to lead her own life in accordance with Gandhian principles of service and social reform at the local level, Amma had come to respect Nehruji’s brand of socialism, with its emphasis on economic development at the national level, and had publicly supported the industrialization policy adopted by his government in 1948. Her increasing disenchantment with the Congress Party had stemmed less from Nehruji’s policies than from seeing corruption, nepotism, and dirty politics become the order of the day at so many levels of government. She was also worried, now more than ever, for the vast rural populations who were still waiting to reap the benefits of independence.

Still digesting the momentous news, we spent a very anxious day in Dhar before returning to Jaipur with Didi. Jijaji planned to drive up to Jaipur at the end of the week to take Didi back to Dhar, so I had little time to waste. I glued myself to Didi, talking into the wee hours of the night, asking her a hundred questions, telling her a thousand things that had happened since she left. Didi listened, looking happy in her usual quiet way.

At one point, Amma joined us on the divan in our guest room, where we had settled in to talk. “You’re happy, aren’t you?” she asked Didi. Although she tried to sound confident, her anxiety spoke through her words.

Didi nodded her head and smiled, before turning away from us slightly. “It’s just that I miss you two a lot. It’s such a different world. I have so much to learn.”

We each sat for a few moments in our individual pools of sadness, until Amma rose to leave. “Every stage in our lives has its challenges and opportunities,” she said simply, and then, walking stiffly, she moved toward the door. I watched as she left the room, then turned back to Didi, hoping she might want to confide in me. I was hurt by her reluctance to share her burdens with me, not wanting to admit that we now led separate lives.

We had barely returned to Jaipur before Amma left again, this time travelling to Delhi to pay her last respects to Nehruji. She returned from her day there looking more tired than ever before. She threw herself back into her work right away, but her eating habits remained erratic, and we noticed that the swelling in her ankles had spread to her legs. She still refused to rest or see a doctor.

Much to our collective relief, the day before Jijaji was due to arrive in Jaipur, Babu miraculously returned. There he was, in his office at the press as though he had never left. We knew better than to ask him any questions. Shafiji and the staff were as unperturbed by his reappearance as they had been by his disappearance.

Amma’s faith in the Congress Party was somewhat restored when Home Minister Lal Bahadur Shastriji was appointed the new prime minister, banishing the spectre of an inexperienced Indira Gandhi or the conservative Morarji Desai filling the post. Since independence, Shastriji had had a stellar political career as a state and then cabinet minister, unsullied by scandal or corruption. He was respected for his humane and efficient management of the refugee crisis after partition and of the agitation that had followed the imposition of Hindi. Even Babu could not find fault with the appointment of Shastriji.

JAIPUR, 1965

Jijaji was my ideal of urbane sophistication rooted in the confidence of an ancient heritage. Although I was more than a decade younger than he was, he called me “Rekhaji,” combining affection and respect in that effortless way of his that I admired so much. We saw Didi and Jijaji often that first year. They came to visit every few months, and when they did they would arrive with gifts and take me to fashionable restaurants in the city and to the latest movies. During their visits, Amma tried very hard to conceal her disapproval of what she viewed as the immoderate indulgences of the affluent. After they left, I knew better than to chatter on too much about these luxuries, unless I was in the mood for a long lecture.

I missed Didi a lot and had trouble adjusting to the reality of being the responsible one. Without the buffer of my organized and efficient elder sister, my carefree world was evaporating in front of my eyes, disappearing at a frightening rate. No more spending hours talking to Karuna in the stairwell of her house, until it was so dark that we could no longer tell the time. No more hanging out for hours in Bai ki ma’s kitchen as a delectable lunch blended imperceptibly into a tantalizing dinner. No more sheepish phone calls to Amma seeking her reluctant permission to go out with Karuna and her cousins, just because the weather after the first rains was practically begging us to ride our bikes to the edge of the hills for a picnic. No more losing myself in the treasure of the written word in the room on the terrace until I could barely see in the fading daylight.

