9

Letting Go

JAIPUR, 1971

Amma hired a brass band to play in front of the house to welcome the arrival of a healthy baby. Neighbourhood ladies arrived at the house to sing traditional songs as hijras and beggars gathered outside to sing and dance and to receive gifts. Amma proudly carried the tiny, squealing creature to seek their blessings, horrifying them by announcing that the child was not a boy, as they expected from the musical celebrations. The hijras refused to accept any money, but when Amma insisted, they sang one song and gave their blessings, even though the baby was a girl.

I had come home, as was customary, to give birth to this tiny being, for whom every family member had a different name. Amma called her Bittu, a variant of bitiya, daughter. Didi called her Guddu, and Babu called her Guddan, both meaning a doll. Sinha saheb called her Meenu, a precious gem, but was hilariously awkward in holding her in his arms.

I felt the love that radiated from Didi when she held the baby close to her. Her love felt stronger, less tangled, than my own mixed emotions. “She is yours too, Didi,” I said softly.

Didi’s large almond eyes were brimming over, “She is a girl. How long will she be ours, Rekha? Look at our Amma—raised two daughters with her blood and sweat. For what, to find herself sick before she is old? To find herself alone again.”

But Didi did hold on to the baby a bit tighter when I embraced her to bring them closer. We comforted each other until the incessant cries of my colicky baby completely took over. Didi, Amma, and I took turns rocking her throughout the night. Sometimes, I cried with her, and Amma cried with me.

Sinha saheb had arrived in Jaipur, just in time for the delivery of our daughter, in a shiny new Standard Herald car. “A private chariot for my queen and princess,” he had said. Amma suggested that I stay in Jaipur for a few more weeks to recuperate. But I did not want to spend any longer than absolutely necessary away from Sinha saheb, even if it meant braving the long road trip back to Dhanbad within a month of giving birth. Amma promised to visit us during the summer vacation, and before too long she was with us again.

Amma loved the garden in Dhanbad and made sure that breakfast was always served at the covered swing next to the fragrant bush of kaner—the yellow oleander. As long as her aching knees allowed, she liked to tend to the numerous plants and incessantly quizzed the company gardener on his visits. Amma also added western Indian recipes to Nandkishor’s repertoire of dishes.

Sinha saheb took a few days off to drive us to nearby attractions, for walks along Maithon Lake, boat rides on the Damodar River, excursions to bird and deer sanctuaries, and explorations of centuries-old temples. One morning he suggested a road trip to the Chhinnamastika temple, one of the region’s most important sites of Tantric Shakti worship. The temple was dedicated to the goddess Devi, in her terrifying aspect as Chhinnamastika, a name that means “severed head.” The goddess is often depicted holding a knife in one hand and, in the other, her own head, which drinks from the fountain of blood shooting up from her neck.

Perhaps ironically, the temple sat at the confluence of two rivers, which formed a spectacular waterfall. Amma asked whether, as at other such shrines, they still practiced animal sacrifice to appease the fearsome goddess. Realizing that his suggestion had landed him in trouble, Sinha saheb delicately noted that, on certain days of the week, there were no sacrifices. Amma said that she would go if he insisted on it, but that she couldn’t promise not to protest animal sacrifice in the temple.

“But Amma, who are we to judge the matter of someone else’s faith?” I sounded more irritated than I felt.

“You are right—so I’d rather not go at all,” Amma replied. “But you know me well enough to know I will never be a bystander to any act of violence.” Her tone made it clear that she was not backing down.

To prevent our debate from escalating, Sinha saheb suggested that we go to Panchet Dam instead. Nestled in the hills bordering West Bengal, the dam was surrounded by the ruins of forts and temples. We managed to have a lovely trip despite the baby, who cried every time the car stopped.

Only a few days after Amma returned to Jaipur, Jain saheb called to say that she was experiencing heart palpitations but was refusing to go to the hospital. Sinha saheb wasted no time in piling us into the car for the long trek to Jaipur.

These lengthy road trips were no longer fun, but Sinha saheb insisted on driving rather than taking the train. Instead of the thrill I once felt at discovering new sights and exploring unfamiliar terrain, I now winced at dangerous curves, worried about the narrow, shoulderless roads, and dreaded the crossing of dacoit-infested areas.

