No, this is not about Vaidehi at all. It’s about Mulchandbhai, and all that happened to him. The girl cropped up in the story midway, quite unawares.

The ramshackle four-storied structure that stood at the entrance to a narrow winding lane was better known by a name hinting at its past grandeur – the haveli (mansion). Some history experts would lead you to a hidden marble slab in some corner, and trace faint words that proclaimed, “Nandkunvar ni Haveli”, in memory of its benefactress.

To fit in numerous large and small tenants, the current owner had moved several original walls and affixed temporary stepladders of wood or iron in slapdash fashion; overall, this makeshift arrangement had left little sign of anything resembling a grand abode. In a small room on the third floor of this crumbling edifice, Mr. Indrajit Shah, Income Tax- Sales Tax consultant, faced an air-cooling contraption and waited for business. Clerks like me sat in an enormous hall, and the innumerable uses this space must have been put to when this ramshackle cage-like edifice was a haveli, remains a matter of conjecture.

If you listen closely, you can just about capture traces of old music, which may perhaps be hymns, or the honeyed strains of a dance girl’s song. About a dozen or more people work here, but the arrangement is such that even half-a-dozen chairs are too many. Every morning, as soon as the doors open, young lads and girls armed with lists of tasks rush to their destinations, either the Income Tax or the Sales Tax departments. Although truth be said, this frenetic hurrying about does not lack opportunity for tiffs, for making up and a chance or two for laughter and tears. When young girls join our office, some of them work for maybe a few years or perhaps a month or two, and before the bloom begins to fade from their faces – why, they get married and they leave. This phenomenon keeps the average age of employees lower than it would be otherwise.

A clerk rests a questioning gaze on their pretty faces, steals a moment or two of respite, and then transfers his gaze to the plaster peeling off the walls. A sense of impermanence, of something on the verge of happening, pervades. For surely the haveli will crumble to dust – if not this monsoon, then the next. Mitali will adorn her palms with the red of matrimonial vermilion if not this vaishakh, then most certainly in the next auspicious month, magshist. Not one soul is ordained to wait – given an opportunity they’d all jump off to the next roof, and away they’d run.

It is this office that Shri Mulchand joined at one point in time, and was quickly bequeathed the name Shri Mulyachandra, the priceless, the invaluable one. Those who braved the waters to reach our island did not have to deal with curiosity about antecedents. It was assumed that each such survivor had been marooned on high seas, had thrashed about in murky waters, struggled and somehow kept afloat, head held above the swirling waters to reach this point. No questions were asked either, about the specific mishaps or miracles that tormented Mulchandbhai, or about the identity of the dunce who caused his boat to tip over. Clad in a dhoti and an over-shirt, that short, sturdy man seemed to stand apart from the rest of us. His demeanor bore less the imprint of a clerk, and more that of a teacher. My skills, when they extended beyond numbers, could indulge in a few other frivolities; no matter how hard I worked, a quanta of energy seemed to cascade unchecked over the dam. Fed on that restless energy, I’d sketch caricatures of Mulchandbhai on sheets of white paper hidden between voluminous account ledgers. And, in time, those sketches would journey from one gentle palm to the next.

Quite suddenly one day we came face to face – a polite cough interrupted me as I was walking towards the room where drinking water was stored. A few paces away, Shriman Mulyachandra stood by a window doing nothing much in particular. Outside, the rain swept down, and he stood watching. All by himself.

We stood quietly for a few moments, looking at each other. It was clear that his attention had shifted from an inspection of the pelting rain, to my face.

“How are you?” he asked.

“I’m all right.” I replied perfunctorily. The hidden amusement, which had been sheathed under a veil of soberness, deepened and threatened to burst over. I hastily corrected my reply, “Well, almost all right.”

“That’s right.”

Looking at the rain pouring outside, he said, “All of us live in an ‘almost’ state of being.”

