Back to Being Eligible

By Mrinalini Patwardhan Mehra

A love story set in India, in a middle class Delhi of the '70s,'80s and '90s, Mridula, the now famous novelist tells us her story from when she was a beautiful, bright twenty year old. She conjures up the sights, sounds, taste and feel of the times. Her journey unfolds with its passions, triumphs and surprises into a compelling, easy read for all ages. But it is in the occasional pauses in the action where Mridula brings her gaze to herself, that lie the wisdom of a life deeply understood. An enjoyable novel of surprising depth.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Partridge Publishing India
• Release date: Jun 6, 2014
• ISBN: 9781482833195

Book preview

Copyright © 2014 by Mrinalini Patwardhan Mehra.

ISBN:      Hardcover      978-1-4828-3321-8

                Softcover        978-1-4828-3320-1

                eBook             978-1-4828-3319-5

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

To order additional copies of this book, contact

Partridge India

000 800 10062 62

[e-mail]

www.partridgepublishing.com/india

Contents

Chapter 1 The G.T. Express

Chapter 2 An Exclamation And A Question

Chapter 3 The Proposal

Chapter 4 Writing Was The Way To Go

Chapter 5 The Mentor—Friend

Chapter 6 Matchmaker And Godfather (Of Book!)

Chapter 7 The Wedding And The Book

Chapter 8 Two Mridulas

Chapter 9 An End And A Beginning

Chapter 10 Urmila

Chapter 11 Life And Times With Advaita And Flossie

Chapter 12 Lost And Found

Chapter 13 Home Again

To my children

Chapter 1

THE G.T. EXPRESS

I looked out from the double sealed glass window of the AC chair car in the GT Express from Delhi to Madras, and relaxed into my seat. My hair was in a neat plait. I was in a dark colored salwar kameez appropriate for the journey instead of my jeans. A slithering sound brought me back into the compartment. A bag was being slipped into the overhead luggage rack by a young man in jeans and a checked shirt. As he sat down he was careful to keep to his side of the armrest between us. Thank God he did not smell.

Minutes later the train pulled out of the station.

A couple of hours went by in silence. No talk, no contact. I looked at him, slyly, when he wasn’t looking. I felt him do the same. He must have been my age. Twenty. At around four o’clock the evening tea arrived—a plastic tray with a typical green railway thermos flask, a couple of cellophane wrapped biscuits, two toffee éclairs and a greasy samosa. My neighbour was obviously hungry. I toyed with the samosa, sipped the brown liquid which could have been tea or coffee and continued to look out of the window, stealing surreptitious glances at the young man. He devoured the samosa and crunched the biscuits with fierce concentration.

Later in the evening the train steward came to take the order for dinner. I ordered Indian non-vegetarian. The young man asked what the menu was for each option, then ordered what I had. Indian non-veg. I noticed, while he was engaged with the train steward, that he had neatly cut hair and a small bristly moustache. I don’t really like moustaches.

In the three hours between tea and dinner my neighbour and I had exchanged few words. I had said a cold Excuse me when I wanted to use the toilet and he had replied Yes please before getting out of his seat to let me pass.

. . .

The dinner was like train dinners always are… , sloppily served, hot but of a taste that is easy to forget. We ate in silence and when the attendant came to collect our trays I tried to reach across and pass him my tray. The young man took it from me and handed it to the attendant. I said Thank you, slightly more politely this time. He said No mention with a small smile. I looked at the unpainted small pink nails on my lean hand. And thought about his English.

A little later he said, Going to Madras?

Yes I replied. Then because of his pleasant manner all evening and not unattractive personality I added, You live in Delhi?

Yes Yes, he said, But my parents they are living in Meerut. Aah Meerut… No wonder, I thought.

Studying ? he asked

Ya. You ?

Working. he said. What are you studying in Madras?

Studying in Delhi. My parents live in Madras.

There was a pause. We looked at our knees. Or out of the window. I saw him look at my silver anklets. They looked pretty on my feet with neat unpainted white toes.

So you’re Madrasi? he asked quizzically. I smiled.

No. I like South India a lot, but I’m a Punjabi.

I was going to say my mother is French but I did not.

You? I quickly added.

We are UP ites he said. I am Praveen Tripathi.

I had to tell him my name now.

Mridula Malhotra, I said.

We were beginning to be at ease. Conversation was loosening up. A good thing too. We would be sitting next to each other like this for two nights and a day.