My worst fears came alive when the engine spluttered and died a few miles past Mainpuri, two-thirds of the way into our journey. It was already dusk when we reached Mainpuri, where we should have stopped for the night. But Sinha saheb decided to keep driving toward Firozabad, which was only about forty miles away and had the only decent hotels along this route until Agra.

Now here we were with an infant wailing her lungs out, a terrified Nandkishor shivering in the warm night, and a sullen Sinha saheb trying to negotiate with the engine. A beam of light from his electric torch revealed an unbroken thin line of petrol under the car, which explained why the tank was empty when it should have been at least half full. He guessed that a flying stone must have hit a seam somewhere in the undercarriage.

At that hour, there were few vehicles on the road. We tried to flag each one down, but they just swerved and sped past us. Sinha saheb explained that gangs of highway robbers were known to employ many tricks to stop vehicles at night to rob them.

Several long minutes passed with not a single vehicle in sight. Finally, as the blanket of the dark night tucked tighter around us, I spotted the high beam of a bus in the distance. I waited until it was close enough that the driver could see us clearly and then took the wailing baby out of Nandkishor’s cold hands. Before Sinha saheb could stop me, I planted myself squarely in the middle of the road, baby in one arm, the other arm raised above my shoulder, in a frantic wave. The bus driver could swerve to the left into our parked car or over to the right and into the ditch, or he could run me down. Thankfully, he chose to bring the bus to a screeching halt, just inches away.

The bus conductor leaned out of the window screaming profanities, pausing only long enough to catch the sound of a baby wailing. At that, he hurriedly opened the door to pull us into the bus, and the driver stepped on the accelerator hard the instant the door shut. Some of the passengers moved around to make room for the newcomers. Once we had all had a chance to catch our breath, I noticed that the baby’s wailing had, miraculously, stopped. The old man sitting next to me said the real miracle was that we had survived being stranded in those parts, where two nights ago they had driven past the bleeding body of a dead or dying man.

Forget about the car and your belongings, the driver told us. This was a long-distance bus bound for Agra and did not normally make stops along the route, but we just needed a ride out of the jungle to somewhere we could spend the night safely and then find a mechanic who would return with us in the morning—with the hope of finding the car where we left it. Twenty minutes later, the bus dropped us off at a roadside dhaba in Shikohabad, the only place in town that still had its lights on in the dead of the night.

The Sikh owner of this trucker’s food-stop was incredibly hospitable. Sardarji made us fresh tea, paratha, and paneer-bhurji, despite our vehement protests. He especially insisted that I eat. “For the little one. My granddaughter was born a few months ago in the village. I have not seen her yet. I’m sure she is just as little,” he said.

The roadside dhaba was just an enclosure of three brick and mud walls supporting a metal sheet roof. Leafy trees surrounded the front of the enclosure, where the clay tandoor sat next to a low brick counter lined with large steel pots. Against the back wall of the enclosure were shelves for storing ingredients in clay jars and tin boxes, as well as a jute charpai piled high with onions, garlic, potatoes, and other root vegetables, to keep them dry. Sardarji tipped the load out of the cot and offered it to me as a place to rest with the baby. Then he joined Sinha saheb and Nandkishor on one of the many other rickety jute cots that were scattered under the trees, to keep vigil and wait for the morning light.

Lying on the smelly cot, I dared not close my eyes, wondering about scorpions and snakes lurking in the muddy recesses of the dhaba. Thankfully, eardrum-piercing wails from the baby were not one of my concerns that night—of course now she is comfortable. I could focus just on keeping my bladder and bowels shut tight until we could get to a hotel.

At the first light of morning, Sardarji brought a car mechanic on a motorbike. Nandkishor and the mechanic left with a can of petrol to find the car, while Sardarji hailed the first passing truck, which agreed to give us a ride as far as Firozabad. Sardarji refused to accept any money from us, so I took off my baby’s silver anklets. He could not refuse them when I said that they were a gift from one little one to another.

