Ghachar Ghochar Read online

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  GHACHAR GHOCHAR

  VIVEK SHANBHAG is the author of eight works of fiction and two plays, all of which have been published to wide acclaim in the South Indian language Kannada. He was a Fall 2016 resident at the International Writing Program at the University of Iowa. Ghachar Ghochar is the first of his books to appear in English.

  SRINATH PERUR is a writer and translator whose work has appeared in n+1, Granta, and the Guardian. He is the author of If It’s Monday It Must Be Madurai, published by Penguin India.

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  Copyright © 2013 by Vivek Shanbhag

  English language translation copyright © 2017 by Srinath Perur

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  Ebook ISBN 9781101992944

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Names: âSåanabhåaga, Vivåeka, author. | Perur, Srinath, translator.

  Title: Ghachar ghochar / Vivek Shanbhag ; translated from the Kannada by

  Srinath Perur.

  Other titles: Ghåacar ghåocar. English

  Description: Authorized edition. | New York,

  New York : Penguin Books, 2017.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2016027137 | ISBN 9780143111689 (paperback)

  Subjects: LCSH: Families—India—Fiction. | India—Social

  conditions—Fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Literary. | FICTION / Family Life.

  | FICTION / Psychological. | GSAFD: Domestic fiction. | Psychological

  fiction.

  Classification: LCC PL4659.S2518 G3313 2017 | DDC 894.8/14371—dc23

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Cover design: Colin Webber

  Version_1

  In memory of Yashwant Chittal

  CONTENTS

  About the Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  Acknowledgments

  ONE

  Vincent is a waiter at Coffee House. It’s called just that—Coffee House. The name hasn’t changed in a hundred years, even if the business has. You can still get a good cup of coffee here, but it’s now a bar and restaurant. Not one of those low-lit bars with people crammed around tables, where you come to suspect that drinking may not be such a wholesome activity after all. No, this place is airy, spacious, high-ceilinged. Drinking here makes you feel cultured, sophisticated. The walls are paneled in wood to shoulder height. Old photographs hang on the sturdy square pillars in the center of the room, showing you just how beautiful this city was a century ago. The photographs evoke a gentler, more leisurely time, and somehow Coffee House still manages to belong to that world. For instance, you can visit at seven in the evening when it’s busiest, order only a coffee and occupy a table for two hours, and no one will object. They seem to know that someone who simply sits there for so long must have a thousand wheels spinning in his head. And they know those spinning wheels will not let a person be. Eventually, he’ll be overwhelmed, just like the serene spaces in those photographs that buyers devoured and turned into the cluttered mess we have around us today.

  But let all that be—I don’t mean to brood. Getting back to this Vincent: he’s a dark, tall fellow, a little over middle age, but strong, without the hint of a belly. He wears a white uniform against which it’s impossible not to notice an extravagant red cummerbund. On his head is a white turban, its tuft sticking out like Krishna’s peacock feather. I can’t help feeling when Vincent is around—serving coffee, pouring beer at a practiced angle, betraying the faintest of smiles as a patron affectedly applies knife and fork to a cutlet—that he can take us all in with a single glance. By now I suspect he knows the regulars at Coffee House better than they know themselves.

  Once, I came here when I was terribly agitated, and found myself saying out loud as he placed a cup of coffee in front of me: “What should I do, Vincent?” I was mortified and about to apologize when he answered, thoughtfully: “Let it go, sir.” I suppose it might have been a generic response, but something about his manner made me take his words seriously. It was soon after that interaction with Vincent that I abandoned Chitra and whatever there was between us. My life then took a turn that led to marriage. Now, let me not give the impression here that I believe in the supernatural—I don’t. But then, neither do I go hunting for a rational basis for everything that happens.

  Today, I’ve been sitting in Coffee House longer than ever before. I’m desperate for a sign of some sort. Part of me longs to speak to Vincent, but I’m holding back—what if his words hint at the one thing I don’t want to hear? It’s afternoon. There are few people around. Directly in my line of sight is a young woman in a blue T-shirt, scribbling something in a notebook. She’s at a table that looks onto the street outside. Two books, a glass of water, and a coffee cup sit on the table in front of her. A lock of hair has drifted across her cheek as she writes. The girl is here at least three times a week at this hour. Sometimes a young man joins her for a coffee and then they leave together. It’s the same table where Chitra and I used to meet.

  Just as I begin to wonder if her friend will turn up today, I see him at the door. He takes the chair across from her. My gaze drifts away, then returns to their table with a jerk when I hear shouting. She’s on her feet now, leaning across the table. One hand holds his collar. The other slaps him across the face. He’s blurting explanations, forearms raised to fend her off. She releases his collar and throws one of her books at him, then the other, all the while screaming abuses that implicate all men. She pauses, eyes darting over the table in rage as if looking for something else to attack him with. He shoves his chair back and flees. She takes the glass of water in front of her and flings it at him. It misses and shatters against the wall.