Mulyachandrabhai had no earthly reason to be standing still at that vantage point where once the lady of the house and a few select friends would have gathered to listen to melodies of musicians from far and wide. We did have permission to leave our seats for a glass of water – but permission to dilly-dally, to create an occasion to linger and wallow in the moment, one did not quite have. I perfectly understood the pallor of approximations that pervaded the haveli. Until it stood by, we stood upright. The day it would sway, we were ordained to cave in and clothe ourselves in the debris blanket. Mulyachandrabhai had challenged the core temporariness that underlined the present and the existence of the haveli – by making the rain dance to his whims, instilling the rain’s peace offering in his eyes and adding a lyrical turn to its language.

He was stodgy, he wore clothes that were old and dull, worn with use, almost torn. But he existed in a realm quite independent of his circumstances, life events or his work-place – about this particular conviction, I had no doubts.

Once, he’d said, “Someday, when you find the time, do come over.”

“Oh I shall. Most certainly,” I said, caught unawares on the path to my seat.

“Are you blessed with divine powers?”

“Why?”

“You’ve not even asked for an address!”

“Oh I’ll take the details when I’m closer to visiting,” I replied.

“There’s a temple near the bridge. The river is just behind the temple. As far as possible, don’t come on a Sunday. And should you decide to visit, do let me know in advance so that you do not find a locked door. But then, you wouldn’t see a bolted door; my daughter would attend to you, offer you something to eat and drink.”

After this brief chat, our talk moved to other matters. Since I stood with a file in my hands, he got up as well.

For what strange reason would an unannounced guest find an empty home? Was the host caught up in some critically important task on Sundays?

Yes, as such he’d tread the winding paths on the riverbed every holiday morning and evening. Sometimes, the fine line between these two halves of time would playfully vanish.

A young girl seated at a table behind Mulchandbhai murmured, “It’s been so long since the river dried out.”

In a conciliatory tone, as if he were reasoning with himself, Mulchandbhai addressed a heap of papers, “A few species of birds and insects have not been appraised of this development. Sand covers half the riverbed, bushes and an odd shrub clings to the other half. The air brims with life. Rivers do not die out all of a sudden, just like that…”

Our dialogues were like a track of footprints in the ever-shifting river sand – one imprint following another. An invitation was extended. An approximate address indicated. A rough layout of residences hastily drawn. You are a city dweller. We do not boast of large three-storied buildings of the sort you are used to. In the area behind the temple there is a row of six rooms, and the one in the corner, the last one, the best placed, is ours. The presiding deity of the temple – that’s our landlord. As we have one room, space is a constraint. A courtyard faces the room. Vaidehi pays less attention to her studies than to growing flowers and shrubs. She’s not left a spot unused in our front courtyard – no, not even to step through.

After a description of the residence, it is customary to share details about the people of the house. Each time our conversation would wander and stop at this name, the girl’s name. Vaidehi must be waiting. Vaidehi’s likes. And her dislikes. She’s a little different. She’s the matriarch of the house, that’s the reason why perhaps. She holds undisputed administrative control – that’s why. No mention was ever made of the girl’s mother. Perhaps she’d met an early death, cut short in the prime of her years. A few other rude assumptions could also be made.

“Vaidehi will be glad if you drop by… She’ll show you her sketches. She’s really so glad when someone comes over.”

“What kind of sketches?”  I politely asked.

“What else will she do to while away the time?”

“I’ll certainly drop by,” I said.

Here, I’ll have to halt for a moment and wonder at the peculiarities of human behavior. An elder had extended a cordial invitation to his young colleague – do drop by. My young daughter will be particularly pleased if you grace us with your visit. Accepting such an invitation without hesitation would possibly have been the right thing to do; but a streak of propriety that sent insistent reminders was rooted deep in this number-tallying clerk. It was simple – just because one was curious about this young daughter of an aged father, it was not right to be drawn in, or to visit.

