Chapter Twenty-nine

Our household, like every household in the world, had a routine. And no matter how long I’d been away, or where I might have gone, I would never forget it. There were nuances to my daily life in Mahim that seemed to remain the same day to day, year after year, times when everything would happen concurrently-phones ringing, servants shouting, radios blaring-and then again when everything was suddenly quiet. As mundane as my existence had been, there was a rhythm to it.

I glanced at my watch and worked out where, exactly, my family would be in the cycle of trivial events that made up their days. Dinner was probably over and, this being a Wednesday night, was most likely chicken cooked in masala spooned over saffron rice, a dal, a bhaji. In my previous life, Nana would be standing up, flicking the grains of yellow rice off his white kurta onto the table to be swept up by the servant’s wet rag, and then he would strap on his black leather sandals for a quick walk around the building.

“Good for digestion,” he would say, standing up to go. “Helps with emptying of stomach in the morning.”

Sometimes I would go with him. We would stroll around our floor first, glancing in through any doors that might be open, willing to nod and say a quick hello to any of the neighbors who might be in the middle of their own rhythm. Then we would make our way up the staircase and walk around subsequent floors, Nana repeating that climbing up and down stairs was good for the heart. Mostly, he and I would walk in silence, taking in the slow buzz of activity-of babies crying and children playing and televisions turned on too loud-that marked a day in the life of Ram Mahal, of just about any middle-class building in India that evening.

If Nana could still walk, that is exactly what he would be doing right then.

“I can tell; you’re thinking about him, right?” Nilu asked. She was sitting in the back next to me, her hand pressed into the spongy leather seat. “I haven’t been to see him since it happened. But the whole neighborhood is talking about it. It’s very good of you to come.”

“How could I not?” I asked, trying not to cry, trying to hold it all together. “Who knows when, or if, I might ever see him again?”

“It was pretty bad when it happened,” Nilu continued, although I partly wanted her to stop. “It was right there, you know, next to that electrical shop with the owner who is always drunk, opposite that place where your mother bought you the rose pink hair clips. We’ve gone past that area a million times you and I. That’s exactly where it happened. The auto-rickshaw was such a put-put that it just stopped, right there, in the middle of traffic. There was no way the bus could have stopped in time. The rickshaw-wallah died, there and then.”

“Please, Nilu, stop,” I said, now crying. “It’s too horrible to hear.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. She paused. “But there’s one other thing you should probably know. After the police and ambulance came, when they were putting your nana onto a stretcher and taking him to the hospital, they were gathering his things. He had been on his way to the post office to mail a letter. Tanaya,” she said, staring at me, “the letter was addressed to you.”

As we approached the neighborhood, it felt like I had never left. Mrs. Mehra’s School of Domestics sat on the same corner, its billboard a little more faded than I recall, the cheerful face of a woman in a sari holding a teacup and a platter of cookies two shades duller than I remembered it. All the shops were shuttered for the night, but the street activity remained: young men pedaling by on their bicycles, ringing their bells as they went, children chasing one another around big colored sheets that flapped from clotheslines. The slum dwellers squatted on the pavement, begging for coins from passersby, or rummaged through the big open bags of trash for dinner scraps.

I stared out of the car window, Nilu silent by my side, as we pulled up outside the building. A couple of lights were on in our apartment, but there was no sign of anyone, although I was certain that both my nana and my mother would be home. They were always home.

“I’ll come in with you, make sure everything is OK,” Nilu said as she was about to instruct the driver to wait. “You never know how they are going to react after everything that’s happened.”

“I appreciate the thought, but I should go alone,” I said. “I got myself into this, and I’ll have to get myself out.”

Still, I was immobile, silent and staring for a few minutes, almost waiting for a sign that I was supposed to step out of the car, down the narrow entryway into our building, then knock on its blue painted door.

“I wonder what was in that letter,” I said to Nilu, both of us knowing I was stalling for time.

“Me too. After telling you repeatedly that you were dead to him, he goes and writes to you. And on the day he decides to mail it… oh, it’s just so sad…”

“Stop it, Nilu,” I said. I took her words to be my sign. I kissed her on the cheek, thanked the driver, opened the door, and walked into the building.

The smell hit me as soon as I was inside-that combination of fried cumin seeds and boiled sugared milk, tainted by a tinge of raw, untreated sewage. I had grown up with that odor living in my nostrils, and now I inhaled it deep, as if to affirm the fact that I had finally come home.

I stood outside the door. There were voices inside-my mother’s and the cook’s. I didn’t hear my nana. The door next to it opened, and the teenage twin brothers who lived next to us peered out, looked at me in astonishment, began whispering to each other, and went back in.

Within an hour, everyone in the building would know that I was home.

I raised my hand and knocked. I felt dizzy and nauseated. It must have been pure terror, but having never felt that before until then, I didn’t initially recognize it. There was no response from behind the door, so I lifted up my hand and knocked again, this time harder.

“Kaun hai?” I heard my mother’s voice, enquiring who it was. I remained silent, thankful there was no peephole.

“Kuch kaho!” My mother demanded that I speak.

“Ma,” I said, softly, imperceptibly. “Ma, main hoon. It’s me.”

I know she didn’t hear, because I heard her muttering about being disturbed, thinking I was one of the neighbors needing to borrow some ghee or a pound of moong dal to soak for breakfast.

I heard the door unbolt, a light switch coming on. Her expression went from exasperation to something I had never before seen. Shock, outrage, incredulity, perhaps a combination of all these.

“Tum,” she said quietly. “You?”

I had known she wouldn’t hug me, or even smile. But I didn’t think she would slap me, not after that night twelve years earlier when she unleashed her fury on me and promised never to do it again. My cheek reverberated, hot and stinging, while I stood there and stared at her, my hand on my face. Then she lifted her hand again, and this time struck me on the other side. The cook had appeared, standing behind her, a stained dishcloth slung over his shoulder, his mouth open. He had lost another tooth.

There was no sign of Nana anywhere-not even his slippers beside the door, where they always were.

“Ma, I’ve come home,” I said, tears gushing down my prickling cheeks. “I’m sorry for everything. I just wanted to see you and Nana. Please, can I come in?”

Her face was gray, the black mark on her forehead creased and darkened.

“If you are here, then you are a ghost,” she said, her teeth clenched. “Because you are dead. May Allah forgive you for your sins. But we never will. You go, and never come back here again.”

She tried to slam the door, but I put my foot over the threshold so it stopped at my toes.