We talked about South Indians, Punjabis, food habits, college… nothing unduly personal, but not desultory. Night came and with it some sleep.

I hope you don’t snore, I said to him.

I don’t know, no one told me like that, any time, he replied.

By the middle of the following morning he knew that I wrote poetry.

"The scarecrow stood in the field one day,

Guarding well the corn.

And in his patched and tattered coat

He looked so forlorn" I recited.

His puzzled expression had me laughing. I was eight years old then.

"Accha . . . that’s good poetry in eight years old!" he said glancing quickly at my kameez. It was a red flowered cotton one that concealed my 34 B bra with a similar flower print.

Brains and brawn! I said a little smile creeping up and showing my canines to advantage.

Brawn?

Brawn I agreed. He let it pass.

You are so proud of yourself! he said.

No. Not proud, I said proudly. I love writing. Poems are fun. I still write for our college magazine. What do you do? I asked.

I work with Union Carbide.

What are you? I asked

"Engineer. IIT Kharagpur.

I made big eyes and a One up face.

After your studies what will you do? he asked.

I will become an interpreter and translator. French-English.

Silence. He nodded his head.

You don’t know? Interpreter? I said.

Ya I know, I know…

I continued, Actually my dream is to be a writer but I cant write. I was wistful.

Arre, but that poem? he opened out his palms as if there lay the proof.

Oh that… No, That way I write a lot. Poems. Even now. I write articles and all. But not stories. Novels.

He nodded again doubtfully.

You see, stories, novels, that is called writing. I want that.

Oh ok. Then?

I don’t have stories. I pointed at my brain.

Interpreter he repeated to himself. French He smiled at me, nodding again.

Lunch came and went, I tried to read Albert Camus’ ‘L’Etranger’ that I had brought for the journey but then fell asleep with it in my lap. Jeans and checks had his nose in the paper but in a little while the paper had fallen from his hands. What is it with train journeys? Why do they make you sleep fitfully? And chat? I wondered. By that evening I knew that his mother was a B.A with Hindi Honours from Delhi University and that his father was a senior officer in the government. They spoke Hindi at home and his mother loved listening to the Hindi film music programmes on Vividh Bharati radio. He now knew that Papa was vegetarian on Tuesdays and Maman was non vegetarian like me.

He asked me,

So, you look like your mother?

Like my father, I said

Your eyes are blue?

Ya…

Your father must be handsome. Then he added, Rather, I should say, very handsome… . I smiled. I didn’t say that I had heard that before. He cleared his throat self consciously so I offered,

My mother is… ummm French, actually.

Wow. How good! Okay that is why! he said

That’s why what?

You are fair and you are having blue eyes.

I smiled. Do you know any French?

No. You must be speaking French…

Ya, I replied. I actually didn’t mind his questions. Was it because he looked at me, a little like a pet dog looks at dinner just before he hears the command EAT? Whatever. I felt a tingle. Pleasant amused-tingle.

I don’t remember much of what else we talked about that night. Dark countrysides, glittering industrial estates, smaller stations flew past. The train slowed a couple of times and stopped too once, I think. And some trains whistled past our window. We could not have talked of my favourite subjects—a philosophy of life, what love is… . and I could not have told him my real life plan, of course not. I would have remembered that.

A few of the older passengers glared at us as we talked in hushed voices in the blue night lights of the compartment. By the time Madras came our compartment was clearly divided in two virtual halves. One that did not like us together and the other half that did. Most of them were in saris and pants and shirts. There were some kurta pyjamas and some salwar kameezes. Very few were bohemian chic like me and Mr Checks and Jeans. By the time I got off the train, the guy—I did not remember his name for years after that, except for Meerut, had handed me his visiting card. He looked a little crestfallen. I wanted to blurt, My real life plan is not just writing. Its also finding love. Finding that soulmate. Our minds will meet. Our bodies… . delicious waiting. A perfect marriage. A life of fulfillment. When? When?When? He will complete me and I,him. We wont know where I end and he begins. Like protoplasm in an amoeba. But I didn’t speak. It had nothing to do with him.

Well so, this is end of… of the journey he said looking at Madras station rolling in.