I was keen to visit this father-daughter duo in their lonely abode, to reach out and touch the tides and ebbs of their melodic conversation. The caricaturist’s attention now turned to other pictures. A temple perchance with a vast expanse of land behind it, and a room with a low, slanting roof. A young girl, quite carefree, prances about in her front courtyard, free of binding footwear, perhaps sprinkling water on the flowering shrubs, wiping her eyes. Roasting a chapatti one moment and then impatiently putting the tava away, drawn inexplicably to a paintbrush for grace. In the moments when Mulchandbhai would be walking along the riverbed, instilling the caring moisture of the river in his eyes, balancing the concern in his vision with the generous attention of the river, or in other words, thirsting for deliverance amidst the desert of salvation. A vision of two heads under the protective shade of that low roof, deep in concentration over a picture book floated into view; however, a sense of loyalty to our friendship prevented any pictorial depiction.

Peculiarities and eccentricities thrived all around us. The proprietors’ cabin, generously also called the chambers, was used mostly for humanitarian work. Sundry charitable acts were earnestly carried out. For, it was Indrajit Shah’s sincere endeavor to give this number-crunching office the flavor of an educational institute. As such he was not very old – just about my age – but he insisted that all the girls addressed him as Papa, thereby cutting out the scope for any kind of levity, any inappropriate behavior, or behavior that may be viewed askance. Scripts for serials and the theater were lodged deep in the cupboards, between the tax files of many companies. The boss would hand over the books of accounts for safekeeping and get engrossed in the creation of hilarious schemes. Sometimes, he’d spend hours closeted with strange bearded men, puffing away at endless bidis in their company.

The story that the owner once told me about Mulchandbhai was quite like a script. To my boss, Mulchandbhai held the same mystery as a vintage car. A veteran of dusty, rundown roads, totally decrepit and of no conceivable use, but in its corners one could spot workmanship of outstanding quality. For this sort of person, the boss held deep empathy.

“Oh don’t you know? Mulchandbhai owned a firm in the wholesale market in Unjha. He was a shrewd and successful businessman. He ploughed every penny into gambling. Each time his firm tottered on the brink of bankruptcy and was rescued by contributions from his relatives and well-wishers, he’d gather their offerings and head directly to gambling dens where worli matka was the presiding deity. Even today, should a sufficiently large sum falls into his hands, he’d be drawn by the call of the piper. The man is entirely saintly other than this difficult-to-fathom enigma. If a man’s measure were to be determined by his offspring, we’d have to rank Mulchandbhai very highly. You’ve met his daughter, Vaidehi?”

“No,” I said.

Our state of approximations, in which the once-stately haveli in her dotage had turned into a woman of certain charm, left little room for conjecture and flights of fancy. It is worthwhile detailing what happened next, but when life turns restless and runs apace, the chronicler too has little choice but to race after it – dragged, willy-nilly. Cruel chapters cannot then be placed in specific context with petal-smooth elegant prefaces. All of a sudden, Mulchandbhai bloomed into the central character in this epic. Of late, he had had lost his appetite. He felt sick even after half a saucer of tea. After this continued for a month or more, an illness was cautiously hinted at.

“No! That cannot be. How is that possible? He’s so fit, hale and hearty. Stays happy, walks at a brisk pace, and that gleam in his eyes…”

“That briskness and gleam will not last very long now. After corroding his intestines, the scourge had clawed its way into his lungs and brain.”

The boss called me to his cabin along with Mulchandbhai, and after we had been seated a while, without focusing his gaze, the dramatist ventured, “Never mind what the Gita ordains, Mulchandbhai. We must leave no test or treatment undone.” I was instructed that the contents of our safe, no matter how paltry they seemed, were to be used without hesitation. “Throw open the doors of the safe. Take him to Bombay. To Madras if need be.”

That day, no one had lunch. The girls sat quietly, their gaze lowered. Mulchandbhai’s face held the glow of a philosopher’s final salvation, but this did not fetch him any compliments. He may for all reason be a philosopher par excellence, but what would happen to the girl left all alone?

Schedules were drawn up for hospital duty. I had the opportunity to serve this duty a few times. At such times, some distant relative would be present. Someone would, after all, have to stay home to make lunch, fill the tiffin. An aunt had come from Rajpipla to assist with hospital duty. Handcart pushers, sundry stall owners – such as were Mulchandbhai’s neighbors – they’d visit and sit quietly with a browbeaten expression.

