Thinking about the cycles I surveyed Irem’s back, her long hair and its entanglements. She was facing the so-called window. We were six meters apart. Light was dim, same naked forty-watt bulb hanging from a naked wire. From where I sat, she looked healthy and plump. I stared at her hair and feet and back, her entire form. To amuse her, I think, yes, it was to amuse her, or perhaps to ease the tension I said she had grown fat, and suddenly her breathing grew heavy, and although I could only see her back I felt she was trying to grasp on to something, but there was nothing around her. She tried again, and again she failed. Then she turned. She pivoted, suddenly uncom-fortable, trying to protect herself from my gaze. The color of her face changed, and then parts of her body convulsed with bleak laughter, as if she was laughing at me. It was only then I realized she was heavy with a child.

‘God,’ I said.

I was at a loss for words.

‘So… you are… you are not infertile!’

I did not know what else to say.

‘Who?’ I almost whispered. ‘Who did it?’

She did not respond. She was not going to respond. It definitely could not be her husband in Pakistan. Who? Who was I going to report it to?

I was standing not far from the General’s portrait on the wall, and all of a sudden I thought about the nurse’s cycle propped against the plane tree outside. She was in the Raj Bhavan to give medication to little Rubiya. I thought of persuading the nurse to help Irem.

‘The nurse,’ I said.

‘What about her?’

‘She will take care of you?’

‘How?’

‘She will make your body normal again.’

‘I do not want to be normal.’

‘Please listen to me.’

‘I am.’

‘I want to help you. But I will only do so if you agree.’

‘No,’ she said.

‘Would you like saffron?’

‘Saffron?’

‘Saffron, I have been told, causes miscarriage, and it works quickly, not causing much pain.’

‘Please go away.’

‘Think about it,’ I said. ‘Please.’

‘Why are you humiliating me?’

‘Humiliating you?’

‘By asking again and again the same-to-same question.’

‘You do not know what is good for you,’ I said.

‘Thank you for the biryani,’ she said.

‘Tomorrow. I will come again. Same time. I will knock on the door, and I will ask the same question. If you say yes, the nurse will help you.’

Then I picked up the empty plates and glasses from the table and stepped out. I felt very disturbed. I remember focusing on her back as I was stepping out. She was looking out of the so-called window. I almost turned, but restrained myself. I stood outside her door for a long time as if I wanted to listen to the sound of the 1.5 hearts beating inside her. I did not know what to do. To tell someone? To tell someone and put her at more risk, and to put myself at risk?

Next day at the same time I knocked on the door and asked her the same-to-same question. But. She said no. I urged her to change her mind. The nurse would do it without telling anyone. The nurse will make you normal again. But she said no. She wanted to keep the child. She told me something women normally tell only their husbands. She told me the baby was kicking inside her belly. The baby was crying and asking her to give her a name. Don’t be so emotional, I said. I have already given her a name, she said. What name? I asked.

Two days later I returned to the room again and begged her to allow me to take her home across the border. She said she did not want to return home. Her family was not going to accept her now. I am damaged, she said. Khuda is punishing me, she said, for my sins. Why did I not die? I should have died. It would have solved all troubles. I am not going to commit any more sins. I am going to keep the child.

There was a long silence. I walked to her and seized her hand. She was sitting on the edge of the bed. Again I urged her to allow me to take her to Pakistan. But the moment I uttered the word ‘ Pakistan ’ she fell back on the bed. Her whole body convulsed, and her two hands started opening the drawstring of her salwar, and there she was partially unconscious and partially unclothed on the bed, with the naked bulb above us. It was at that point the ayah entered the room. I do not know from where she came and why, but she saw. She saw us together. Then walked in the guard, and then marched in the colonel in his trussed jacket.

Four

26

From the bus I saw the General’s private car. The driver was holding my name written in huge letters. I am cancer, and I have arrived in Kashmir. I sat in the front seat and the driver checked with me if I was comfortable there, and I nodded, and asked him to drive slowly. His face looked vaguely familiar. The sun was setting. There were plane trees on both sides of the road. The car sped up as it looped around the army camp on the slopes of the mountain. I turned in my seat and tried to locate the spot where the army had put up the tents to court-martial me.

Schoolchildren were playing there, at the exact same spot. They did not know a thing. Neither about me, nor about the court martial. Troops were marching outside the camp. One-two-three. One-two-three. I must have been lost in deep thought because I didn’t notice when the car started winding up the hill to the Raj Bhavan. There was a deep mist in the mountains, not much was visible. I must have looked towards the Mughal garden with longing, and perhaps that is why the driver turned to me and said, ‘Stop first at the garden, sir?’

‘Yes, yes,’ I said, surveying the ruins.

But then I changed my mind, and asked him to hurry to the Governor’s residence. On the way I noticed lots of checkposts and military bunkers and (to my surprise) beauty parlors. Dal Lake had more weeds now, and the signs by the road said that the weeds were being removed by a Swiss company. The golf course, on my right, was deserted. The chenar trees looked ancient, bare, ready to receive snow.

The car passed between the two gateposts and guards, and stopped in front of the Raj Bhavan. The flag of our country was fluttering on the post. The servant who was standing by the entrance saluted me and rushed to the car to pick up my trunk and bag. I told him not to, but he picked up the two items anyway, and dashed indoors. A hospital jeep was parked by the fence. I hit a stone on the way to the house, and stumbled for a while.

‘Where are you going, sir?’ asked a voice. I was heading towards the rear entrance, but the voice made me yield to it. He was the General’s new ADC. Suddenly it occurred to me how much time had passed, and for no reason I touched the stone pillar at the front.

The ADC asked me to wait in the living room. The room looked both strange and familiar with its carpets, fireplace, rashtrapati furniture, and glass cabinets. I occupied the walnut chair in the corner, and looked out the window.

‘Who is that lady with a little dog and a cell phone?’ I asked.

She was standing on the terrace of the Guest House.

‘Her name is Mrs Ramani, sir. She is the previous Governor’s daughter.’

‘Yes, yes, I know.’

Her peace paisley silk was fluttering in the wind. She had climbed up the stairs of the Guest House for a clear cell phone reception, and was yakking away. So this is Bina after fourteen years, I said to myself. Still beautiful but no longer the same one whose wedding banquet I took care of.

‘What is she doing here?’ I asked.

‘Bedding guest, sir.’

‘Bedding guest?’

‘No, sir. Bedding guest.’

‘Wedding guest?’

‘Yessir.’ Sitting in the walnut chair I felt very tired. I felt like my journey had come to an end and yet had come to nothing. I felt like returning to Delhi.

‘Ready-made tea, sir?’

‘Sorry?’ I asked.