Chapter 10: Harsh

# Chapter 10: Harsh

## Baba

Brajesh Tomar sat in the chair by the window at 9:07 AM, and his hands were trembling, and the trembling was the Parkinson's, and the Parkinson's was the thing that had taken his hands from the counter and given them to the disease, and the disease had kept them, and the keeping was permanent.

But the voice. The voice at 9:07 AM: after the Syndopa CR 250 had been swallowed at 7 AM and had taken its ninety minutes to reach the blood and from the blood to the brain and from the brain to the muscles: the voice at 9:07 AM was the voice that Harsh remembered from childhood. The voice of Brajesh Tomar, chai-wallah, the voice that had called customers from the doorway of the shop for twenty-six years, the voice that had said "Aaiye, chai tayyar hai" ten thousand times, shop's advertisement, the voice, the shop's music, the shop's invitation.

"Baba, ek mehmaan aa rahi hai."

"Journalist wali?"

"Haan."

Brajesh smiled. The smile, the Parkinson's smile. The smile that moved slowly, the muscles responding to the brain's instruction with a delay that the medication reduced but did not eliminate, the delay that was the disease's signature, the signature; present in every expression, every gesture, every word.

"Chai bana. Kesar wali."

"Baba, subah ki batch mein kesar nahi daali."

"Toh daal. Mehmaan ke liye kesar wali hi chahiye."

Harsh went downstairs. He made a separate batch, a small batch, three glasses, the three; for Baba and Megha and himself. He added the kesar. The Kashmiri saffron that he stored in a small glass jar on the top shelf, the jar containing perhaps four grams, the four grams costing ₹1,200, the ₹1,200 being the saffron's particular luxury, the luxury that the shop permitted only for special batches.

He carried the three glasses upstairs on a steel tray, the tray; same tray that his motherSavitri had used, the tray, brass with a rim, the rim preventing the glasses from sliding, tray's design, the prevention, the design that was engineering of a woman who carried threeglasses of chai up eleven wooden stairs twice a day for twelve years.

Megha arrived at 9:12 AM. She arrived with Keshav. Keshav carrying a camera bag, the bag; camera's home, the home, a padded black bag with Canon written in white letters that had faded to grey, the fading, the bag's age, the age, which was approximately eight years, the eight years, which was camera's lifetime andKeshav's investment and the tool that would now capture Brajesh's voice.

"Yeh mera cameraman hai. Keshav," Megha said. "Aur yeh. Yeh Brajesh uncle hain."

Brajesh looked at them from the chair. He looked at them with the eyes that the Parkinson's had spared. The eyes that were steady, that did not tremble, that held their gaze the way the hands could not hold a glass.

"Baithiye," Brajesh said. "Chai piyo."

Megha sat on the floor, she sat on the floor again, the sitting — gesture that she had performed atPushpa's house, the gesture —: I will not sit above you. I will sit where you can see me without raising your eyes. Keshav sat on the spare chair in the corner, the chair, a wooden chair that had been in the room since 1994, the wood: teak, the teak — from the old Holkar-era furniture that the second-hand shops in the old city sold, the selling, dispersal ofIndore's aristocratic past into its democratic present.

"Baba," Harsh said, handing the kesar chai to his father, "Megha-ji Ichha Deewar ke baare mein documentary bana rahi hain. Aapki kahani sunna chahti hain. Aapke mooh se."

Megha is making a documentary about the Ichha Deewar. She wants to hear your story. From your mouth.

Brajesh held the glass. The holding — the Parkinson's holding, both hands wrapped around the glass, the wrapping — the strategy that the disease demanded, the strategy —: two hands where one used to suffice, the two compensating for the tremor, the tremor — controlled (not stopped, never stopped, but controlled) by the double grip.

He sipped. The sip: slow, the slowness: deliberate, the deliberateness: the Parkinson's patient's method: slow down everything. Fast movements spill. Slow movements arrive.

"Camera chal raha hai?" he asked. Is the camera running?

Keshav looked at Megha. Megha looked at Brajesh.

