Chapter 20
Andrew was behind me; I could feel his eyes on my back.
I settled down at the first empty table I spotted in what was a tin shed that abutted the railway station. The place was filling up quickly with anxious commuters, fieldworkers, wailing children, men shouting into their mobile phones and women managing browbeating spouses and cranky kids.
‘It’s popular,’ Andrew said, looking around him. I think he meant loud.
We were at the very stall where the Maddur vada was first formulated.
A lip-smacking consequence of a late start to the day.
Legend has it that the cook, an hour or so behind schedule, rustled up these delicious discs as an apology for not being ready with a full breakfast. Sliced onions, curry leaves and grated coconut were never put to better use.
This place was my choice. I had sold it to Andrew for much of our way here. He might not have known what to expect, but the moment he bit into the first of the vadas, I knew I had called right.
‘This is so good, Rai!’
This sonnet of surnames was beginning to annoy me. It was more a reaction, I could tell, but it might’ve increased after he ran into Ravi and me.
Andrew took a second bite and closed his eyes. It was fresh and crisp like the morning air.
I had three vadas, enjoying every bite. Each was the size of my not-so-considerable palm. I had two with chutney and one plain. I could’ve had a couple more easily, but Andrew forced me to stop. There was excess edible oil in my system already for a whole week.
I wanted chutney for the last bite of my vada, but the steel bowl on my plate was wiped clean. Andrew had eaten my share of chutney, too.
He was on his feet to get us an extra portion, but I told him not to bother. I was going to savour the flavour.
‘You had five!’ He was smiling, sparking the sun.
‘Two,’ I said, keeping a straight face. That raw, early-morning contour had soothed into quiet certitude. It was inviting. ‘You should’ve asked your fashion-blogger friend to come along, Andrew.’
He was suddenly engaged with picking the crumbs on his steel plate.
‘Three can be company,’ I said.
Andrew looked around him. I think he was looking for a waiter to either call for the bill or have him walk me out of this busy location.
I opened my phone to Pooja’s Instagram page and found that she was online. ‘And she’s an early riser.’
‘How do you know?’ Andrew asked, hawking the tired look.
I flashed the page at him. Andrew looked away.
‘You should’ve worn a polka-dotted shirt.’ I giggled. It was that kind of a morning.
Andrew smiled; his face coloured.
‘Hari Rao would’ve been impressed.’
I had crossed a line, I could tell, by the way his eyes hardened. I’d done the polka dots to death. Maybe.
‘Why would I want to impress him?’
‘Because…’ I said, tilting my face up to his. Our lips were not in line.
I was craving coffee, black and bitter. I raised my hand to signal for one, and Andrew, who was seated opposite me, took my hand loosely in his.
‘Not here,’ he mouthed.
I returned his smile, brighter and warmer.
‘They don’t do black coffee here, Myraah,’ he said.
I should’ve known; I was the local girl. I had done this road a million times growing up.
I took my hand back and let him keep the smile as we exited the stall.
Some 10 minutes later, Hari Rao’s convoy passed us. I couldn’t help but throw a glance at Andrew. His foot slammed the accelerator; we were back at work. On the campaign trail, en route to Mysuru.
We drove through a couple of villages before stopping at a two-lane expanse, which had some five homes.
Mud and brick constructions, never touched by a paintbrush.
Hari Rao stepped into each of the shelters and interacted with the adults.
The villagers from the seemingly better-placed settlements that we had driven past had been transported to the remote Chittakayanakoplu.
Hari Rao wanted to bring this hardy commune into public consciousness.
If he went there, especially in the lead-up to the elections, the media would follow and train their lenses on local issues like housing and electricity.
More people, even if they were just in the backdrop, would lend to the voice of the people.
I followed Andrew into the first house. I hooked my fingers into the belt loop of his carpenter jeans to keep up with him. He turned once to check if I was okay before returning to the action.
Hari Rao had spent between 10 and 20 minutes in each house, addressing their problems, which were basically the drought and its impact. He listened to their woes and came up with easy, inexpensive solutions.
Like every politician, he finished with the promise that he would take care of them if he came to power. Unlike most of his ilk, though, he appeared to mean what he said. Either that or he was a bloody good actor. There have been a fair few of those, too.
His hair was thin, his kurta was thick and the lines on his face were readable.
I wondered why Ravi hadn’t joined him, just to support him. Maybe he was scared that his presence would endorse what Hari Rao wanted – that he’d eventually get into politics.