  She’s surprisingly calm after he’s gone. She picks up the books and her bag. For a few moments she sits with her eyes closed, breathing heavily. One of the boys sweeps up the broken glass. Coffee House had fallen silent as the few people present watched the scene unfold. Now the usual murmur resumes. On cue, as if this is all a play, Vincent goes to her table, and she raises her head to order something. It appears Vincent already knows her order and has it ready in the wings. A gin and tonic appears on the table suspiciously quickly.

  I wave him over as he returns from her table. “What happened?”

  Someone else in his place might say the couple is breaking up, or speculate that the man has been unfaithful. He might even observe that this is the first time the young woman has ordered a drink here. Not our Vincent. He bends down and says, “Sir—one story, many sides.”

  Had Vincent taken on a grand name and grown a long shimmering beard, he’d have thousands of people falling at his feet. How different are the words of those exalted beings from his?
Words, after all, are nothing by themselves. They burst into meaning only in the minds they’ve entered. If you think about it, even those held to be gods incarnate seldom speak of profound things. It’s their day-to-day utterances that are imbued with sublime meanings. And who’s to say the gods cannot take the form of a waiter when they choose to visit us?

  The truth is I have no real reason to come to Coffee House. But who can admit to doing something for no reason in times like these, in a city as busy as this one? So I’ll say: I come here for respite from domestic skirmishes. If all is peaceful at home I can think up other reasons. In any case, visiting Coffee House has become a daily ritual. My wife, Anita, to whom I once laid out the case for Vincent’s divinity, sometimes wryly says, “Did you visit your temple today?”

  Somehow, my unvoiced appeals seem to be heard when I’m in Coffee House. There are times when the thought of being there enters my mind just before going to bed, and I pass the night in a dazed half-sleep, eager for morning to arrive. I come here, pick a table from which I can see the goings-on on the road outside, and sit down. There are usually only a couple of people here at that time of the morning. Vincent brings me a strong coffee without my having to ask. I sit there and watch people pass by: in the cold of December they hurry past in sweaters and jackets; in summer they wear light, thin clothes, offering some skin to the sun. After gazing out of the window for half an hour or so, I call Vincent over, engage him in small talk, and root for pearls of wisdom in whatever he says. If the weather in my head is particularly bad, I might order a snack and prolong my conversation with Vincent. At times, I’m tempted to unburden myself to him. But then, what’s the point when he seems to know without being told? These interludes at Coffee House, away from the strains of home and family, are the most comforting part of my day.

  That girl who just chased her friend away reminds me of Chitra. I wonder how often Chitra must have thrashed me like that in her thoughts—I’d slipped away from her without saying a word. Her pride would never allow her to come after me, of course. Not once in all this time has she tried to make contact. I used to join her on most afternoons, usually at that very table. She worked for a women’s welfare organization, and would gradually grow incensed as she told me about her day. The things she said about men I took as applying to myself. I could only sit there mute, feeling vaguely guilty. She might say, “How could you break her arm simply because the tea was not to your taste?” Or: “Do you kill your wife because she forgot to leave the key with the neighbor?” I knew that tea shouldn’t lead to a broken arm, or a forgotten key to a murder. It wasn’t about the tea or the key: the last strands of a relationship can snap from a single glance or a moment of silence. But how was I to explain this to her? There was no room for anything other than her anger. How, then, could there be tenderness between us? There was really nothing there, I suppose, certainly nothing physical. I never once held her hand, though I probably could have. When we had just gotten to know each other, I believed we might draw closer. But we never did. Then, one day, whatever there was between us vanished. I stopped going to Coffee House at our usual time and instead began going in the evenings. That was it—we never saw each other again.

  I remember clearly what we spoke about the last time we met. She told me about a woman who had been turned out of her house in the middle of the night by her mother-in-law. While the woman shivered outside, her husband and his parents and sister all slept warm in their blankets. She’d sat there, hearing her husband’s snores through the window. At dawn she hid her shame from the milkman by pretending she was waiting for the milk. Chitra’s voice grew in shrillness as she described the woman’s plight. “I’ll make sure that husband and mother-in-law see the inside of a jail,” she swore. “I must discuss the case with our lawyer before he leaves for home,” she said and got up. She touched me lightly on the shoulder, said, “Bye, dear” as she always did, and left. It’s all hazy now when I try to remember if I knew then that it was over. I do recall that I sat there quietly for a while after she left. I didn’t show up at our usual time the next day. Or ever after. Chitra may have asked Vincent about me; I don’t know. She probably realized I was avoiding her and never tried to get in touch.

  As I sit here in Coffee House today, my mind is more disturbed than usual. If I can recognize it, so can Vincent. He knows I’m eager to talk to him, and he comes to my table of his own accord. I tell him: “Another lemon soda, please.” He goes away after giving me a look that seems to say, “Is that really all?” In front of me, the girl finishes her gin and tonic with a couple of gulps and stuffs her books into her bag.