"Abhi nahi. Aap bolo; kab chalaye."

Not yet. You say. When to start.

"Chala do. Main tayyar hoon."

Start it. I'm ready.

Keshav started the camera. The camera's red light, the small red dot that indicated recording, appeared like a third eye, the eye: camera's eye, the eye that would see what the room's four eyes were already seeing: an old man in a chair by a window, holding a glass of kesar chai with both trembling hands, about to tell the story of a wall.

"Brajesh uncle," Megha said. "Pehle — aap apne baare mein bataiye. Kahan se hain, kab aaye Indore, chai ki dukaan kaise shuru hui."

First — tell me about yourself. Where you're from, when you came to Indore, how the chai shop started.

Brajesh told her. He told her what Harsh had already told her, the Dewas childhood, the eighth-standard education, the Indore arrival at sixteen, the twelve years at Chandmal's stall, the ₹47,000 savings, the shop in Gali Mithaiyon Ki. But the telling was different in Brajesh's voice. The telling was different because the voice was the voice of the man who had lived the story, and the living was in the voice: in the pauses that fell where the memories were heavy, in the accelerations where the memories were light, in the careful cadence that a man's voice acquired when he was telling the truth about his own life, the truth, not the facts (the facts Harsh had already provided) but the weight of the facts, the weight that only the person who carried the facts could convey.

"1994 mein dukaan kholi," Brajesh said. "Pehle mahine, pehle mahine mein chai banayi. Roz banayi. Logon ne pi. Logon ne paisa diya. Main; main khush tha. Kyunki: kyunki meri dukaan thi. Mera naam tha board pe. Tomar Chai & Nashta. Mera naam."

In 1994, I opened the shop. The first month: I made chai. Every day. People drank it. People paid. I was, I was happy. Because. It was my shop. My name was on the board. Tomar Chai & Nashta. My name.

The pride. The pride that Brajesh's voice carried, the pride of a man whose father had been a railway gangman and whose name was now on a board, distance traveled, the board, the distance: measured not in kilometres but in generations, the generational distance being: from a man who laid tracks to a man who owned a shop, the ownership, the Indian dream in its most modest and most honest form.

"Aur Savitri?" Megha asked.

The name changed the room. The name changed the air, the air becoming heavier, the way air became heavy before rain, the heaviness (moisture that the clouds held and that th e) name "Savitri" released.

"Savitri," Brajesh said. He said the name the way: the way a man said a name that he had not said aloud in a long time, the not-saying: grief's rule, the rule: do not say the name. The name opens the door. The door leads to the room where she is. The room where she is — she is not there. The room is empty. The emptiness is the grief.

"Savitri meri biwi thi. 1986 mein shaadi hui. Arranged marriage. Uske Baba. Indore mein hi the. Pardesipura mein. Sabziwala tha. Main chai-wallah ka naukar tha. Woh sabziwale ki beti thi. Shaadi. Shaadi achhi thi."

Savitri was my wife. We married in 1986. Arranged marriage. Her father was in Indore. In Pardesipura. A vegetable seller. I was a chai-wallah's servant. She was a vegetable seller's daughter. The marriage. The marriage was good.

"Achhi thi?"

"Achhi thi. Matlab; jhagda hota tha. Roz hota tha. Paiso ke baare mein, ghar ke baare mein, Harsh ke school ke baare mein. Lekin. Jhagde ke baad chai peete the. Saath mein. Ek glass mein. Ek glass do logon ke liye. Yeh. Yeh hamara tarika tha."

It was good. Meaning, we fought. Every day. About money, about the house, about Harsh's school. But, after the fight, we'd drink chai. Together. One glass for two people. That was. That was our way.

One glass for two people. The detail. The detail that Megha wrote in her notebook, the detail that was the story, the detail that a thousand pages of prose could not improve upon because the detail was already perfect: one glass of chai, shared between a husband and a wife after a fight, the sharing, which was reconciliation, the reconciliation (chai's power). The power that was not the caffeine or the cardamom but the sharing, the sharing, the act that said: we fought. We are still here. We will drink from the same glass. The glass is the proof that we are still us.

