Dead Camel and Others Stories of Love, The

Acknowledgements

I

In which three couples don’t

quite sever ties at the last minute

Re: Elections, 2004

Idon’t, in all crucial matters, follow my instinct; and I rarely give short answers. For example, if there’s a group of us sitting over drinks wondering why Rohan never stays with a girl for more than three months, I ignore the instinct to not get involved, and counter the near-unanimous proposal that Rohan’s lack of commitment stems from his being an ass with the suggestion that actually, perhaps, the fact that he took care of his invalid mother as a child means he never wants to be responsible for anything ever again. As soon as it’s said, I realise I’ve betrayed Rohan in some sense – that he himself would probably prefer the ass theory.

More generally, I precede any important decision with hours spent pacing up and down the house telling myself, in detail and from the very beginning, an episode from my life. Why Vidya And I Broke Up, say, or Why I Worked with New Media for Two Years Even Though I Should Have Known Better. So I reassure myself that although most of my adult decisions haven’t worked out, at least I understand them – and proceed to do something that differs slightly but very crucially from what my gut’s been trying to say over the flashback, which is, for the most part, this might be fun for a while, but it won’t last.

What this means is that although I give the impression of being deliberate and measured, in fact I rush headlong from glimmer to fade with a recklessness usually – and perhaps erroneously – associated with far more forceful characters.

It means that now I stare at the screen utterly bewildered.

before any further communication with you, i must know who you voted for.

F.

It’s been six years since I met Fatima, five since she told me not to call unless somebody died, four since someone did and I hung up feeling flimsy and cheap. Three since I came out to my parents, two since I quit my job, and one since I started living with Monica.

Tonight I have my one and only recurring dream.

In it, Fatima and I are children, six or seven years old, playing what appears to be chor – police but is in fact communal-riot – communal-riot. We are on opposing teams, shooting at each other with two fingers and whoever gets hit must lie down, be out. Soon I realise that Fatima’s team is shooting real bullets and my side is bleeding to death. It’s obvious that Fatima’s team does not know this; they are playing strictly by the rules and when one of us gets them, they fall down and curl up and cry out and groan and fall silent. They are realistic, like us, but I am speckled with the blood of my team-mates.

This is how the dream begins, and it is usually a significant part of my more extended autobiographical narratives. Sometimes it explains why I cannot love, sometimes why I love too much and too foolishly; I am the victim, a child, or I am complicit by silence; I am selfish, or I should be more driven by personal ambition.

I doubt, though, if there is any way to work it into my role in the 2004 General Elections.

Monica says all I need is to think it through, and I’ll see how little difference it makes: there is no critical difference between the supposedly centrist Congress and the purportedly right-wing BJP – easy labels, easy definitions – and the question should be, really, ‘Why vote at all?’ because participating in the so-called universally ‘good’ but in fact Euro-Christian-Enlightenment-centric democratic process means reinforcing a merely plastic nation-state, and bad-mouthing all the economic liberalisation in the world comes to nothing if we simultaneously accept this one most binding export – that only one kind of political organisation fits all.

Democracy can’t work for us, she says, rolling out of bed and looking down at me, hands running through her long hair. "We don’t know how to work as a nation, except superficially: that isn’t our tradition."

We’re all so thrilled, she goes on, to be the world’s largest democracy… might as well pat ourselves on the back for being its largest drinker of Coke.

Why can’t we, she asks, "be the world’s largest loosely connected confederation of villages? What would be so terrible about that? Why can’t we even imagine that a central Parliament is a waste of everybody’s time – I mean, not one part of the country likes the other anyway: why force everyone to participate in this barely understood, secretly reviled farce that is National Unity?"

Democracy, she continues after a pause during which she’s made us tea, "is just one idea – and maybe it works for them because they don’t know any different, but not for us – for us, it’s only a stopgap jugadu solution to a problem we can’t even articulate yet because we’re so busy being everyone’s favourite example."

I lie in bed, slowly making my way through the newspaper, letting my mug of tea cool. The rant is familiar and I often accept most of its conclusions, but I don’t think it will help me with an answer now.

before any further communication with you, i must know who you voted for.

F.

I am willing to accept the charge that is levelled at my generation and my class: I am politically apathetic. I could not, therefore, think of Fatima’s question in political terms; in any terms, actually, other than bewilderment mingled with a lurking sense of betrayal.

I couldn’t believe it.

Neither could my newspaper: having touted the incumbent BJP’s victory for months, it now carried reports of a probable Congress come-back. What had gone wrong, its columns speculated – and most concluded, apologetically, sheepishly, then righteously, that something had gone right. The real India had voted; the India Shining constantly advertised by the ruling party’s campaign had stayed at home, comfortably assuming that the people who drove their cars and walked their dogs would also cast their votes.

I knew for a fact this wasn’t true. On the day Delhi voted, our landlord and his wife – he large and pot-bellied, one hand caressing his beard, his bright red turban expertly tied by her, short and squat like the teapot rhyme she had learnt with her children, rolling breasts discreetly hidden behind a sparkling dupatta – had rung the door-bell.

They are fond of me, and I of them, though they mistrust Monica for her too loud laugh and hardened negotiating skills.

Good morning, beta, goodmorning goodmorning! He’d boomed. Ready to cast your ballot?

Hello Uncle, I smiled, Hello Aunty. Come in. I’d left an egg frying in the kitchen, Monica was in the bathroom.

