“Dad, are you my father?”
The old man found the question so amusing that he giggled with his whole body. This induced a spell of coughing and when he recovered he turned, and with eyes twinkling with happiness, looked straight into the eyes of his daughter.
“Rather late in the day isn’t to ask that question?”
“Yes, Dad, but better late than never.”
“How did you get the doubt in the first place?”
“Rather a long story Dad. Two days before Mom died she called me to her bedside and told me to look after you. ‘He’ll be helpless without you,’ she said. She then she closed her eyes. I though she was sleeping, but she was not. She opened her eyes and looked intently into mine and said, ‘But for his generosity, Preethu, you would not be alive today.’ I didn’t quite understand what she meant by that. I had to ask her. I was framing the question in my mind when she once again closed her eyes. This time from the way she was breathing I knew she was asleep. The next day she became comatose and the day after she died. It is four years since then and I have been thinking about it. She did not say ‘You owe your existence to him’. A silly thing to say undoubtedly but one can understand from one who was on the verge of coma. She said ‘But for his generosity you would not be alive’. And she said it very earnestly. It was not any platitude. The word generosity had meaning. That is what has made me ask that question.
“No, Preethu, you have not told me all. What your mother said was very intriguing, but for a daughter to doubt her paternity from that one statement is going too far. You have to tell me more.” She hesitated, but suddenly made up her mind to make a clean breast of all that she has been harbouring for a long time.
“Well Dad you and mother were great friends but not lovers.”
The old man laughed.
“First you ask me if I am your father. This profound question follows another equally profound. What do you mean when you say that your mother and I were just friends and not lovers? You have to explain.”
Preethu was prepared.
“Dad, a man and a woman, even a husband and wife, can be lovers without being friends and friends without being lovers. Agreed?”
“First you must define what you mean by lovers in this context.”
“By lovers I mean that package in man-woman relationship that has sex at its core.”
“To put it in a nutshell you say that your Mom and I did not have sexual relations.”
“Yes Dad, from the time I was aware of such things anyway.”
“Do children know that their parents are or are not having sexual relations?”
“They do, Dad. But that may not fully explain my question. Maybe some sixth sense is operating.”
“So this question has been simmering within you for four years.”
“Not simmering. It is just to satisfy a curiosity. The answer whatever it is will not make any difference.”
“And you waited and waited and when it appeared that the chance might go away for ever you asked.”
“No, Dad. Doctors do not think you are in any danger.”
“Well you have asked a question and I have to answer. I will.”
This conversation took place in fourth floor balcony of a large block of flats in a posh residential area of Chennai. It was a sumptuous flat; the balcony was a deeply recessed spacious area extending the whole breath of the house and furnished like a sitting room. Part of it extended out as a covered balcony. The room was full of memorabilia from the army. The old man had the quiet dignity and the glitter of authority in his eyes that one associates with retired colonels.
Even when he sat relaxed on the cane chair he held his back straight as if on parade. His feet that were up on a moda covered with a blanket for it was a cold December morning, and a stiff breeze was blowing across the hall. On a small stool by his side were an inhaler, some bottles of medicines, and on a table against the wall were more bottles of medicines, a thermos flask, and a glass tumbler. By the side of the table there was an oxygen cylinder now not in use. The veteran was apparently suffering from respiratory complaints. Seated by his side on a cushioned chair was a woman of about thirty-five. She was somewhat plump with a pretty and cheerful face.
“Doctor has asked you to talk as little as possible,” reminded his daughter. The old man laughed.
“In that case you should not have asked your question.”
“Please permit me to unask it then,” said the woman laughing as she arranged the pillow on which the soldier’s arm was resting.
“That is not be possible, Preethu. I have to tell you or else I will not have any sleep tonight. I have no difficulty breathing now. It bothers me only at night.”
“Its time for warm soup anyway,” said Preethu. “I’ll get your regulation mugful. You can tell your story as you sip it.” She went in and was soon back with a tray on which rested a large steaming mug of a design that must have been in vogue when the old man was a second lieutenant. He liked it hot. He held the hot mug with a hand towel and blew on it and sipped; he declared the soup perfect.
2
“It is a secret,” said the colonel, “that Mithu and I have not shared with anyone. It is not proper that it should die with us. You have a right to know. The incidents I allude to happened when I was in Headquarters in Delhi. Social life in these family stations was regular rounds of visits, meeting at the club, dining and dancing. It is the pattern set by the British and we found it to our liking and continued it after the British left. There was no reason to discard it. There were changes of course but the essentials remained.
“Our former colonial officer in order to impress us of their superiority, and thereby claim the right to rule over us, had built up standards of behaviour to which they strictly adhered. Their colleagues will accept them into the fold only when they followed those codes. After independence we did the same, and it is this self-imposed internal control that has kept the army unaffected by the corruption that association with politicians has rubbed off on the bureaucracy and the police. We were proud to belong to one of the best armies in the world. Our only fear was that the visitor we were introducing into the club might be ignorant of our western table manners.”