Ya… my voice trailed away. I looked down at his card. Hey, impressive, card and all! I smiled brightly but felt a fleeting twinge of regret at leaving all that uninterrupted admiration. Then anticipation of being with my parents again overpowered everything else. The boy, though, looked more upset now. With a sense of urgency he muttered, Hey yaar, . . . telephone… write… sometimes, hun? And… you don’t forget to read the back of the card. Please.

Sure, I said.

I forgot all about it till I emptied my handbag to sort out the contents several days later. The card fell out with a lipstick, keys, a couple of tissues, an old bill, loose change and a pencil. I turned the card over.

On the reverse in very tiny handwriting were two verses written by the boy:

"I won’t say it but its true

A fruit tree grew for you

Lips talk to me. In them I see

your lips. Coral coloured dreams

I loved you.

Between the railway chair car seats

A fruit tree grew"

When had he written that? Must have been when I was in the humid, wildly swaying train toilet, brushing my teeth. Obviously he hadn’t noticed that my nose was sharp but a tad too long and that my nostrils flared a little too much? Before we got off the train he had stared at me intently, as if his eyes were searching mine for something.

My eyes caught the Madras platform appearing outside—Red bananas in a basket and a dark seller next to it in a sea green cloth lungi. The seller was fanning himself. I felt the stickiness in that scene. The train pulled into Madras Central. I stepped out and was hit by the steam in the air. It was warm too, against my air conditioned cheeks. Moments later I sank into my parents’ embrace. It felt like I’d landed in a bed of clouds. Madras station looked like Delhi or Bombay station, only most people were a glowing chocolate colour and many foreheads had red, ochre and yellow on the forehead. Otherwise it was the same steel, grime, lofty corrugated ceiling, British colonial pillars, carved cornices and Doric plinths, covered with stains, flies and nostalgia.

Who was that boy? You seemed to know him… Papa said turning his head briefly to the left, following the checked shirt and jeans. He was rapidly disappearing like a drop in the ocean of people on the platform though he was four inches taller than me. Maybe five feet eight. I lost him, distracted by advertisements on the walls in a script I did not know—Tamil. Fiat was advertising too. Their car, in Tamil.

Oh him… I said carelessly, he was in the seat next to mine. I smiled and winked at my mother. She smiled back.

Bijou! Maman said, laughing like a happy child.

I beamed and kissed her on each cheek. And she me.

And then I hugged Papa. He hugged me back, a little stiff at this public display.

We got into Papa’s car and set off for home.

Maman took a good look at me and exclaimed, Look at your hair, Bijou! Such a mess as usual… I looked at her blond hair in a white shell clip.

She began to run her hands down my dark tresses to pat them down. I pushed her hand off my back. Don’t! That tickles. I made a mock frown. And that’s how I want my hair to be!

Like little brown urchins running down your back? she said. You should blow dry your hair. Straighten those waves.

Maman! Turning to Papa I pleaded, Tell her to stop, Papa. I want to be different!

Let it be cherie he said. (He always called her Cherie.).

In an effort to change the subject, Papa asked me,

So did you tell him the story of your life?

Well bits and pieces I suppose. When he said he was from IIT I had to tell him that I was also from a ‘professional, educated’ background! He was surprised that I was allowed to travel alone. He was from Meerut, Papa, but a decent guy. Good manners. And he didn’t smell!

And you know Maman, he asked if I was a South Indian. Imagine!

Maman laughed. My mother, the French woman who sometimes dressed in salwar kameezes and spoke Hindi with an accent. She had blue eyes. Like mine. But for the rest I was told how much I looked like my father. (Papa would have been flattered if he had heard the young man’s remark!)

Uff, its so hot! I said, rolling up my bohemian chic kameez sleeves and putting away my chunni in my handbag.

"Chunni’s gone into the handbag?" Papa said

I cant bear this sweating!

The car was cooler. We had style-there was a little blue fan which came on with a switch next to it. And the windows were shaded in beige lace curtains. Maman had chosen the shade to match our cream coloured Ambassador car.

Maman had wanted to be a nun when she was my age. And here I was wanting to be a soulmate. And a wife some day. In love with love. I had no idea that I was stepping onto its roller coaster soon. Very soon. There would not be a warning.

