wily. If he has the money, he’ll buy chewing gum, or condoms, or a refrigerator. If he doesn’t, he will muzzle himself to do without; the self-discipline becomes in itself quite piquant. But for Burfi,deprivation is failure, a cudgel to his self-esteem.
‘Why don’t we suggest to Baba that if he truly can’t manage the pacemaker business by himself, we’ll both pitch in?’
‘Obviously,’ snorts Burfi, as they drive into the hospital ‘but you pitch in first.’ When they park, he reminds Jamun, ‘Check with Kuki about the pacemaker.’
That night Jamun reports to Shyamanand that his sons will share the costs of Urmila’s healing. Jamun himself can immediately part with twelve thousand rupees. ‘Yes,’ falters Shyamanand, ‘that’ll greatly help.’
After dinner Jamun trudges down the back lanes to the beach. Past the fisherwomen and the offal, through the fetor of the sea, of fresh and putrid fish. The heavens black and lumpish, the waters thin and scummy, like black kerosene in a wobbling, transparent can. Through the night rovers, the queens, flashers, gynanders, old-world floosies, the lonely hearts, Jamun casts about vainly for a sequestered, unsoiled nook, from where sky and ocean will appear to be one, like a boundless cinema screen seconds before the show. Maybe he will be treated to spangles of lightning, beguiling advertisements from some other life.
He is very happy that he has given Shyamanand twelve thousand rupees. He feels unburdened, blessed. He believes that in the nursing home his mother somehow knows what he has done, and is smiling in her numbness. He plods on, wallowing to his ankles in the sand.
Whenever Urmila has lacked cash, Jamun has reminded her of the crisp, virgin banknotes entombed in her trunk. ‘Every time, over the years, that you’ve received a brand-new note, of whatever value, you’ve interred it in your trunk, never to use it. You must have more than a thousand in there, among the folds of saris and the leaves of unread, sacred tomes.’
‘No, Jamun, I can’t spend money that looks so clean. These notes are like starched, lily-white saris after a cosy bath on a warm winter morning.’
Urmila’s views on opulence and solvency have been moulded by the innumerable beastly humiliations that she has twitchedunder for need of money. In her later years, when money is no longer anguish, she feels towards it contempt, and sometimes repugnance. She begins to live freely; money is vital no more. ‘You’ll notice, Jamun, money’s never within your reach when you need it the most. I’ve witnessed how the itch to hoard dominated both my father and yours. I merely hoodwinked myself – that if I spent bountifully on the deserving things, then somehow my kitty would be replenished. That happened just once – remember? – when I parted with three thousand to your aya for that Kishori rape incident? I was left with about five hundred in the bank, and the whole month to see out. I borrowed, of course – and, ludicrously, from Aya! – but soon after, a cheque for more than eight thousand – from Moni! that viperous crosspatch – my share for some lands of ours in Balasore that I didn’t even know of, that were bought by I don’t know whom – most sisterly of Moni to spare me my portion, but God knows what I was entitled to. I gawped at the cheque, I wanted to whoop and coo – and instead, burst into tears. It appeared such a victory for me, though the event was no victory, of course, merely a miracle, never repeated, though it should’ve been. For I don’t spend on myself – you can’t deny that, Jamun – but to reap some stillness, respite, caring – these
can
be paid for.’
‘This morning’s horoscope in the
Express,’
responds Jamun, ‘states that Sagittarians are total lemons with money. That fits you – zip through the cash in your hand, and
mañana
to the leftovers.’
‘Because of previous debts, I’d no money in that racking year in
‘Why don’t we suggest to Baba that if he truly can’t manage the pacemaker business by himself, we’ll both pitch in?’
‘Obviously,’ snorts Burfi, as they drive into the hospital ‘but you pitch in first.’ When they park, he reminds Jamun, ‘Check with Kuki about the pacemaker.’
That night Jamun reports to Shyamanand that his sons will share the costs of Urmila’s healing. Jamun himself can immediately part with twelve thousand rupees. ‘Yes,’ falters Shyamanand, ‘that’ll greatly help.’
After dinner Jamun trudges down the back lanes to the beach. Past the fisherwomen and the offal, through the fetor of the sea, of fresh and putrid fish. The heavens black and lumpish, the waters thin and scummy, like black kerosene in a wobbling, transparent can. Through the night rovers, the queens, flashers, gynanders, old-world floosies, the lonely hearts, Jamun casts about vainly for a sequestered, unsoiled nook, from where sky and ocean will appear to be one, like a boundless cinema screen seconds before the show. Maybe he will be treated to spangles of lightning, beguiling advertisements from some other life.
He is very happy that he has given Shyamanand twelve thousand rupees. He feels unburdened, blessed. He believes that in the nursing home his mother somehow knows what he has done, and is smiling in her numbness. He plods on, wallowing to his ankles in the sand.
Whenever Urmila has lacked cash, Jamun has reminded her of the crisp, virgin banknotes entombed in her trunk. ‘Every time, over the years, that you’ve received a brand-new note, of whatever value, you’ve interred it in your trunk, never to use it. You must have more than a thousand in there, among the folds of saris and the leaves of unread, sacred tomes.’
‘No, Jamun, I can’t spend money that looks so clean. These notes are like starched, lily-white saris after a cosy bath on a warm winter morning.’
Urmila’s views on opulence and solvency have been moulded by the innumerable beastly humiliations that she has twitchedunder for need of money. In her later years, when money is no longer anguish, she feels towards it contempt, and sometimes repugnance. She begins to live freely; money is vital no more. ‘You’ll notice, Jamun, money’s never within your reach when you need it the most. I’ve witnessed how the itch to hoard dominated both my father and yours. I merely hoodwinked myself – that if I spent bountifully on the deserving things, then somehow my kitty would be replenished. That happened just once – remember? – when I parted with three thousand to your aya for that Kishori rape incident? I was left with about five hundred in the bank, and the whole month to see out. I borrowed, of course – and, ludicrously, from Aya! – but soon after, a cheque for more than eight thousand – from Moni! that viperous crosspatch – my share for some lands of ours in Balasore that I didn’t even know of, that were bought by I don’t know whom – most sisterly of Moni to spare me my portion, but God knows what I was entitled to. I gawped at the cheque, I wanted to whoop and coo – and instead, burst into tears. It appeared such a victory for me, though the event was no victory, of course, merely a miracle, never repeated, though it should’ve been. For I don’t spend on myself – you can’t deny that, Jamun – but to reap some stillness, respite, caring – these
can
be paid for.’
‘This morning’s horoscope in the
Express,’
responds Jamun, ‘states that Sagittarians are total lemons with money. That fits you – zip through the cash in your hand, and
mañana
to the leftovers.’
‘Because of previous debts, I’d no money in that racking year in
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