Some six months from an election verdict, I could see that there was no happy resolution here.
The old man was trying to get his party rolling one more time for the grandson, who didn’t want the stage.
Still, I thought, Ravi should’ve been here for his grandfather.
There were a lot of people around Hari Rao, but they were not family.
It was late afternoon when we arrived at the once-capital city of the kingdom of Mysore. I love Mysuru because it’s the picture of what Bengaluru once was. The air is fair, the temperament soft and the surroundings clean.
We had lunch close to the state guest house, where Hari Rao and his team had halted.
I settled in my seat quickly, dropping my handbag on the floor so that I could dig into my dosa freely.
I had taken the first bite of my ghee-soaked Mysuru masala dosa when Andrew’s phone rang.
Hari Rao was unwell; he was returning to Bengaluru immediately.
I sat in my seat for a whole minute wondering if I should pack the dosa. No shit!
Hari Rao had looked fine, and I was famished.
Andrew was at the cash counter already.
It was early evening by the time we were back in Bengaluru. We decided to go to office, but we both wanted coffee before that. Andrew met me at Perky Grace after he parked his car.
He had been quiet for most of the drive back. I was annoyed at having to leave my dosa uneaten. Mostly uneaten. I had shovelled two giant bites into my mouth.
I had ordered coffee and a couple of sandwiches by the time Andrew joined me.
‘There’s something I need to say to you,’ he said just as he was sitting down.
About? I wondered.
Our food and coffee arrived as soon as he was seated.
‘You remember Nana, Noelene,’ he said. It wasn’t a question; it was a nervous introduction to a subject dear to him. ‘Do you remember her watch?’
I nodded. I didn’t really remember; no, I did. It wasn’t exceptional. ‘It was steel.’
‘She always wore it.’
I took a deep breath. Something was wrong.
The only piece of jewellery Noelene owned was a stainless-steel HMT watch.
Broad strap, thick white dial. Noelene returned it to a black plastic case at the end of each day.
The box had long come apart and was held together by a rubber band.
Andrew had taken the watch and the box with him to the United States.
‘You’ve lost it!’
Andrew’s eyes were misty.
‘Two days ago, when was I tidying stuff around my house,’ Andrew paused, ‘I opened the box. I wanted to check the watch. It had obviously stopped ticking. I pulled it out and rubbed it. That’s when I noticed a notepaper at the base of the case.’
Andrew fished out a thick, rectangular box from the side pockets of his cargoes and placed it on the table. He rolled off the rubber band. The notepaper was laid out like a carpet in a dollhouse.
‘Okay!’ I said.
Andrew picked out the paper. It contained a signature. Four letters.
‘Who gave it to Noelene?’
Andrew passed me the slip. ‘Hari’ was scrawled across it.
‘That’s not Nana’s handwriting.’
‘Who is this?’ I asked. I was panicking.
‘When Noelene dropped those hints about my grandfather, she was fiddling with the watch. Moving it up and down on her wrist. She was smiling.’
Coy was the word Andrew wasn’t using.
This was harsh, but I had to ask. ‘Do you remember that conversation with Noelene?’
‘She only said, “Your grandfather is someone famous.”’
Sometimes Andrew is so slow when he speaks, I could bake an apple crumble between sentences.
‘I asked her, “How famous? Shah Rukh Khan famous?”’
‘Is he an actor?’ Where in god’s name was this going?
That had been Andrew’s question, too, after Noelene told him that his grandfather wasn’t as famous as Shah Rukh Khan.
‘She knew him because she had worked for him as his secretary. At that point, I thought he was money, he was a businessman. But no.’
I was feeling faint, but Andrew sat before me, straight back and square shoulders. His face was pale. There was a similitude somewhere, though the writing was not in the features.
While Noelene hadn’t named her lover, only giving her grandson a broad outline of the situation, she had emphasized that it was only her version of events. It was how she saw things. There was no drama in the revelations.
Andrew didn’t have to say it, but it was obvious that Noelene had lived much of her adult life with a broken heart. She had told Andrew that she had known all along that her boyfriend wasn’t going to marry her and that she, and she alone, was to blame for the situation she found herself in.
That, I thought, said more about Noelene than what may have transpired between the paramours.
Andrew cleared his throat. ‘Last evening, I checked it again, just to see if I had read it wrong.’
I nodded.
‘He knows, and that was the only confirmation I needed.’