As we had feared, Amma had had another heart attack. I had been in Jaipur for several months, unable to return to Dhanbad. Instead, with Mangi bai’s dependable help, I was trying my best to run this bizarre household. Babu was concerned about Amma’s health but did not know how to compromise his daily routine to help us. Amma remained dismissive about medicine, so I had to argue with her several times a day, trying to force her to take her heart medication and stick to her salt-free diet. Shafiji managed to keep the press afloat and continued to be Amma’s rock in his strong quiet way.

Neelu was much more accepting of the baby in my life than he had been of Sinha saheb. He still contrived to steal Sinha saheb’s shaving brush or his slippers and hide them in a corner on the terrace. Sinha saheb visited us as often as he could, but I fretted the whole time whenever he was on the road.

Babu’s usually morose editorial associate, Viyogiji, was pumped up with the political developments in East Pakistan, excitedly discussing his ideas for special editions of Praja Sandesh that would resurrect the newspaper. West Pakistan and East Pakistan were separated by thousands of miles of Indian territory. Culturally, ethnically, and linguistically, the two were as dissimilar as Russia and China, sharing only a religion. Viyogiji called this odd political formation one of the many mistakes of partition by the British colonialists. Babu called it the deliberate dismemberment of the subcontinent to punish it for its freedom.

Since the beginning of the year, millions of Bengali-speaking refugees from East Pakistan had sought shelter in various parts of India, their presence visible not only in eastern cities such as Dhanbad, but as far west as Jaipur. All India Radio reported nearly 10 million refugees and nearly 30 million internally displaced since the West Pakistan–dominated military junta had annulled last year’s election and arrested Sheikh Mujibur Rahman, the prime minister–elect. Newspapers had been reporting massacres of intelligentsia and university students to curb the Bengali nationalist movement.

Most of the news reports trickling into India focused on the ongoing genocide, placing the number of victims between several hundred thousand and three million. Instead of this, Viyogiji wanted to write about the civil disobedience movement and the resilience of Bengali nationalism in the face of the military-led pogrom. Babu, in support of this plan, asked him to find out more about the guerrilla tactics of civilians and the resistance offered by the Mukti Bahini forces since the declaration of independence earlier that year.

But my mind was preoccupied with a personal battle. The gynecologist had assured me that I had little chance of getting pregnant while I was breast-feeding. Yet here I was, with a baby just a few months old, pregnant again. Didi had accompanied me to the doctor when I received the news. She was irritated. “Are you two animals? Do you know nothing about family planning?” I sat there, unmoving and embarrassed.

Didi tried to make up for her outburst by breaking the news to Amma, so that I wouldn’t have to do it. I told Amma that I wanted to talk to Sinha saheb about whether to terminate the pregnancy. But Amma said that a mistake cannot be righted by another mistake. She even suggested that I might think of it as “god’s wish.” She was trying to hand me an anchor, but this act of faith worked for me no more than it had ever worked for her.

I didn’t know what to do. But there was little time to ponder, when all my waking hours were filled with looking after a colicky infant, a sick and stubborn mother, a man-child of a father, a sister and husband who showed up briefly as guests, an overprotective dog who frequently needed to be restrained, and the near-constant stream of visitors who came to the house every single day, despite Neelu’s menacing presence.

Indira Gandhi was on the radio, addressing the nation, announcing Pakistani airstrikes on Indian bases, interpreting them as a declaration of war. Fifty Pakistani planes had struck as many as eleven targets, including Agra, which was some two hundred miles from the nearest border and even closer than that to Jaipur. Politically, India had supported East Pakistan’s liberation movement, and had allowed the Bangladeshi government in exile to work out of Calcutta. Militarily, India was much more prepared than ever before.

Indira Gandhi had emerged as an astute politician, turning her expulsion from the Congress Party a few years before into a move to split the party and alienate her detractors. Redefining herself as the messiah of the poor had won her the last election by a landslide majority. Her swearing-in for a new term as India’s prime minister had coincided with the revolt of the Bangladeshi military units against the genocide being carried out by the Pakistani army.

Indian military had offered protection and training to the Mukti Bahini of Bangladesh, so the war with Pakistan was inevitable. This time, though, it ended with a swift and decisive victory for India and for an independent Bangladesh. Indira Gandhi was being hailed as the Iron Lady and being compared to the goddess Durga.