I was finally beginning to realize just how much work and planning was required to run Amma’s overlapping domestic, social, and political lives. Unlike Didi, I was totally unused to the idea of planning days and weeks ahead, and I felt very unsure with my new responsibilities, despite Mangi bai’s experienced dependability and Bai ki ma’s frequent help. It did not help that my master’s degree was not in the subject of my first choice.

Much to my surprise, as an undergraduate, I had excelled in ths study of painting. I was drawn to the seamless blending of history and artistry in painting, which I enjoyed much more than the dryness of history courses or the relentless practice required by music. But the University of Rajasthan did not yet offer a master’s degree in painting, and I was loath to continue studying history. That left music, which did offer one advantage. The music department conducted its classes at nearby Maharani College, so I wouldn’t have to ride all the way to the university’s growing campus at the edge of the town.

Babu had been dismissive of my dilemma. “The in-depth study of any subject is fulfilling and rewarding,” he declared. “What difference does it make whether you are studying painting or music? They are both art forms, repositories of history and culture, and you’ll still have to find your own niche in either of them.” Amma had been more sympathetic and had offered to find out more about art schools in big cities like Bombay or Delhi, if that was where my passion lay. Her only condition was that I had to stick to one field and not be a disciplinary nomad like Babu. All three of his degrees were in unrelated fields. However, I was not prepared to live away from home, which I knew would double the void in Amma’s life since Didi’s marriage, so I chose to remain at home and pursue a master’s degree in vocal music, with a focus on the history of Hindustani classical music.

As I began to realize, Didi had served as a buffer for me. Not only was she the older daughter, but her graceful manners and physical beauty attracted attention away from me, leaving me free to be myself. Now, however, with her gone, the social spotlight turned toward me, and it did so in a way that made me angry and uncomfortable. Although I’d never been shy to perform in public, I found myself unnerved by all the attention I was suddenly getting from women who were apparently concerned about my future. Every time I turned around, it seemed another woman was making comments on my age, my appearance, my suitability for marriage—and, most frequently, on my disappointingly dark skin. It was as if all the many aunties in my life, related and unrelated, were vying with each other to see who could persuade me to take the problem seriously. They gave me gifts of various herbal or dairy-based products that promised to lighten my bronze skin to a “wheatish” complexion.

I felt such meddling to be an insult not only to me but to my mother. I had never thought of short, dark Amma as an object of beauty. But she had an arresting way of speaking, as though she were addressing your very soul. Invariably, her speech made people lower their eyes, and that, to me, was beautiful. I also admired how tidy and professional she always looked: it made her austere dress seem elegant.

One evening, Amma sat down on the edge of the divan to brush my long hair. It was not often that we found time just to be together. I sat at her feet, looking down at my hands, painfully aware that all my friends had much paler skin.

“You have beautiful hair,” Amma said, smoothing a long lock of it. “It is strange for me to say this to you, since I do not think of beauty in terms of a physical features but as something reflected in a person’s thoughts and actions. A snake protecting its nest of newly laid eggs is beautiful to me, but a peacock torturing a snake before killing it is ugly. But then, when I was growing up, my senses were my guide to survival, not to degrees of beauty. You, on the other hand, are living in a world where everything is judged by its capacity to please the senses.”

“What do you mean, Amma?” I was a little shaken that she had read my thoughts. But Amma often managed to make me feel like my skull was transparent.

“Think about it. Among the privileged, food is no longer simply nourishment; it has to be a visual and olfactory indulgence. Music is no longer a lifelong practice that speaks to the soul; it merely has to please the ear. Clothes no longer protect one’s body from the elements; they have become the very measure of a person. Are these not examples of our greed for sensory pleasure?”

I turned around to look at her. “But what’s wrong in wanting food to look nice and taste good?” I retorted. “What’s wrong with humming a forgettable tune? What’s wrong in wanting to look good?”

Amma was thoughtful. “There is nothing wrong with any of it, until you consider the source of these wants and the outcome of this emphasis on sensory pleasure.” She looked at me intently. “When you stand in front of the mirror, what do you see?”