  My mobile phone rings, startling me. Must be from home. It’s been thirty hours since I left, and I’m worried about what news the call might bring. I look at the phone—an unknown number. I answer with some dread. It’s someone asking if I want insurance. “No,” I say curtly, and put the phone back in my pocket.

  Vincent brings over a tray with a glass containing a mixture of lemon juice and salt, a bottle of soda, a tiny bowl with slices of lemon, and a long spoon. He places the tray’s contents on the table with great deliberation. He produces an opener from somewhere in his cummerbund and pries open the bottle cap. As he pours, the foam comes gushing up in the glass. Vincent waits longer than necessary between pours of the soda, as if buying me time. I can pretend all I want, but how can I possibly hide from this all-knowing man the fact that I’m desperate to unburden myself?

  TWO

  Ours is a joint family. We live in the same house—my wife and I, my parents, my uncle, and Malati. Malati is my older sister, back home now after having left her husband. It is natural to wonder, I suppose, why the six of us should want to live together. What can I say—it is one of the strengths of families to pretend that they desire what is unavoidable.

  The central figure in our household is my chikkappa, Venkatachala, my father’s younger brother and the family’s sole earner. He has a weakness for work, is at it night and day. We’re in the spice trade—owners of a firm called Sona Masala. It’s a simple enough business: order spices in bulk from Kerala, parcel them into small plastic packets in our warehouse, and sell these to grocers in the city. Chikkappa started the business, now our only source of income, and as a result he’s regarded above everyone else in the house. His meals, his preferences, his conveniences, are of supreme importance to us all. The harder he toils, the better it is for us. He’s unmarried, and we fuss over him so much that he’s bound to wonder what additional comfort marriage could bring at his age. He receives all the domestic privileges accorded to the earning male of the family. At the first sound in the morning indicating he’s awake, tea is made. When it’s sensed that he’s finished bathing, the dosa pan goes on the stove. He can fling his clothes in the bathroom or in a corner of his bedroom or anywhere at all in the house, and they’ll materialize washed and ironed in his room.

  Sometimes, on the pretext of work, he spends the night in his room at the warehouse. We’re careful not to ask him about it. But a couple of weeks ago, there was a commotion when a woman came to the house. Chikkappa was at home, but he didn’t step out. And why should he, when we’re here to do battle on his behalf?

  She came on a Sunday, at around nine in the morning. She’d waited awhile some distance away from the house, hoping perhaps to speak to Chikkappa if he emerged. It doesn’t take long for someone standing aimlessly on the road to draw people’s attention—my mother soon saw her from the kitchen window. She had on a pale green sari with a red border. Nothing in her bearing suggested she was a disreputable woman. Still, in the half hour or so the woman stood there, glancing from time to time at the house, my mother made several concerned trips to the window. In these matters, it is always the women who suspect first. The woman likely had no intention of creating a scene, and for all we know she might have been happy to leave after seeing Chikkappa briefly. But that was not what transpired.

  She finally summoned the courage t
o approach the house. My mother saw her opening the gate and rushed out. By then she had made her way to the front steps.

  “How can we help you?” Amma asked.

  “Isn’t this Mr. Venkatachala’s house?” the woman asked, the hesitation evident in her voice.

  “Yes. Who are you?”

  “My name is Suhasini. Is he at home?”

  “Whom do you wish to see?”

  “I’d like to see him . . . Mr. Venkatachala. Can I speak to him?”

  “Do you have some business with him?”

  “I’d like to speak to him.”

  “Regarding?”

  “Can I see him?”

  Knowing Amma, she would have felt slighted by the visitor’s lack of forthrightness. But she held her tongue. After all, she had no idea who the woman was to Chikkappa, and it wouldn’t do to displease him. “Wait, I’ll call him,” she said and came inside, leaving the woman at the door.

  While this was happening, we, the three men of the house, were sitting at the dining table over our breakfasts, listening to the exchange at the door. Malati and Anita were in the kitchen, also within earshot. None of us acknowledged hearing anything.

  Amma entered the room and turned toward Chikkappa. Before she could say a word, he began making signals to the effect that he wasn’t home. This was all that Amma needed. She strode back outside.

  “He’s not home,” we heard her say.

  “But . . . he is.”

  “I said he’s not home.”

  “Will you please mention my name to him?”

  “How can I when he’s not home?”

  “He’s here. I know he is.”

  “Am I lying to you, then?”

  “I know he’s inside. I saw him through the window. Please call him. I only want to speak to him.”

  “In which language must I tell you? No means no. That’s all—now, please leave.” It was clear from Amma’s voice that she was nearing the end of her patience. I was amazed she could stand so firmly behind a lie.