The Inherited Custody

CHAPTER V

"The wheel turns and turns and turns: it never stops and stands still."
― Anita Desai, The Village by the Sea

Growing up, like every other and mostly male child, Rumi was always made aware of his journey to become a fine man and make money and get married.

In the biggest glass possible, milk arrived like it would be served to a king filled with Amruth, flavored with Saffron and nuts.

"Rumi, drink it, beta."

"Rumi! Milk is good for studies- for exams. Drink, drink more. You want more? I bring?"

"You need it. Must have it."

"Eat these, son. Almonds, they make you smart-er. Good marks, you will score! Eat these, take it."

"Take some in your pocket now. Eat it on your way to school. Do it, ha?"

And then, there were horrible days when the worst would happen- his father, Rustom, would take him for a walk or talk to him in his room or somewhere else, in a private, quiet place. And intimidate him. At first, he'd put his hand on his son's shoulder. Rumi so badly wanted to brush it away at times. But he didn't. He knew he should never do that. He knew better.

"You must study hard, Rumi. Very hard. Life is tough, you know?" And then Rustom would light a cigarette, and in between puffs of contaminated, burnt-up fog, he'd continue. "You study hard; you get good grades. Good grades mean you can help with the cafe better. You make more cafes around Bombay! I know you, I trust! You are focused, Rumi. I was not. You will earn for us one day. Proud, Rumi- make us proud one day."

By this point, it felt nothing more than a vinyl stuck in the record, playing the same kind of tiresome crap over and over, sensitively, with a hint of blackmail. Rumi had almost stopped bothering.

While the record played, stretching over ounces of minutes that packed uninterested emotions, Rumi would find something around to look at, to distract his very sensitive, ambivalent mind before it snapped like the salvaged remains of dead forest. And so he'd look at the bird on the tree- which was a pigeon, but he'd always get baffled between crows and pigeons for dumb reasons. If not them, he preferred to hunt out the sky above, where more birds flew, the clouds made the sun look dressed as a lady for an evening ball.

If his fortunes were shining bright enough, at times, they walked on the beach. And so Rumi would watch the water layering waves over each other, diving, jumping, splashing and tidying up, pulling up at the shore like a hot-shot race car driver and then going back where it came from; taking away a chunk of land with every visit. At times, they ate ice-cream or munched on roasted corn by the vendors there.

While walking and talking, his father would pick garbage off the shore, as many as he could. But no matter how old he got or tired, he didn't stop talking. He spoke, pressured, and then kept giving lectures of how- what and why. Of course, Rustom told stories of how he walked miles to school and only survived on a couple of paisas back then. How he only ate two meals a day. And how he and his siblings studied at night, under one single oil-lamp, where mosquitoes lurked and sipped blood from them all.

And Rumi only listened, or pretended to, so tenaciously, replying now and then- "uh-huh," "oh?", "hmm."

And then there were days in the park.

At such times, he'd be one of the few ones to accompany an older man to the park. People often assumed that he was there to help his father. Little did they know, it was almost always the vice-versa.

It was one of those days. They walked the garden pathways built with rough, stone tiles to walk and jog upon and sat at the marbled water fountain. Rumi looked around again, as his father spoke with a lowered voice, almost like a whisper or the sound of a meddling fly amongst several other people talking; and saw the reflection of the sun on the grass. It cast a shadowy portrait of him and his father on the grassy, sharp-bladed ground, where insects resided. Their crooked yet serious posture painted across the leaves. The noon was extremely wavering; vapors danced their way towards the sky and sweat-drenched backs and armpits of people as if in the monsoon.

Rumi then turned around and watched the divine ball of eternity burn brighter and hurt his eyes in the icy water, reflecting. He wondered if the couple from last time's visit were, here again, today. But then he kept watching everything panoramically, and his eyes stopped at a familiar sight, face. It wasn't the couple he'd wished to see again (for they'd given him perspective).

It was Charles, looking as raggedy as ever. His eyes squinted more than ever, almost closed, even though he sat under the shadow of the very chilling Gulmohar tree. As usual, he sat alone, lost, and never able to be found. Nobody had ever greeted him or spoken to him or even smiled. Every time, he was seen, Rumi saw him alone and satisfied, or perhaps too dunked in sorrow- who knew? To Rumi, Charles only stood as a mystery, a man who he knew but would never understand. A man from Europe, France: Simone De Beauvoir. That was all he knew.

He kept thinking of the stupendous mystery of why in the first place would a man leave a place like France, Fountain of Paris, and come to a place as tired and quick as Bombay. And did he travel here, all the way, alone and lost? Why was he alone? All the time? Nobody? Perhaps a beggar? Or poor, very poor? Got mugged at the Bazaar?

And then he suddenly thought of that couple and Charles. Now, he wondered admiringly if Charles was always alone, or was he ever married? How could a man, a young one at that- travel all the seas, all over to a place as glorious and famous as Bombay? What was it that made a man deliver such a long, lonely journey?

He looked at Rumi then and smiled, and Rumi returned the gesture, with forced grace.

Rustom got up then.

"Let's go. It's getting too warm. We can drink some lemon juice on the way."

And then Rumi got up, and they walked again, back to the roads they'd taken to come here. They reached the way, then the city outskirts, and then almost close to the lowland. At the traffic signal, a huge cast-iron signboard stood steadily, corroded red and brown and down. But rigid and not tired. The calm wind blew over the waters that surrounded the city and turned into a thick marsh of heat and made everyone in the streets shiver.

"Let's just buy yogurt, Baba," Rumi then suggested, before the signal went Red and indicated the people to walk. "I'll make you some Chaas."

•~•~•~•