“I see a dark-skinned girl with long hair.” I braced myself for the usual lecture about the range of human diversity on earth and the sociopolitical reasons for the continued privileging of light skin, followed by the usual reassurance that I was beautiful in her eyes. But this time Amma did not repeat any of those things. “What you are describing is how a stranger’s eyes would see you. When you look in the mirror, what are you seeing? Skin and bones do not make you. Who are you?”

I searched for a reply, but Amma stopped me before I could speak. “Don’t answer that. But this is a question that you need to ask yourself, repeatedly. As you grow, the answers will keep changing, and that is also something to think about.”

I felt confused. I wasn’t sure what I supposed to say. “What do you see when you look at me, Amma?”

Amma smiled broadly. “Aha—you want me to do the hard work. But there are no shortcuts, my dear daughter, in defining yourself. What anyone else sees in you is extremely subjective, ever changing with time. What matters is what you discover and rediscover within yourself. But I will tell you what I see when I look at you,” she added, as she put a soothing hand on my head. “I see a curious and confident young person, affectionate to the point of being indulgent, generous to the point of being selfless, and gregarious to the extent of being distracted.”

I put my head on her lap, savouring this rare moment of communion. “I see a very beautiful person when I look at you,” she continued. “I know that all those who know you can see how beautiful you are, inside and out. There will always be those who are intimidated by your personality or jealous of your talent or your successes. But if they choose not to see your beauty, that does not lessen it.”

Unexpected tears stung my eyes and dropped onto the crisp folds of my mother’s sari. I wanted desperately to tell her about the most recent humiliation I had endured. I had been returning home from class, walking with my bike and chatting with friends. A middle-aged man had started following us closely, too closely. A hush fell upon us, and our pace quickened.

I had reminded myself of Amma’s definition of bravery: it is not the absence of fear, but the ability to rise above fear by confronting it. I thought, We are four girls walking on the quiet sidewalk by a major school, only a few yards from the walls of the city. So I held the handlebars of my bicycle tight and shouted at the man to leave us alone.

He had obviously not expected one of us to confront him. He stopped and stood for a moment, blinking, looking from my face to the bike and back. I was ready to charge him if he came any closer to me or my friends. Then, with a leer, he began to scold me for daring to imagine that I might be the object of his attention. I was ulta tawa, black as the bottom of a griddle. I was shaking, but I stared him down until he finally crossed the street to walk away from us. I’m not sure which of my friends finally unglued my clammy hand from the bicycle handle and pulled me along to catch up with the rest of the girls, who were already hurrying toward the safety of the gated wall ahead.

Outside the walls of the old city, such encounters had become sickeningly routine. Inside the city walls, people knew me: I was Amma’s daughter—Amma, the former freedom fighter and disciple of Gandhi, the social activist who stood by her principles, the woman who had taught the daughters of some of Jaipur’s most prominent families. I lived in the shelter of her aura. Once I moved beyond those walls, I was a stranger, not a neighbour. It was another world, where families lived in colonies of newly constructed, single-storey homes that could have been almost anywhere. There, I was merely a dark-skinned girl, and I was vulnerable.

Even as a child, I had heard older girls talk in hushed whispers about lecherous glances, about having their bottoms pinched or their breasts grabbed as they passed a stranger in a stairwell, or about receiving secret letters from unknown admirers. No one thought to complain to parents or other elders, as the burden of blame would almost certainly fall on the victim. Such harassment was simply part and parcel of a woman’s life, something to be endured and then passed over in silence.

Didi, I knew, had had her fair share of letters and phone calls from secret admirers, but she always seemed to know what to do in public. She moved with confident purposefulness and regarded every unfamiliar man with suspicion when we walked together within the walls of the old city. When Didi had to venture outside the city walls, however, even just to go to her daily classes at the university, she would summon our regular rickshaw driver.

Rather than having to wait on our rickshaw-walaji, I preferred the freedom of riding my bike wherever I needed or wanted to go, even outside the old city. But I paid for this freedom. Catcalls and whistles, vulgar lines from movies, and outright propositions were flung at me on quieter streets. A few times, particularly aggressive men tried to push me off the road, and one even drove his scooter into my bike to make me fall.