"Savitri 2016 mein gayi," Brajesh said. Savitri left in 2016. The word "gayi". Gone: being the Hindi word for death, the word that did not say "died" because "died" was too clinical and "passed away" was too polished and "gone" was the truth: she went. She went somewhere. She is not here.

"Kidney failure. Do saal; dialysis. Government hospital mein. MY Hospital. Hafta mein teen baar. Harsh le jaata tha. Main dukaan sambhalta tha. Kyunki: kyunki dukaan band nahi ho sakti thi. Dukaan band hoti toh. Toh dialysis ka paisa kahaan se aata?"

Kidney failure. Two years — dialysis. At the government hospital. MY Hospital. Three times a week. Harsh would take her. I'd manage the shop. Because: the shop couldn't close. If the shop closed; where would the dialysis money come from?

The mathematics of poverty: the shop funded the dialysis. The dialysis required the shop. The shop required Brajesh. Brajesh's body required him at the counter. The counter required his hands. The hands were the shop and the shop was the hands and the hands could not be at the hospital and the counter simultaneously, and so the family split, Harsh at the hospital, Brajesh at the counter, Savitri between them, the between. The disease's position, the position that divided the family into the caretakers and the earners and the patient, the division, poverty's particular cruelty, the cruelty that made you choose between holding your wife's hand and holding the patila.

"Jab Savitri gayi," Brajesh continued, "tab: tab main kuch dinon ke liye, band kar diya tha dukaan. Paanch din. Paanch din dukaan band rahi. Woh paanch din: woh paanch din sab se lambe the. Dukaan band thi, ghar khaali tha, Harsh, Harsh rota tha raat ko. Solah saal ka tha. Oil ran warm over her fingers.

When Savitri left, I closed the shop for some days. Five days. The shop was closed for five days. Those five days. Those were the longest. The shop was closed, the house was empty, Harsh, Harsh would cry at night. He was sixteen. He'd cry at night.

Megha looked at Harsh. Harsh was standing by the door — standing, not sitting, the standing that was son's position, the position that said: I am here but this is Baba's story and Baba is telling it and I will stand and listen the way I stood and listened when I was sixteen and the shop was closed and the house was empty and I cried at night.

His face was, his face was the face of a man hearing his father say something that the man already knew but that the man had never felt his father say aloud, the saying aloud, which was revelation, the revelation: Baba felt me cry. Baba knew. Baba was awake too.

"Chhathe din dukaan kholi," Brajesh said. "Chhathe din, subah 4:22 baje utha. Pehle ki tarah. Chai banayi. Pehle ki tarah. Darwaza khola. Bahadur aaya. Chai pi. Paisa diya.

On the sixth day, I opened the shop. The sixth day, woke up at 4:22 AM. Like before. Made chai. Like before. Opened the door. Bahadur came. Drank chai. Paid. Everything, everything like before.

"Lekin pehle jaisa nahi tha," Megha said.

But it wasn't like before.

"Nahi. Pehle jaisa nahi tha. Chai pehle jaisi thi, recipe nahi badalti. Lekin, lekin glass ek tha. Ek glass. Do logon ka glass. Ab: ab ek insaan ka glass."

No. It wasn't like before. The chai was the same, the recipe doesn't change. But. The glass was one. One glass. A two-person glass. Now, a one-person glass.

The silence. The silence that fell in the room after Brajesh said this, room's response: the stillness, the room having heard something that required silence, only adequate response to a man who had j, the emptinessust described the loneliest object in the world: a glass that used to hold chai for two and that now held chai for one.

Keshav adjusted the camera. The adjusting: the adjusting: Keshav's way of hiding his face, the hiding: necessary because Keshav's face was doing the thing that cameramen's faces did when the footage was powerful: the face was struggling, the struggle, which was between professional composure and human response, the human response winning, the winning; visible in the redness of Keshav's eyes.

