Love and Longing in Bombay by Vikram Chandra
Authors: Vikram Chandra
.She felt very tired.
The exhaustion passed, but something else remained. As they began their bid, which Sheila insisted was not hostile but necessary, as they began their slow and audacious assault on Boatwalla Shipping International & Co. (since 1757), she found that all the pleasure was gone. The takeover was the most complicated puzzle that she had ever faced, and she was perfection itself, her memory was prodigious, her stamina unquenchable, and her charm of course was gleaming and soft and unstoppable. But she felt the gears grinding inside her. She told herself to remember whom she was doing it for, after all; she looked at her son’s face and remembered the way he had learned to walk by clinging precariously to her sari and his jerky little steps, but still every morning she lay awake in bed gathering the vitality, a little from here a little from there, for the great effort to get up and war with the day. But the only true thing was that her taste for the game in itself was gone. Suddenly it felt like work, but even when it was over for the day she could only sit silently, staring sometimes at the television, feeling lost. She tried to hide it, and Sanjeev, who had begun to write page after page of poetry, never noticed, but T.T. was uneasy. He said nothing but he looked wary, as if he had smelled something dangerous in the shifting air but wasn’t quite sure what it was, where it came from, what it meant.
It was now, in this, Sheila’s time of ashes, that Ganga came to her one Sunday. She was wearing a new, bright blue sari, and with her was Asha, also in a sari, a green one. It was a formal call: they stood in Sheila’s study, the mother a little in front.
“How pretty you look, Asha,” Sheila said.
As the girl blushed, Ganga spoke. “She finished her nurse training last week.”
“Very good, Asha!” Sheila said, touching her on the shoulder.
“She’s getting married next month,” Ganga said. “We came to give you the card. He’s a schoolteacher.”
Sheila took the envelope, which was huge, a foot square. Inside, the card was red, with a gold vine that went around the borders. It invited the reader to a ceremony and reception at the Vivekananda School Hall, Andheri.
“Will you come?” Ganga said.
Sheila was looking at Asha. For some reason, she was thinking suddenly about her first flight on an Air France plane, the leap of her stomach when the machine had escaped the ground.
“Yes,” Sheila said. “Of course.”
“Bring Sanjeev Baba, too.”
“Yes, I will.” Sanjeev hadn’t left the house for days, even weeks now, and Sheila was sure she couldn’t get him to come out of the edifice of his grief, she had already stopped asking him, but she said, “We’ll all come.”
Ganga nodded. “Come,” she said to Asha, who smiled over her shoulder at Sheila. She ran down the hall to keep up with her mother, the silver payals at her ankles tinkling with every step. Sheila sat down slowly at her desk. The girl’s eagerness hurt her, the small musical sound pressed against her abdomen and gave her a feeling of discovering a new emptiness. She remembered—remembered driving in a bus with the other hostesses in the early morning, to the airport, the red lights far away in the cool blue dawn, a plane thundering overhead with its running lights twinkling, and the glad feeling that it was all an invitation, a promise. They used to sing together, sometimes, Hindi film songs, from Marine Drive to Bandra, and sometimes in Paris on the road to Orly, with the French drivers smiling at them.
Now Sheila waited, with her hand on the phone, collecting herself before the next call. There were a lot of calls to make. The takeover was not going as planned. The Boatwallas had conducted the sort of political manoeuvring that had been expected, and that was easily countered—in fact it was welcome, because it revealed their connections and their understanding of their own predicament. It had become clear
The exhaustion passed, but something else remained. As they began their bid, which Sheila insisted was not hostile but necessary, as they began their slow and audacious assault on Boatwalla Shipping International & Co. (since 1757), she found that all the pleasure was gone. The takeover was the most complicated puzzle that she had ever faced, and she was perfection itself, her memory was prodigious, her stamina unquenchable, and her charm of course was gleaming and soft and unstoppable. But she felt the gears grinding inside her. She told herself to remember whom she was doing it for, after all; she looked at her son’s face and remembered the way he had learned to walk by clinging precariously to her sari and his jerky little steps, but still every morning she lay awake in bed gathering the vitality, a little from here a little from there, for the great effort to get up and war with the day. But the only true thing was that her taste for the game in itself was gone. Suddenly it felt like work, but even when it was over for the day she could only sit silently, staring sometimes at the television, feeling lost. She tried to hide it, and Sanjeev, who had begun to write page after page of poetry, never noticed, but T.T. was uneasy. He said nothing but he looked wary, as if he had smelled something dangerous in the shifting air but wasn’t quite sure what it was, where it came from, what it meant.
It was now, in this, Sheila’s time of ashes, that Ganga came to her one Sunday. She was wearing a new, bright blue sari, and with her was Asha, also in a sari, a green one. It was a formal call: they stood in Sheila’s study, the mother a little in front.
“How pretty you look, Asha,” Sheila said.
As the girl blushed, Ganga spoke. “She finished her nurse training last week.”
“Very good, Asha!” Sheila said, touching her on the shoulder.
“She’s getting married next month,” Ganga said. “We came to give you the card. He’s a schoolteacher.”
Sheila took the envelope, which was huge, a foot square. Inside, the card was red, with a gold vine that went around the borders. It invited the reader to a ceremony and reception at the Vivekananda School Hall, Andheri.
“Will you come?” Ganga said.
Sheila was looking at Asha. For some reason, she was thinking suddenly about her first flight on an Air France plane, the leap of her stomach when the machine had escaped the ground.
“Yes,” Sheila said. “Of course.”
“Bring Sanjeev Baba, too.”
“Yes, I will.” Sanjeev hadn’t left the house for days, even weeks now, and Sheila was sure she couldn’t get him to come out of the edifice of his grief, she had already stopped asking him, but she said, “We’ll all come.”
Ganga nodded. “Come,” she said to Asha, who smiled over her shoulder at Sheila. She ran down the hall to keep up with her mother, the silver payals at her ankles tinkling with every step. Sheila sat down slowly at her desk. The girl’s eagerness hurt her, the small musical sound pressed against her abdomen and gave her a feeling of discovering a new emptiness. She remembered—remembered driving in a bus with the other hostesses in the early morning, to the airport, the red lights far away in the cool blue dawn, a plane thundering overhead with its running lights twinkling, and the glad feeling that it was all an invitation, a promise. They used to sing together, sometimes, Hindi film songs, from Marine Drive to Bandra, and sometimes in Paris on the road to Orly, with the French drivers smiling at them.
Now Sheila waited, with her hand on the phone, collecting herself before the next call. There were a lot of calls to make. The takeover was not going as planned. The Boatwallas had conducted the sort of political manoeuvring that had been expected, and that was easily countered—in fact it was welcome, because it revealed their connections and their understanding of their own predicament. It had become clear