Madras’ main road was large and full of cars. Shops, large stores and ordinary shops lined the entire stretch of road between office buildings. Later I would learn more; little cameos of a Madras life, like: Parking was a problem and the traffic was heavy. We were lucky to have a white uniformed driver (and the fan) in our car. It felt comfortable. Maman would take me to the famous stores—handmade lace on pure cotton, carved temple doors, tiny painted metal flies. Higginbotham’s for books. Spencer’s for everything. Idli dosa, the local breakfast food, was a fun lunch or dinner. Dasaparakasha was our favourite idli dosa place. The Chola and the Taj Connemara were too expensive-a waste of money according to Papa.

In any case, coming back to the present, we had cut through the main city to the highway leading to Thiruvottiyur. The giant cutouts of K.G.Ramachandran propped up against buildings disappeared. Through the lace curtains I saw kilometers of the brightly lit Japanese bazaar stretching over a good two hundred seconds of beach. Baby clothes, umbrellas, saris, electric gadgets, plastic handbags, footwear, toys. There were vegetables which looked dry and dusty to me after fertile Delhi and the fruit looked sad too, in comparison. The mangoes and the bananas were large and a lurid red.

Interesting I thought as we drove home.

The company estate where we were headed was a good forty-five minutes away from main Madras along the beach. We passed big and small fishing villages. Men and women with oiled hair, raised up saris and lungis, smelled of fish. Everything in those crowded over populated villages along the road was trussed up with commercial hoardings or with film posters displaying ample women and over slick men. Lights were everywhere in bright colours. Hindi signs were very few. Tamil and English was common.

The car slowed down as we entered a tree lined driveway. My first glimpse of Papa’s new house. He had been sent here as Manager for the entire South of India by his company a year ago, in April ’75 and the house came with the job. It was a sprawling bungalow in wood, painted white, had a swimming pool, tennis court, small dance floor and barbecue pit in the well maintained grounds. And the beach was just across from us.

Chapter 2

AN EXCLAMATION AND A QUESTION

No breakfast? Papa said on morning number one.

Later I said. I had woken myself up to be able to sit with him before he left for work. I saw his small slice of toast. Some local bakery, I thought.

Umm! He cut a piece of fried egg on toast. The egg yellow spilled out on to the plate and he forked his piece into his mouth.

It’s the same breakfast still! I said.

Yes he smiled at me. I like it.

I know.

Maman was not there or she would have said Eh oui, since the last twenty eears!

Its ‘years’ not ‘eeears’ I would have said.

And she would have raised her hand and dropped it saying Awww-ff in French contempt.

But she was busy with her morning chores in her kaftan. Earlier I had woken up and moved into her bed, waiting till Papa reached the breakfast table. Maman’s pillow still smelt of Elnett hair spray. I sank my head in it while she got out of her pyjamas and into her kaftan, pulling on her bra first. I saw her bare back. It looked like mine. Just a little wider.

Maman would usually say Take it easy. Don’t have to rush out of bed. You’re on holiday…

On weekends Papa would be home till later than usual. On those mornings I would hear them.

What’s she doing in bed? Papa would say.

Sshh!!Maman.

But Papa would shuffle noisily, potter around loudly, keep coming into my room pretending to look for something… . Nobody slept late when Papa was little. You got up early and got on with the routine. He grew up in Lahore. My grandfather worked with the British postal department and retired as Post Master General in Lahore. Papa had a brother who was one of Lahore’s first Chartered Accountants and his two sisters were both graduates from Kinnaird College. They could speak English well. And they read English, Punjabi and Hindi with ease. This was of course Lahore before the Partition.

Papa! I would groan, hoping to get rid of him. But he did not give up. I could see a long nose and a smooth chin bobbing outside my mosquito net when I peered to check if the room was quiet again. Yes his face reminded me of mine in the dewy morning light of the curtains.

Maman tell him, na, not to disturb me! I would say when I could speak, after some black coffee and orange juice. My waking up fix. Why don’t you tell him properly. He is annoying!

Discipline Bijou, for him discipline is everything. That and education.

Why?

Because that is how you get success!

I looked at Maman’s oval face and dainty ears.

Obssessed. I would grumble, consoling myself with a roll or a bun and home made jam and French butter from the Consulate store.

Most evenings we would go for walks along the beach. Papa would sometimes say, Why are you in these tight clothes?

Its a T-shirt and jeans Beegee! His name was Brijesh but that’s how Maman had always addressed him. Let the girl be. How does it matter? It’s the uniform of their age. He looked worriedly at my less than plump body.

You never wore them when you were her age.

"I did. In fact I wore skirts. And shorts. And how