"Ichha Deewar," Megha said gently. "Aap bataaiye. Ichha Deewar kaise shuru hui."

Tell me. How did the Ichha Deewar start.

Brajesh told her about Govind Patel. He told her about the matar-paneer recipe. He told her about Kamla in Raipur. He told her about the chai-stained receipt on which the recipe was written. He told her. He told her the same story that Harsh had told, but in Brajesh's voice the story was different, the difference, which was the ownership: Harsh had told the story of his father. Brajesh was telling the story of himself.

"Govind Master-ji jab roya. Jab recipe mila aur woh roya, tab main samjha. Tab main samjha ki chai, chai sirf peene ki cheez nahi hai. Chai.

When Govind Master-ji cried; when the recipe was found and he cried — then I understood. Then I understood that chai — chai is not just for drinking. Chai. Chai is for listening.

"Listening?"

"Haan. Log chai peete hain aur baat karte hain. Baat karte hain aur apni ichha bataate hain. Ichha bataate hain aur, aur ichha sun li jaati hai. Sunna, sunna hi toh ichha hai. Sabki ichha yehi hai ki koi sune."

Yes. People drink chai and they talk. They talk and they share their wishes. They share their wishes and, the wishes are heard. Listening. Listening is the wish. Everyone's wish is the same, that someone listens.

The sentence. The sentence that was, the sentence that was the documentary's title, the documentary's thesis, the documentary's soul. The atta dust was fine and dry.

Everyone's wish is the same, that someone listens.

Megha looked at her notebook. She looked at the sentence she had written. She looked at it and knew. She knew that the documentary was not about the wall. The documentary was not about Santosh or the ocean or the collection. The documentary was about this sentence. This sentence spoken by a man whose hands could not hold a glass steady but whose voice could hold the truth.

"Brajesh uncle," she said. "Aap: aap Ichha Deewar se kya chahte hain? Aapki ichha kya hai?"

What do you want from the Ichha Deewar? What's your wish?

Brajesh looked at her. He looked at her for a long time, the long time being twenty seconds, the twenty seconds being Brajesh's twenty seconds, the Parkinson's seconds that moved slower than healthy seconds because the Parkinson's had slowed everything, had slowed the hands and the voice and the walk and the blink, but had not slowed the eyes, the eyes, which was last fast thing.

"Meri ichha," he said.

"Haan."

"Meri ichha yeh hai ki: jab main nahi rahoonga: tab bhi deewar rahe. Jab Harsh nahi rahega: tab bhi deewar rahe. Jab yeh dukaan nahi rahegi, tab bhi deewar rahe. Kahi na kahi. Kisi na kisi deewar pe. Koi na koi ichha likhe.

My wish is this, when I'm gone. The wall should remain. When Harsh is gone, the wall should remain. When this shop is gone, the wall should remain. Somewhere. On some wall. Someone should write a wish. Someone should listen.

The room was silent. The room was, the room was the documentary. This room, this man, this glass, this trembling. This was the documentary. Everything else. The collection, the Goa trip, the segment, the channel, the career. Everything else was decoration. This was the structure. This was the load-bearing wall. This was the thing that held the building up.

Keshav stopped the camera. He stopped it because the red light had become: the red light had become something other than a recording indicator. The red light had become an intrusion. The room had moved beyond the camera's capacity to contain it. The room had become too real for recording.

"Shukriya, Brajesh uncle," Megha said. Her voice was, her voice was not the journalist's voice. Her voice was the voice of a woman who had just heard something that would change the way she understood her profession, the understanding, which was: *this is why I became a journalist. Not for the bulletin. Not for the segment. Not for the career. For this.

"Shukriya mat bolo," Brajesh said. Don't say thank you. "Chai piyo."

Drink chai.

She drank. The kesar chai, the saffron threads visible in the amber liquid, the amber; Brajesh's amber, the colour that he had been producing since 1994, the colour that his hands could no longer produce and that his son's hands now produced in his place, the place: counter below. The counter that was the deewar's foundation, the foundation that a dying man had built and that a living man maintained and that a wall of wishes preserved.