No, no, we don’t want to disturb you – just we thought to check if you’re also planning to go, then we could all go together, but if you are busy, no problem.

No no, Uncle, I stretched the smile. Not disturbing at all, please. I waved a hand into the house but they stood their ground. Monica is having a bath.

It was all your Aunty’s idea, you know how she misses her boys!

All our encounters besides the monthly handing over of the rent hinged on how Aunty missed her boys, one in America, the other in Bangalore. Sometimes she missed them and called us down for Sunday lunch, sometimes to watch a particularly exciting episode of her weeknight serial, occasionally to walk down with her to the gurudwara or, if her husband was on tour, to order in a dinner of gelatinous manchurian, doughy pizza, over-spiced kathi rolls – food her husband detested but her sons, she said, had adored. On such nights, she would hand me a 100-rupee note and ask me to run out and buy Coca Cola and three cups of ice-cream, any flavour.

More often than not, Monica dodged Aunty’s bullets, which is why, when her longing for the boys was particularly acute, Aunty sent the servant off to buy jalebis and samosas and called me, alone, for tea and gossip about the neighbours.

I didn’t mind usually; I like old women and their nervousness, I like it especially when they forget and laugh – there is nothing less restrained and more helpless.

Now she said, We can leave after half an hour if you are getting ready. We always went on such occasions as a family, you know.

Monica came out wrapped in a towel as I finished toasting the bread. Something about the way she sighed, Oh god, Meera! You and your Aunty – it’s like I have a mother-in-law already, irritated me enough to make me swallow my leathery egg and leave before she finished dressing.

Aunty listened to my excuse for Monica in a flurry of handbags and keys – they both know I can’t actually vote either: Monica is registered in Calcutta and I postponed giving in my name until it was too late.

We walked through Sunday quiet to the polling booth, smiling at familiar faces on the way. Amongst them was Kanti, who comes in every morning to clean the toilets and wash the staircase. Coming from voting? Aunty greeted her. Kanti, who is hardened and carries her broom like an assault weapon, smiled almost coyly in assent. Good thing, good thing, said Aunty, Who did you vote for, did you vote for the Lotus? Kanti looked at the ground and giggled. What happened? For the Hand? But Kanti had taken cover under the pretence of metal retardation and remained staring at the ground until we moved away.

The polling station was busy but not crowded – like firecracker stalls on Divali morning, with their steady but unhurried streams of last-minute customers strolling in to purchase a product everyone knows will have neither buyer nor market within hours.

While Uncle and Aunty were casting their votes, I passed the time by asking an official if my name was on the list. It wasn’t, and watching my fellow citizens solemnly walking in and out, I regretted my laziness. Of course, I couldn’t have told Aunty that I hadn’t voted for her precious Lotus nor, for that matter my own family – my grandparents who held the Partition against the Muslims, my parents who held the riots of 1984 against the Congress, my brother who tackled my sole outburst about the Gujarat pogrom with the theory that Uff didi, they both kill people, just the BJP is more efficient about it. Even Monica would laugh indulgently at my attempt to find meaning in what she called our only state-sanctioned ritual.

Aunty emerged and took my arm, a little tired. It was good that you came with us, beta.

It was good that you asked me, Aunty, I replied, I should also have registered. Already, though, I am a little relieved to have been spared the decision.

On the return journey we encounter the stern, uniformed guard, who invariably raises a salute to Uncle every morning. Mohanlal! Going to the booth?

Haan, yes sir. Mohanlal stands a little straighter, using English words.

Good good! Now, think and give your vote, okay?

You’ll vote for the Lotus, Mohanlal, isn’t that right? adds Aunty, only to watch in disappointment as the guard, too, slumps and smiles. Lotus is the right party, Aunty perseveres, Give your vote correctly, Mohanlal. But Mohanlal refuses to meet her gaze, and she moves on, defeated.

Have a cup of tea, beta, she says when we reach home, and I find myself sitting on floral print watching Uncle rub the soles of his feet while Aunty bustles in the kitchen.

Monica calls to say, Hi baby, heard you all return – you’re still with them?

Yup.

Can I come down? I also want to hear voting stories.

I guess.

I’ll bring that dhokla from yesterday?

That’ll be nice, yeah.

A moment later the strains of Monica’s cheerfulness drift in through the door. I imagine her in the kitchen, piling plates and biscuits on a tray, laughingly following Aunty’s instructions about rinsing out already clean cups.

The tray is placed on a low table between us and Aunty sits down next to me with a satisfied sigh while Monica hands cups and plates around. These people, says Aunty. Hmm… says Uncle in acknowledgment of her observation and the proffered dhokla. Have, says Aunty, The girls have brought it – very fresh.

All these people, she sips at her tea, All giving away their vote to Congress, I tell you, and they just won’t listen!

Uncle grimaces a yes. You saw yourself Meera, didn’t you? Kanti, Mohanlal, all of them are the same – now what can we do?

I tried a non-committal gesture, raising my head as if I were about to nod then massaging the back of my neck instead. Monica caught my eye and smiled; I didn’t reciprocate. She’s prone to throwing me into conversations I don’t want to have. It isn’t cruelty that makes her do it; just an attempt, perhaps well-intentioned, to make me more assertive – and I didn’t want to encourage the impression that I was okay with this.

Uncle dips a biscuit in his tea while Aunty continues.