I knew I was not alone in facing these things. The Jaipur newspapers were full of stories about scarves being pulled, about groping, and about other forms of verbal and physical harassment that women experienced on their way to school or work. Amma was livid about the way the reporting trivialized sexual harassment as “teasing,” as well as about the frequent implication that the fault for this harassment lay in the way modern women dressed or in their audacious insistence on appearing in public unaccompanied by a man. Amma would lecture the newspaper over her cup of tea, sometimes lowering it to vent her anger: “The freedom movement would not have been possible if women had stayed behind walls and veils. Now these naradhama, the lowest of human beings, want to push women back behind walls.”

I had never told Amma about a single one of my numerous encounters or about the lingering pain I carried from all the callous comments. I just hoped that Amma could read my transparent head, as always.

All of my physical and emotional strength and organizational abilities were put to the severest test one Sunday afternoon at the beginning of the monsoon season when I came home to find Amma lying on the cold stone floor. I had spent the morning at Karuna’s house after a long absence. We had lots of catching up to do that day, a project that was aided by the delicious sweet and savoury snacks supplied by her indulgent mother and aunts. We had planned this day weeks ago—a chat session at Karuna’s home, followed by a picnic with her cousins out at the Amer palace.

I had gotten up really early that morning, excited to be spending the day with my closest friends for the first time in a long while. Early as it was, I was not surprised to see Amma already working at her desk. Mangi bai had not been feeling good the day before, and Amma had told her not to come in that day, so she asked me to make her a cup of tea before I left. She looked like she had been working all night, but when I asked her about getting some rest, she promised she would lie down after finishing her tea. I brought her the tea and then happily rushed out of the house on my bike, promising to return before my curfew.

And yet, even as I peddled away from the house, an uneasy feeling made me want to turn around. For a moment I actually slowed down, but then I considered the difficulty of organizing another day like today when all conditions were perfect—the mild weather, the alignment of our often-incompatible schedules. Babu’s current absence even added to the perfection of the day, since it meant not having to maintain his rigid schedule in Mangi bai’s absence. I told myself that Amma was fine; she was just working from home, and Mangi bai would probably show up later.

The first few hours of the morning at Karuna’s house were, as usual for that family, filled with laughter, food, music, and incessant talking. The uneasy feeling lurked in the pit of my stomach, but I kept it in check by throwing myself into the spontaneous singing and eating that was going on around me. Around noon, everything was packed for the picnic, everyone raring to peddle away to the beautiful fortress on the hill. But the knot in my stomach was still there, so I decided to call home to see if Mangi bai was with Amma. Nobody answered, and my sense of impending doom increased. Everyone was surprised at my sudden, irrational, anxiety after my exuberance up to that point. However, seeing me close to tears, Karuna’s father offered to escort me home.

I thanked him, but that would mean having to walk, and it was over a mile. Instead, I jumped on my bike and peddled furiously the whole way. At long last, I reached the closed doors of our house. When I pushed them open, I saw my mother lying on the floor, not far away. My heart began to pound. My chest felt like it would explode. I threw down my bike and knelt beside my mother’s motionless body. Is she dead? What did I learn in my emergency first aid training? Think, you stupid fool, think, and do something!

The house was deathly quiet. Babu’s big desk, piled high with papers, stood desolate next to the doors. The giant presses were quietly celebrating their Sunday rest. I grabbed a roll of paper from the cutting room and put it under Amma’s head. She groaned without opening her eyes, her face contorted in pain. I ran to the phone on Babu’s desk and, my hands shaking, called for an ambulance. Then I dialed Dr. Vohra’s number. He wasn’t there, so I left an urgent message with his son. Then I dialed Bai ki ma’s house. Jain saheb picked up the phone. “I think Amma is having a heart attack,” I said, in a voice I did not recognize. “Please come right away.”

“Rekha, is that you?” Jain saheb’s shout hurt my ear.

“Heart attack,” I repeated. “No one is home. Amma is dying. I need help! I have to hang up now.”