Too tired to fight Babu’s continuing objections to the political dynamics of the day, Amma had stayed away from the recent general election. This was most unlike her, and I was terribly worried. Her health was rapidly declining despite all precautions, and her blood pressure remained very high. Even her daily diary entries were brief and erratic now. Her palpitations returned when she heard of Sinha saheb’s unanticipated arrival, just as the war came to its decisive end.

Sinha saheb went straight to Amma’s room. “Ammaji, I have not come to take your daughter away. I have returned to bring you a son. I have resigned from my job.”

I was not sure who was more stunned by this announcement, Amma or me.

Sinha saheb assured us that he had thought this through. Indira Gandhi’s government had recently nationalized major banks, in a move to increase the credit available to agriculture and to expand banking in rural areas. Now, basking in the glow of her military victory and burgeoning popularity, she was planning to nationalize the massive coal mining sector. Nationalizing the mines might or might not ease the plight of mineworkers, but, in the coal belt, the mafia thugs and union bosses were already redrawing their boundaries. The mafia wars had intensified, and the pacifists were being forced out of the way—or eliminated.

“I can carry on as before. I know I will survive this turmoil. But it is not a place to raise a family,” he said earnestly. “It is not worthy of your daughter’s dreams.”

Both Amma and I were speechless. So Sinha saheb continued talking, explaining that he had lined up a couple of interviews in Jaipur, as well as one in Sawai Madhopur, where a new cement plant was under construction.

Amma finally recovered enough to ask him to think carefully. She knew as well as I did that moving into his wife’s family home would irreparably damage his honour and reputation. Perhaps he should consult his family before making such a drastic move, she suggested.

Sinha saheb shook his head. “My father has three other sons. Rekha is all you have. I will not take her away from you again.”

JAIPUR, 1972

They said that when an old woman lay dying, my Amma held her hand and spoke the Mahamrityunjaya Mantra in her ear, easing her passage. They said that Amma could summon and banish spirits. They said Amma had fought fearlessly and won repeatedly against man and beast. They said Amma’s past was a divine secret, the source of her infinite courage and wisdom, ever mysterious. They said Amma changed lives just by standing behind a person. They said they loved and worshipped my Amma.

I saw them everywhere through my blurred eyes. They were bathing Amma’s body, anointing her head with sesame oil. They were covering Amma’s lifeless body in one of her khadi saris. They were holding me by the shoulder as I walked numbly next to the arthi, the bier made from sticks of bamboo, which carried her body. They were arguing about whether women should accompany the body to the cremation grounds. They were filling the narrow streets, the broad bazaars, the cremation grounds.

Sinha saheb had the son’s honour of introducing cleansing fire to Amma’s funeral pyre. The smells of jasmine, sandalwood, and ghee mixed with the stench of immolating flesh. The mild spring sun hid its bloodshot pupil behind a murky cloud. Despite the interventions of a gusty wind and unseasonal showers, the wood pyre’s leaping flames raged for hours, mercilessly reducing Amma’s lifeless body to ashes and chunks of bones.

My tears broke the floodgates when I saw my sister. Didi and Jijaji reached Jaipur hours after the cremation. I heard Sinha saheb tell them how I had woken up at two in the morning the night before with a sense of foreboding, and rushed to Amma’s room. She had been lying on her back on her pristine white bed, eyes bulging, barely breathing—waiting. My scream had brought Babu and Sinha saheb rushing into the room. Babu had sat on the bed and put her head in his lap, tears streaming down his cheeks. Amma had looked steadily into his eyes, without blinking. When Sinha saheb had said that he was going to call the doctor, Amma’s grip on my hand had tightened. I asked Sinha saheb to stay. Babu put his hand on the crown of Amma’s head. At his touch, a slight smile appeared on her face. The moment froze, and then the eyes, and then the smile.

Sinha saheb, Shafiji, and Jijaji were organizing the constant flow of mourners. Didi, Babu, and I sat next to a large picture of Amma on the floor of the drawing room, which had been emptied out in order to create space for people to pay their respects. Tears had not stopped rolling out of Babu’s closed eyes.

Neelu had never been allowed in Amma’s room, due to her low mattress-bed and its white coverings. Now the bedding was gone from the room, and Neelu lay on its cold hard floor for hours. For two days he refused to eat.