Amidst all this, Mulchandbhai would look at me and say with a gleam, “Well, it had to visit me some day! Now that it has dropped by uninvited and a bit early, is that appropriate cause for battle with the final sentence? All my life I’ve recited the Gita by rote. It’s about time that I sit for this examination.”

~~~

In this manner, Mulchandbhai’s story reached its end. I had yet to abide by my duty as a friend, to keep an eye on the well-being of the girl who was now all alone. I believed I had the first call on duty towards the family. After all, I had shared the experience of a rain swept afternoon with a gambler who had staked all and lost. Indrajitbhai was also disturbed. The manner in which Mulchandbhai had left felt like a betrayal. He mourned endlessly. “Mulchandbhai cheated us. What now? What will happen to Vaidehi?” I thought to myself, “Well, the alternative of walking willingly into the water is one option she can always take.” Just behind the house is a well-worn path with her father’s footprints. This girl walks softly on the same path, in due course reaches the center of the river, her arms spread out in a willing welcome, as if she is gathering the munificence of the rain. A crowd on the bridge gathers to witness this spectacle. And while the mute crowd stands by, a sudden dust storm obstructs the view and the girl disappears from their line of vision.

No one would have to worry about her well-being any longer.

The alternative was that I throw open the doors of that closed house, with the gift of fresh air on one palm and with sunshine held aloft on another, then proclaim aloud, “Where are you? Where have you tiptoed away? Come here! See, you are not alone any more. A troupe of the insane joins you. Quick! Come on! Show me that painting book, then!”

Just as I was spinning these grandiose dreams, the boss announced, “That young girl has given us the slip!” He had wanted to do charity, extend a helping hand, but there was no one who’d reach out and reciprocate, grasp at this offer of munificence.

After this, my peregrinations began. Whenever I had the time, I’d catch a bus to the bridge and trek a rough path to the riverbed. By dusk, the emptiness of the riverbed would seem even more intense. When I’d hear the peal of temple bells, I’d grab tightly this thread of sound and reach ashore. The riverbed, the temple, and the unfolding evening: if one considered this a penance, its desired fruition came my way one day.

A man sleeping out in the open, on a cot in front of the rooms, was prompted by curiosity and asked me the reason for the visits. A woman joined him shortly, wiping her hands dry. The girl went to live with a distant aunt from Rajpipla. Are you a relative? Do sit here a while, have some tea. Along with the tea, the woman brought a torn, rough notebook. “Write!” she ordered. Without any niceties like hunting for a scrap of paper, I took down the address on my palm.

There was no cause for rushing, no haste. I had to now watch the direction the wind blew, and analyze its composition. I had to ask the leaves, did you meet a particular person? I had only to sketch the outline of a person never met, and one who could not be seen.

To embark upon a trip to Rajpipla, to specially take the bus for this purpose was out of question, an impropriety. Hence, when I chanced to visit the shores of the Narmada with some friends a good six months after the incident, I disentangled myself from the crowd and examined the lanes of that town. Dawdling, lazy tones responded and gestures from tired eyes indicated – that tiny house with a front porch. And who might you be? The old lady was escorted to America by her younger son, and that young girl that she’d got living with her? She used to do all the household work. Then she left for Mumbai along with someone. She types at some office.

No one there opened up a crumpled notebook to offer him a forwarding address. Mumbai is an ocean, teeming with people. Amidst this vastness I have often seen young girls with flowers in their hair step out from the fog and smog near suburban railway stations. From the crowd, I gently separate a droplet. Late at night, when this girl reaches the confines of her dingy chawl room, she sits quietly on the edge of her bed without bothering to change. I tell her, “Come on, get up! Milk, bread – eat whatever you have in the house.” Then I see her scampering from one platform to another to catch a train and I tell her, “Take care, Vaidehi.” Sometimes her foot misses a step as she’s rushing down a flight of stairs to the platform and the words escape unchecked, “Watch out!”  She steadies herself and speaks to a fleeting line in the air. “Thank you.”

(Translation: Mira Desai)