Amma was wincing and gasping. I tried awkwardly to loosen the clothing around her chest. The CPR steps that I had learned a few years ago—my mind raced as I tried to remember them, realizing to my horror the great difference between practicing on a plastic dummy and knowing what to do when your mother is lying in front of you, gasping for air. At last Dr. Vohra and Jain saheb burst through the door, almost simultaneously. Dr. Vohra bent over Amma, and Jain saheb pulled me away and tried to lead me upstairs.

But it was no use. The volcano inside me erupted in uncontrollable sobs, which stopped only when I heard the sound of an ambulance siren. Then men were lifting Amma onto a stretcher. I asked Dr. Vohra if I could go in the ambulance with her, but in his characteristically clinical way, which seemed very cruel at the time, he told me to come to the hospital later and took Jain saheb with him instead.

At least I had helped Amma enough to know the running around that was required to complete tests, get medicines, and do the many other tasks associated with a hospital stay. Now, with unsteady hands, I packed a bag of supplies, which included flasks, towels, water bottle, and chequebook. Bai ki ma had arrived by that point, and I knew that the house would be in safe hands with her. I knew that there would be people willing to help. I just had to focus on getting Amma better.

Once the doctors had completed their assessment I learned that she had, indeed, suffered a heart attack. Doctors suspected that she had been ignoring her elevated blood pressure for some time already. Her kidneys showed damage, but she was fortunate not to have suffered a stroke, perhaps because she was only in her late forties. Nevertheless, she had to stay in the hospital for over a week before she was considered stable enough to be sent home to convalesce. I stayed there with her the whole time.

We returned home from the hospital weary and overwhelmed by the doctors’ grave warnings about the regimen of medicines and lifestyle changes that Amma would have to follow. Didi came for a time to help us, and she administered a severe tongue-lashing to Babu when he finally returned home, shortly after Amma was released from hospital. He did not quarrel with the rebuke. That evening, he sang bhajans for longer than usual.

By August 1965, India was fighting yet another war, this time with its estranged sibling, Pakistan. Border skirmishes along the disputed Line of Control in Kashmir had escalated into a full-scale war, and, in contrast to the war with China in 1962, fought in the distant reaches of the Himalayas, this time the battleground was our own backyard. Intense battles were reported along the border regions of Kashmir, Punjab, and Rajasthan. By September, air raids into civilian border areas brought the war even closer. All India Radio regularly broadcast updates, in an effort to dispel the persistent rumours of Pakistani paratroopers landing on the outskirts of major Indian cities, and both radio and newspapers issued instructions on how to observe a blackout.

The border between Rajasthan and West Pakistan stretches for more than six hundred miles, passing mostly through the parched landscape of the Thar Desert. Early in September, the fighting spread to Pakistan’s southernmost province, Sindh, with Pakistani forces capturing nearby towns in western Rajasthan. Although Jaipur was well over three hundred miles from the boundary area, we all feared that Pakistan would send air raids to destroy the only two airfields in Rajasthan—one in Jaipur, the other further west, in Jodhpur.

Amma and I spent most of the months of August and September going door-to-door handing out paper, cloth, and homemade glue to residents so that they could cover every single window and latticed screen in their homes. Despite her recent health scare, Amma was back on her feet and working hard, although she was also, for a change, taking her medication regularly. She and Babu joined many others in the city in organizing prabhat pheri rallies, held shortly after daybreak. Their aim was to encourage people to donate money, time, and goods for war relief and, most importantly, to appeal for peace and harmony.

The Muslim minority in the city was feeling the pressure of public hostility, as people questioned their loyalty. Shafiji still came to work as usual, but Amma insisted that he leave before dusk to avoid trouble on his way home. Babu often walked with him to Ramganj Bazaar, where Shafiji lived with several generations of his extended family among the largest concentration of Muslim families within the walled city.

To supplement the limited news available from All India Radio’s restricted reporting, we listened to international radio stations on shortwave. It was horrific to hear the numbers of casualties reported by both countries. Pakistani leaders spewed vitriol toward “Hindu India.” Indian leaders made chilling boasts about Indian forces advancing into Pakistani territory as far as Lahore. The air raid sirens went off several times a night, constantly testing the preparedness of the city. This more than anything made the dread of a violent war that hung over our city almost palpable.