Jain saheb wanted to know if the big day of mourning would be the third or the seventh day after death, waking Babu from his mournful reverie with the question. Babu rose up to his full height and glared at him. “She lived to fight against meaningless rituals. We should not forget that in her death.” With that he left the house and only returned the next morning, with a bunch of flowers plucked from Ram Niwas Gardens.

Babu had remembered that his granddaughter turned one year old that day. He laid the flowers beside the sleeping baby and told a surprised Mangi bai to make some celebratory halwa. Shafiji was aghast when Babu gave him money to buy sweets from the market. “Babuji, we have done no mourning rituals for the departed. Badi behenji died three days ago. It is too early to celebrate anything.” So Babu said he would buy the sweets himself.

We were learning that eulogies for Amma had appeared in many newspapers, far and wide. Nobody could override Babu’s injunction against any memorial gathering. But Amma’s high school trustees, teachers, and students held a memorial without his participation, dedicating the death anniversary of their founder-principal as an annual day of remembrance for Veer Balika School. Amma had been fifty-four.

A stranger arrived from Ajmer. Dr. Mathur was a short and balding man whose thin frame was draped in a formal safari suit. He explained that when he read Amma’s obituary in the newspaper, he immediately wished to pay his respects. He was, he said, a full-time physician and part-time historian, and he regretted that he had not paid us a visit earlier. We were used to encountering strangers who admired Amma. But Dr. Mathur had never met her.

Dr. Mathur had come across references to young Shanti in the course of his historical research. He had interviewed a number of former freedom fighters in Ajmer and Wardha and had traced significant steps of her journey from prison to Gandhiji’s ashram. Only recently, though, had he made the connection between Shanti and my Amma. He had been distracted from Amma’s story, he explained, by his determination to unravel the mystery of Subhas Chandra Bose’s death.

I thanked him for his condolences and took him to Babu’s room to make introductions. Dr. Mathur regarded Babu’s countenance with clinical interest and sought his permission to return the next day to talk about a historical research project he was working on. Babu curtly stated that he was as interested in discussing any research as he was in constructing a high bridge to jump off of. Dr. Mathur was undeterred. “Then I will come to talk,” he replied, “and you can just listen.”

Dr. Mathur arrived within moments of Babu’s return from his morning walk. Babu resignedly asked Mangi bai to serve breakfast to the eager talker. I decided to plant myself in Babu’s room in case his temper got out of hand. Dr. Mathur explained that he was compiling a book about the freedom fighters of the region. Babu scornfully asked who would want to read such a book. Dr. Mathur said that people did not know the true history of the movement. Babu said it didn’t matter.

They bantered and sparred until Dr. Mathur started to reveal the information he had collected about Amma’s prison terms and her time in Ajmer and Wardha. He had brought along a large file of handwritten notes and photocopied documents. I was impressed, and even Babu stopped his snide commentary. Dr. Mathur asked a few questions about the gaps in his knowledge of Amma’s political activities since independence. Babu warmed up and readily answered these questions.

Dr. Mathur wanted to know more about how the two of them met in Wardha and their wedding. Babu said earnestly, “Marriage ruined her life.”

Dr. Mathur quickly apologized and asked whether Babu would be willing to talk about his life before arriving in Wardha. Babu’s face hardened, and he closed his eyes without an answer. Dr. Mathur probed again, “I heard that you used to work with Subhas Chandra Bose. Is it true that Netaji used wireless telegraphy to communicate with his intelligence unit?”

Babu stood over the diminutive doctor and rumbled, “Netaji never used wireless telegraphy. Now get out of my room.”

Babu was easily irritated, especially when people asked him questions about his time with Netaji. Dr. Mathur bowed and left the room but stood outside trembling, with an incongruous smile on his face. I asked him if he would like to sit down for a bit. He followed me to the dining room, the furthest room away from Babu’s, and burst into tears. After a drink of water, he rummaged through his papers and showed me some letters. One of them described my father’s physical appearance, right down to his nearly deaf left ear.

Dr. Mathur had been on a mission to uncover the truth about Subhas Chandra Bose’s life and death. Like a number of people, he believed that Netaji did not die in the air crash in 1945. Rumours abounded of Netaji living in Russia, or in China, or in a reclusive ashram in India. Dr. Mathur was convinced that Netaji was indeed alive and that his close associates continued to get together periodically, and he had been trying to track down some of them.