“What has all this to do with the question I have asked Dad?” said Preethu who knew that once her father got into the theme of the greatness of his army it is not easy to stop him.
“It has. The crisis in our life might not been solved the way it was had we been civilians. May I go on with the story?”
“Sorry Dad for having interrupted. Please continue.”
“Mithu and I were popular members of the club. I was always something in the management of the club, either secretary, or in charge of entertainment, or the billiards room or some such thing. I was famous for conducting bingo that we called housie. Your mother was an excellent ballroom dancer. Those who were interested in dancing sought your mother for partner. You have not seen her dance and that is your misfortune. I always got the ball rolling with a sedate round with her and then handed her over to the more accomplished dancers of the club; they lined up for the honour. It was all clean fun.”
“Mom always changed the subject if I asked her about her dancing. Oops! Sorry Dad I have interrupted again.”
“Yes, she stopped dancing after she conceived you. I will come to that presently. It was two years after our marriage that your grandma broke her thighbone. Your aunt, who was with her in Bangalore, looked after her. Nowadays doctors regularly insert pins and screws to fix bones, but thirty-five years ago it as not normal practice. But a new doctor had appeared in Bangalore; he inserted a pin into her thighbone and said she will be home in a week and be able to walk without support in a month’s time. It did not happen that way. She developed complications that delayed her discharge from hospital. Your aunt had to go aboard for a three months and Mithu agreed to go to Bangalore to look after her mother.
“Mithu had many friends in Bangalore cantonment where she had spent many years with her family before her marriage. She had a lot to say about life in Bangalore where as a guest of her colonel uncle she had become a popular member of the army station. I had to go on tour and could not meet her for three months. Your aunt returned as per her programme and Mithu headed for home.
“I expected Mithu to be bubbling with excitement as she got out of the train. She was nothing like that. I do not know how best to describe her. Sad? There was a tinge of that. But she was more upset than sad. Misery was the term that came closest to describing her.
‘Bothered about your Mom,’ I asked.
‘No, mother is OK.’
‘Are you unwell?’
‘Yes, I am unwell.’
‘A touch of ‘flu?’
‘Maybe,” she said. Of course I was disappointed. It was not the type of reunion I had anticipated. Mithu was silent in the car and as soon as we reached home she disappeared into the bathroom. It was late for my office; I dressed and came to the dining table. Mithu was still in the bathroom. The cook served me breakfast and as I was at it Mithu joined me and nibbled a little of the bread and drank water. It was strange. Mithu when she had attacks of fever always wanted me to fuss her. This time she was aloof, as if she did not want my sympathy.
‘Why not coffee,’ I said.
‘I feel vomitish,’ she said. I decided to let her get her orientation back.
I took my hat and was about to leave when Mithu spoke.
‘Damu I have to tell you something,’ she said. I stopped and turned towards her.
‘I am with child,’ she said. She paused but not long enough for me to react. ‘I don’t think you are the father,’ she continued. ‘I am certain you are not the father.’ I stood dumbstruck. We made eye contact but it was only for a fraction of a second; she turned away. Tears flowed in torrents. She did not wipe it away but just allowed it to drip over her chest.
‘Damu I am miserable. It was no affair of the heart. Just a moment of madness. I wish I was dead.’ She bent forwards and rested her forehead on her folded arms. I said nothing. I just looked on, and then I left.
“Luckily the chauffeur was driving. I do not have any recollection of how I managed in office that day. Mithu did not call and neither did I. Usually I come home for lunch. That day I missed lunch. It was about three that I felt hungry. I walked to the canteen and took a sandwich and coffee. It was while I was sipping coffee that I knew I had to go home as soon as possible and face the problem square on.
“When I came back home your mother was standing near the front door. She was dressed for travelling. Two suitcases were resting on the front door landing. Mithu had decided to leave.
‘Where are you going?’ I asked.
‘To Meerut. The job in the college I left when I got married is vacant once again and the principal said I was welcome to rejoin. I have accepted her offer. I am not going there now. I am going to Mussoorie where my schoolmate is a gynaecologist. I am having an abortion.’ She spoke in matter of fact tones.”
‘When is your train?’
‘At six.’ I went in and changed. The Indian army trains its officers to think and act in a crisis. I used my training to good effect.
“The idea of parting from Mithu forever did not appeal to me. I am sure she also felt that way. We had known each other for only two years but we had nothing but fun in those two years. Mithu had decided on doing what she considered the decent thing. I had to respond. The ball was in my court.
“When I came back to the drawing room Mithu sat in a corner of the sofa moping.
“Cancel you ticket, Mithu. We won’t decide in a hurry. We will sleep over it for a couple of days and then we can decide what to do.’ I carried both the suitcases in and place them I the bedroom. Mithu did not object by word or gesture.