We lived in this way for the better part of two months until, under pressure from the Soviet Union and the United States, both sides agreed to an official ceasefire on 23 September. Dread was replaced by jubilation in the streets, with drums, brass bands, and loud chants of Prime Minister Shastriji’s slogan, Jai jawan, jai kisan, “Victory to the soldier, victory to the farmer.” But international commentators were calling it an inconclusive war, not a victory. Both countries were still claiming parts of each other’s territories. Meanwhile, China was threatening military action on the eastern border once again, although this had only led to political posturing on both sides—so far.

Nehruji’s foreign policy lay in shambles. The friendly Soviet Union had remained neutral during the war. Pakistan and China had formed a military entente against India, and the United States had become an ally of Pakistan in response to India’s socialist leanings. Within two decades of independence, India found itself with hostile neighbours on its eastern, northern, and western fronts. Even relations between India and its southern neighbour, Ceylon, were marked by tensions surrounding the large population of ethnic Tamils left stateless by the Ceylon Citizenship Act of 1948, whom the Sinhalese government wanted to deport back to India.

The brief but bloody war meant that the second year of my two-year master’s program had been shortened, as classes were often suspended. Now I was forced to double up my study and practice hours in order to graduate on schedule. But the need to concentrate on my work distracted me from other concerns, including lingering worries about my mother’s health.

JAIPUR, 1966

The year started with yet another national trauma: Prime Minister Lal Bahadur Shastri died in Tashkent on 11 January. He had gone to the Soviet city to sign the agreement with Pakistan that officially settled the conflict of the previous year and had died there of a heart attack the day after the signing. Rumours of foul play abounded, with his family alleging that he had been poisoned. Amma remembered Shastriji fondly from her freedom movement days; she had known him as an earthly man of humble beginnings, with an extremely progressive social and political vision. Even Babu, who had no love for Congress leaders, attended the public meeting of mourning to express his sorrow at the country’s loss.

Having wielded considerable unofficial influence in government during her father’s long term in office, Indira Gandhi was keenly aware of her unpopularity within the Congress Party. She had wisely declined the offer to take office after her father’s death, keeping a relatively low profile instead as Minister of Information and Broadcasting in Shastriji’s cabinet. Now, however, with the sudden death of Shastriji, her ascendance to the office of prime minister was being opposed only by the conservative faction within the Congress Party, which was led by Morarji Desai. And once again, Babu was directing verbal venom at the Congress Party for not allowing the country to emerge from the grip of hereditary rulers.

Amma, however, was torn between her earlier doubts about Mrs. Gandhi and her delight at the appointment of a woman. In 1960, with the election of Sirimavo Bhandaranaike, neighbouring Ceylon had laid claim to the world’s first female prime minister. Now India was next! So Amma put aside her misgivings about Mrs. Gandhi and reminded Babu of Mahatma Gandhi’s vision of women’s equality in society. Babu looked unconvinced but chose to retreat into sullen silence rather than argue any further. On my part, I was grateful for Amma’s interpretation of these dramatic political events. It helped to replace the anxiety I was feeling in such uncertain times with a sense of hope.

These were indeed very uncertain times for India, but they were uncertain for me as well. I was almost twenty, still unmarried, and thinking about leaving home to continue my studies. Especially in this final year of my master’s degree in Hindustani classical music, I had begun to enjoy that discipline as much as I had painting. Amma and Babu were thrilled by my decision to pursue a doctorate, but I needed to do well in my exams.

Despite Amma-Babu’s dislike of show tunes on the radio, music permeated our lives. Shafiji’s jasmine tree was a magnet for song birds, sun birds, sparrows, robins, bulbuls, hoopoes, swallows, and others, which filled the courtyard with avian notes every morning. The sound of music from the blaring radios in the stores in the bazaar blended with morning and evening prayers from the neighbouring temples, mosques, and houses. Closer by, Mangi bai often sang while working in the kitchen; she had a repertoire of Marwari songs for every occasion and emotion. Babu’s hour-long bhajan sessions in the evenings, sung to the accompaniment of his harmonium, were always followed by my practice sessions with the tanpura. At night, I put my little transistor radio under my pillow to muffle its sound so that I could listen to show tunes, old and new, without incurring Babu’s wrath.