As I well knew, there were many who had publicly proclaimed their association with Netaji, but also many who, for one reason or another, had kept it under wraps. Netaji had quarrelled openly with Gandhiji and Nehruji and had sought the help of Nazi Germany and fascist Japan against the British. The cryptic circumstances of his death in a fiery plane crash had sparked a number of conspiracy theories involving various people, both in India and abroad, who had reasons to want him dead, as well as rumours that he wasn’t dead at all.

In Wardha, Dr. Mathur had heard the story of one of Netaji’s intelligence officers who had joined Gandhiji’s ashram after Netaji met with Hitler. One of the regulars at Gandhiji’s ashram had sent a letter to Dr. Mathur describing what he remembered of the young deserter. I could certainly see my Babu in those scratchy lines on the faded blue envelope. It even mentioned his strength-building routines of hour-long headstands and his swims in the river.

Dr. Mathur quizzed me about Babu. Did he ever disappear without any explanation? Yes, periodically, for as long as I could remember.

Did he ever mention where he used to go? Never. Except that we sometimes received letters from him postmarked from distant places.

Does he know any Russian? Yes, along with French and German, and several other languages.

Tears rolled down Dr. Mathur’s face. “Finally, I have met a living member of Netaji’s inner circle!”

I was touched by his joy, but I also knew that Babu would never let him anywhere near him again. I gave him the only explanation Babu had ever offered for his unyielding refusal to divulge his past—that he had promised Gandhiji to keep it a secret in return for his protection.

Despite my efforts to spare him further trouble, Dr. Mathur left saying that he would return at some point and try to speak to Babu again. Indeed, every few years he would reappear, hoping to cajole Babu into revealing more about his mysterious past. Babu never obliged, but, nothing if not relentless in his quest for the truth, Dr. Mathur never gave up.

After a few days, Didi and Jijaji returned to Dhar. But, with Amma’s death, we seemed to have lost the fulcrum in our lives. Babu could no longer sleep. He saw Amma staring at him wherever he went. He saw her waiting for him in dark corners. He saw her beckoning to him from behind tree trunks and electrical poles. He heard her curse him, calling him selfish and irresponsible. He heard her laugh at him maniacally when he tried to flee from the apparition.

Then Babu disappeared. Concerned about his mental stability, Sinha saheb and Shafiji roamed the city, looking for him. When the manager of an ashram in Vrindavan phoned to ask us to take a very sick Babu home, I was relieved but also annoyed.

Babu was indeed ill, but he recovered from his delirium and fever, and then he ran away again. It was becoming a strange cat and mouse game. Sinha saheb dutifully retrieved Babu from the various places he ended up on these escape attempts, all around the country, while I tried to keep the household together.

Sinha saheb had been offered the position in Sawai Madhopur, but the city was nearly a two-hour train trip from Jaipur. A family move was out of the question, so accepting the offer would mean that he would have to live there alone and come home as often as possible on weekends. But this arrangement seemed equally impossible: I had an infant who evidently specialized in being sick, a second baby due in a few weeks, and a very unstable father to look after.

In the meanwhile, Viyogiji was worrying about the future of Vaishali Press. With Amma gone, so was her income, and Babu was in no condition to run a business. There was a steady supply of printing jobs, which could potentially subsidize the publication of Praja Sandesh, at least as a weekly paper. But an initial investment would need to be made in modernizing the printing equipment. Seeing how reluctant Sinha saheb was to move away from Jaipur, Viyogiji was encouraging him to take over the press and invest his savings in the business. Sinha saheb agreed to this plan as a temporary measure, until our lives settled down, not realizing that this decision would mark the end of his former career.

One day, as I was sorting through Amma’s things, I came across her shoulder bag, untouched since her death. As my fingers groped their way into its depths, I found myself holding a small bottle. It was a bottle full of salt. Buried with it were numerous vials of heart medicines, most of which had never been opened.

I stared at this evidence, not wanting to trust my eyes, caught in a whirlpool of grief, anger, and remorse.

But we were here, Amma. Why did you abandon us? Didn’t you trust our love for you? Did you simply not love us?