She finished the chai. She placed the glass on the tray — Savitri's tray, the brass tray with the rim. She placed it with the care of a person who understood that the tray was not a tray, the tray was a memory, the memory, the hands that had carried it, the hands that were gone.

She touched Brajesh's feet. The touch — the pranam — the pranam that was not the journalist's gesture but the Indian woman's gesture, the gesture that said: you are an elder. You have told me the truth. The truth deserves my respect. The respect is in my hands touching your feet.

Brajesh placed his trembling hand on her head. The blessing. The blessing that Indian elders gave: the hand on the head, the hand that was trembling but that was still capable of this, still capable of the blessing, the Parkinson's having taken the pouring and the measuring and the crushing but having left the blessing, the blessing. Last thing the hands could do.

"Jaa," he said. "Documentary bana. Achhi bana."

Go. Make the documentary. Make it good.

She left. Keshav left. Harsh walked them to the shop's door. At the door, Megha turned to him.

"Tumhare Baba — "

"Haan."

"Tumhare Baba, tumhare Baba ne jo bola: 'Sunna hi toh ichha hai'; woh line; woh line documentary ki opening line hogi."

What your Baba said. "Listening is the wish"; that line. That line will be the documentary's opening.

"Baba ko pata chalega toh khush hoga."

If Baba finds out, he'll be happy.

"Baba ko pata chalega. Documentary mein pehli aawaz Baba ki hogi."

Baba will find out. The first voice in the documentary will be Baba's.

She left. The Activa's engine started — the engine's particular buzz, the buzz that Harsh was beginning to recognise the way he recognised Bahadur's chappals and Saxena-ji's complaints and the morning's first boil. The buzz receded. The gali absorbed the stillness.

Harsh went upstairs. Brajesh was still in the chair. The glass was empty. The trembling continued: the trembling: the constant, the constant that the medicine could reduce but not remove, the reduction: best that medicine could offer, the best; less than enough but more than nothing.

"Achhi ladki hai," Brajesh said. Good girl.

"Baba."

"Kya?"

"Woh journalist hai."

"Haan. Aur achhi ladki bhi hai. Dono ek saath ho sakte hain."

Yes. And also a good girl. Both can be true at the same time.

Harsh did not respond. He picked up the tray. He carried it downstairs. He washed the glasses. He placed them on the shelf, the shelf that held the glasses and the mortar and the strainer and the dabba and the things that the shop was made of, the things that was recipe's tools and the recipe's tools being the family's inheritance and the inheritance, the only wealth that three generations of Tomars had accumulated in a city that was famous for its food and its cleanliness and its garlic and its wishes.

He opened the shop for the late-morning customers. The customers came. The chai was served. The pour was high. The routine continued.

But something had shifted. Something had shifted the way the temperature shifted between October and November; not suddenly, not dramatically, but perceptibly, the perception that was chai-wallah's perception, the perception trained by six years of noticing the exact degree at which the chai became too hot for the lip, the perception that noticed: *the air is different. Something has changed. The change is small.

The change was. The change was Megha. The change was the woman who sat on the floor with his dying father and listened to a story about a glass of chai for two. The change was the woman who touched Brajesh's feet. The change was the woman who called the kesar chai "the one you make without being asked."

The change was: Harsh Tomar, for the first time since his mother had died and his father had trembled and the shop had become his and the deewar had become his responsibility, for the first time, Harsh Tomar wanted something for himself. Not for the deewar. Not for the mohalla. Not for the wishes on the blue board.

For himself.

The wanting was new. The wanting was uncomfortable. The wanting was the one wish that he could not pin to the wall because the wall was public and the wanting was private and the private was the chai-wallah's only remaining luxury.

He made the Indori afternoon, heavy with garlic and possibility batch. He crushed the cardamom. He measured the CTC. He boiled the water. He waited three minutes. He added the sugar. He added the milk. He waited two minutes. He strained. He poured.

The chai was correct.

The wanting was also correct.