In many ways I wanted desperately to leave home, even if it meant living an austere, regimented life in the dusty bowl of a village, about fifty miles south of Jaipur, where Banasthali Vidyapith was situated. The University of Rajasthan presently offered only a master’s degree in music, despite constant rumours that the music department here was on the verge of introducing a PhD program. Recently, however, Banasthali Vidyapith—a women’s college affiliated with the University of Rajasthan—had announced the imminent arrival of Professor B. R. Deodhar to head the music department. A highly respected musicologist and vocalist, who was nearing the end of a long and luminous career, Professor Deodhar came to Banasthali from Banaras Hindu University, where he had spent a number of years as the principal of the program in vocal music. With Deodhar on board, Banasthali Vidyapith had been authorized by the University of Rajasthan to launch a doctoral program in music—the first in Rajasthan. This was exciting news. All the same, my lifelong habit of deferring to the wishes and needs of others inclined me to stay on in Jaipur, dutifully remaining with my parents until the inevitable matrimonial alliance plucked me away from home.

In an astonishingly short time, Didi had put her days of sitar concerts, classical dance recitals, and public rallies behind her and had become a keen card player and an avid clubber, just like Jijaji. Amma’s horror at her transformation was held in check by Didi’s sadness at being childless, despite trying numerous medical and non-medical fertility treatments. Thakur saheb attributed it to an ancient curse, which had predicted an end to his lineage. Meanwhile, Jijaji’s days of driving around the country had been replaced by periodic trips to Jaipur and the development of his factory for agricultural machinery.

I wanted a life unlike either Amma’s or Didi’s. I was not sure what that would look like, but I knew I needed time, which I was running out of rapidly. A twenty-year-old unmarried girl was an uncommon entity in my world. She was the focus of criticism and suspicion, considered well on her way to being an old maid. Although I felt guilty for abandoning Amma and Babu, I enjoyed the prospect of being away from home to pursue my doctorate. It might help alleviate the criticism, and at the very least it would take me away from the disenchanted Babu and long-suffering Amma. As for the educational qualification, it might be my only ticket to a new life.

Amma had been consciously taking care of her health, perhaps trying to ease my anxiety about leaving home. My bike gathered dust in a corner of the house as I retreated into my room to study for my final exams. Only one thing, at first, could tempt me from my seclusion: Karuna’s wedding that summer. But then, in the midst of the singing, dancing, and merriment of the wedding festivities, Karuna introduced me to an aunt who was looking for homes for newborn Briard pups.

The number of animals needing care in our own home was by then down to one resident cat and two talkative parrots in a large cage. Shafiji’s young family had been enthusiastically taking in his tiny rescues, thus thankfully reducing our own menagerie, but that didn’t mean I would be allowed to take one of these puppies. I had fed and loved a number of stray dogs in our neighbourhood, but until now had never been allowed to bring one home: Amma and Babu were opposed to the idea of human ownership of animals, except when necessary to relieve the animal’s distress.

Once the wedding festivities and the exams were all over, I tentatively broached the subject. To my surprise, instead of launching into a diatribe on the difference between owning an animal and loving all creatures, Amma smiled indulgently. “I know how lonely you have been since your Didi left home. But soon you will leave this house too, no?” I suggested that a dog would fill not only my present loneliness but also the eventual void that the journey of my life would create in Amma’s and Babu’s lives. Banasthali wasn’t very far away, I argued, and it was well connected to Jaipur both by rail and bus. I would be visiting Jaipur frequently, and I could help train the puppy. Amma surprised me again by agreeing to visit Karuna’s aunt.

A bigger battle lay ahead in convincing Babu, so I spent the night honing my arguments to counter his moral objections to adopting the puppy. Early the next morning, while I was still steeling myself to face him, I heard Amma’s voice in his room, informing him of my plan to adopt a dog. I could imagine his sepia-brown eyes glinting in anger as he growled, “So you think it’s all right to separate a baby from its mother because it’s a dog? Rekha is a child, so her irrational desire is understandable. Isn’t it our duty to point out the difference between love and cruelty?”

