stink. My uncle almost got charged just for being the landlord even though he was nowhere near the house when it happened. I was hardly ten, but I’ve never forgotten the sound of that woman screaming. I’ve tried for years to make my uncle see reason and make them go. He could pay them off. But the old man is such a mule.”
When the poison ran so deep it was no use reasoning. I did not want Ama to be evicted any more than Diwan Sahib did, nor was I going to have an argument with Veer. “Speaking of mules,” I said, “did you ever find out if mules need shoes? And elephants and bullocks? And zebras and wildebeest? Maybe we could discuss this while you walk me home?” I slipped my fingers into his and wove them together.
* * *
Ama was not the only one with barbs to dispense: everyone was discussing Veer and me. Mrs Chauhan gave me a knowing look when I met her on Mall Road one evening and said, “Arre, Maya Memsa’ab, you are looking ten years younger! Tell me the secret, and I will buy it too!” Maya Memsaab was the name of a Hindi film based on Madame Bovary, in which a bored wife entertains herself with a series of love affairs. Mrs Chauhan nudged me towards a sign that her husband had just had nailed to a tree. It said, “Fighting Fire is Our Desire”. She read it aloud, gave my hand a conspiratorial squeeze, and left, suppressing giggles behind her palm. The General had a view as well. One morning, I went to the cemetery, to talk things over with Michael as I sometimes did. I sat by his headstone, chin resting on my knees, absent-mindedly plucking at the grass by my feet, when the General, who had come to visit Angelina’s grave, came upon me. “Ah, Maya!” he said. “I didn’t expect to see you here any more … it’s been long enough, you’re too young to be moping over the past. Move on, my girl, move on. High time.”
Diwan Sahib’s response took me by surprise. I had assumed that he would be happy about Veer and me, but he became curiously resentful. One afternoon, I went to get his newspaper from Negi’s shop, and the boy there said Diwan Sahib had relayed instructions that the paper was not to be given to me; it was to be delivered straight to him. I asked Diwan Sahib why he was changing such an old arrangement, and his face turned sulky. “Why not? When you forget to come every other day? I can live without your august company, but I do need my daily paper.” He started keeping tabs on me and noting how little time I was spending with him. If he saw me looking better dressed than usual he would say in sardonic tones, “Where’s the untidy hair, poked through with a pencil? You look like a society lady now, all shining and combed.” When I wore a new kurta one day, he said to Mr Qureshi: “Our wild Himalayan rose is turning into a memsa’ab.” Another day, mellow after a long evening’s drinking, he said in a thoughtful tone, “If you went climbing, Maya, you would know: unknown territories need caution. One step at a time and lots of reconnaissance.”
Trekking and exploring suddenly featured a great deal in conversation. Veer said lightheartedly, when our murmurings on the rug in the forest edged towards the future: “Life’s a trek too, isn’t it? You meet people on the way that you like, spend days with them under tents, and then your time with them is over. But you don’t stop walking the route; you have to go on. Look at you, you’re the best example.”
What was he trying to tell me? I was not sure I wanted to know. We were too new and fragile, too skinless to be exposed to daylight just yet. What Veer’s life had been before me, I did not care about. I only knew that I could no longer do without him. Ama’s disapproval was a given, of course. But whatever had Diwan Sahib meant about trekking and caution? I had no idea if he himself knew, now that he was drinking himself insensible every day.
I could think of nothing but Veer: he was with me every minute. I became more than usually distracted in my classes. One morning, Miss Wilson slammed a wooden blackboard duster