“I go very early to bed while Mithu watches TV, a novelty in Delhi at that time, and always came to bed after the telecast. I usually keep reading till she joined me. I was in no mood for reading. I slept. When I woke up that night I did not find Mithu by my side. I went round the house to investigate and found her as I had expected in the guest room. We went about our duties the next day as if nothing has happened. Mithu must have been weeping her eyes out for they were red and swollen. We spoke to each other of course, but not more than what two people living in the same house have to. That night again Mithu spent in the guest room.
“The third morning Mithu must have got up early for when I was back after my early morning jog she was waiting for me fully dressed in the drawing room.
‘The two days waiting period is over Damu. We have to decide soon,’ she said.
‘Do you want to leave?’ I asked. She shook her head from side to side slowly and once again tears pours from her eyes, and again she made no effort to wipe it away.
‘Then don’t, ‘ I said.
‘But I have to go to Mussoorie,’ she said.
‘Do you want to do away with the baby?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Think for a moment and say yes or no.’
‘No’ she said, ‘but I have to.’
‘No, you don’t have to if you don’t want to.’ I said. Even now it surprises me that we arrived at a decision on a matter of such importance with just those few words. We never, ever broached the topic again. Mithu remained, and the pregnancy continued.
“The next nine months was pure torture; the torturers were our friends in the campus. A stream of visitors descended on our home as soon as the brigadier’s wife came to know of your mother’s pregnancy, and broadcast it. They congratulated me briefly and then brushed past me to hug and kiss Mithu and pile her with sour things to eat. The next time we went to the club the secretary in charge of ladies affairs publicly announced that ‘as per club rules Mithu is not to dance.’ jokingly of course for no such rule existed. Your mother never danced again.
“Mithu did not get even one bit of the support that wives expect to get from their husbands when they are in the family way. Mithu never invited me to feel your kicks against her womb. The traditional late ninth month ceremony when the soon-to-be mother’s forearms are loaded with glass bangles went off in great style. After that it was the wait for the pains to start.
“One morning Mithu called to say that the pains had started and I arranged for the hospital to send her the ambulance. In view of her athletic habits the obstetrician had predicted an easy normal delivery. Three hours later the obstetrician herself called to say that Mithu had delivered a girl baby. My office superior came to know of it and ordered me to leave office at once. I went to hospital. A senior nurse was waiting for me at the entrance. She took me to see Mithu. I greeted her and I held her hand almost the first physical contact I had with her since her arrival back from her mother’s place. The nurse then took me to the nursery window and pointed out the cradle in which you were sleeping. I saw no baby, only swaddling clothes. The nurse must have noticed it for she invited me into the room. I went to the cradle and saw you for the first time. I fell in love with you at once.
‘May I carry her?’ I asked the nurse. She considered the request for a moment.
‘You can,’ she said and in severe tones she added, ‘no kissing.’ A student nurse carried you and placed you in my arms. She did not relinquish support to the head. You opened one eye and twisted the opposite angle of the mouth. It was so much like a mischievous wink and all three of us laughed. I went back to see your Mom. I must have had the broadest smile I was capable of when I said to her that you were the cutest baby I had ever seen. She smiled her trade mark smile for the first time in many months.”
3
“You made the home a happy home again. No father was so madly in love with his baby than I was with you. That made your mother very happy too. But our relationship was only through you. I did not have any sexual inclination towards her, and her body language registered no desire for physical intimacy with me. We never spoke about it. Yes, you are right. We are friends but not lovers.”
“I am sure an average Indian must consider odd, even unbelievable, the way we had overcome the crisis. An average Indian cannot understand, but for an Indian army officer such behaviour towards women was second nature. When my wife, who herself was from army background from the days of her grandfather, told me that the child she was bearing was not mine she was acting in that tradition. She could easily have had an abortion and not told me at all. But she told me first crack out of the box, and I did what a pukka officer should do—but to our eternal regret not quite the whole of it. I took her in, I accepted the child as my own, but I accepted my wife back as a friend but not as my wife. Your Mom, notwithstanding her fox trotting and twisting was below the surface a dharmapatini for she accepted her fate without a murmur.
“Outwardly we were a made-for-each other couple, and no parent in the camp doted more on their kid than we did with you. But our love for you did not extend to providing you with brothers and sisters to play with. That’s all Preethu.”
Preethu who was holding her Dad’s hand for most of the time was surprised at the sudden ending of the story.
“Is that all Dad? Rather a sudden ending.”
“I am an old soldier Preethu, not a storyteller. I have no skill in rounding off a story the way you expect it to. When I had told what I set out to tell I stopped.”
“I am sure you have analysed in depth and have come to some conclusions.” He was silent for quite a while. Daughter waited silently. She knew he had something to say. Then he spoke with deliberation.
“I feel that Kipling was dead right when he said that East is East and West is West and the twain shall never meet. When she told me she was doing the western thing, and when I accepted her I was doing the same. But after that it was all East.
‘But showering love on another’s child is not eastern.”
“You are wrong there, Preethu. An ancient Tamil proverb says that a man loves his mistress’s child born before he knew her more than he loves his own.”
Father tousled her hair and daughter kissed him on the forehead.