Amma interrupted him, “Rekha is not a child. She is a twenty-year-old woman who does everything to please her demanding parents. She will soon leave this house, only to return as an occasional visitor. While she is still at home, I would like her to feel less lonely and not like a sacrificial victim on the altar of duty.”

I wasn’t sure how to interpret the stunned silence from the other side of the wall. But I hurtled out the door the second Amma summoned me to accompany her to Nitaji’s house. We took a tonga to the large new house by the university where Nitaji’s family lived with their pair of Briards and the one pup that still remained from the recent litter, a male. Armed with a square wicker basket lined with towels, I spent our journey there excitedly describing to Amma all that I had learned from Nitaji about this breed’s characteristics and how to train it. When the tonga arrived I leapt out of it, but Amma did not move. Instead, she handed me the basket and asked me if I had thought this through.

I tried to assure her, and myself, that the pup would have to be separated from his mother, whether by us or some other family. He was two months old, the right age to start training. I would take care of him. At my assurances, Amma asked me to fetch the pup. But she did not move from her seat in the tonga. It was clear that, although I had her support, I would have to own the decision to separate a puppy from its mother.

I had a long list of names for the puppy in my head—heroes from various classic novels, mythological figures, historical characters, and names of trees, mountains, and rivers. But when a broad, beige, furry puppy with captivating indigo-blue eyes began licking my face, I knew from the colour of his eyes that he could only be called “Neelu.”

Amma and I took Neelu to our vet, Dr. Ramchandani, who had been a young boy when his family fled their ancestral home in Sindh during the partition of the subcontinent. As a child he had often accompanied his feisty mother on her visits to the refugee camps, and so he had known Amma-Babu since those days. Today he looked amused at the spunky little bundle of fur that we had brought to him. He drew up a chart of inoculations and declared Neelu to be in perfect health. He reassured me that the puppy would grow into his chubby paws quite well. He also lent me a few books from the shelf in his office on dog training and breeds.

Then he turned to Amma. “A dog this big will need appropriate food to lead a healthy life,” he said, a delicate allusion to Amma and Babu’s strict vegetarianism.

Amma did not hesitate for a moment. “As the newest member of our family, he will eat whatever we eat.”

Dr. Ramchandani chuckled. “So you plan to raise a grass-fed lion.”

Amma caressed the pudgy puppy cradled comfortably in my arms. “This lion cub will do just fine on roti and dal.” And he did.

It would be at least three months before my exam results were out and the verdict on my application to the doctoral program announced, and the long lazy summer months lay ahead like an endless delirium. The scorching sun forced people to stay indoors until the desert sand cooled, late in the evening. Unlike other summers, however, this time I was occupied with the task of raising a bouncy puppy, training him to socialize amicably with the human and non-human residents of our home, and teaching him the rules of the open-door setup of the house. For once, I needed no motivation to stay indoors.

Our normally quiet house came alive with the sweet excitement that only a frolicking puppy can bring. Even Babu could not resist the cuddly ball of fur. I was relieved by this at first, but then Neelu found the best way to escape my discipline—an alliance with Babu. I was trying hard to train Neelu so that he would grow into a well-behaved dog, but—to my utter dismay—Neela soon discovered that he could use Babu as his refuge whenever he grew tired of my training sessions or my scoldings. Whenever Babu saw Neelu slinking under his desk or onto the bed, he would invite him to sit on his lap, where he would address him as “Shyam Sundar”—a name for Krishna alluding to his dusky beauty. For this boisterous blonde pup it seemed highly inappropriate. Neelu was rapidly growing into a large dog, but he continued to climb onto Babu’s lap, where he radiated an air of invincibility.

When the monsoon clouds appeared on the eastern horizon, heralding the end of a joyous summer, they also brought news of my acceptance into the doctoral research program at Banasthali Vidyapith. I could not wait to start the new chapter of my life, sad though I was to leave Neelu behind.