Chapter 7: Ishan

# Chapter 7: Ishan

## The Abbu

His Abbu knew.

His Abbu knew because his Abbu was Waseem Farooqui, and Waseem Farooqui had been running Nakhlau Itr for thirty-four years and in thirty-four years of running a perfume shop a man learned to read human beings the way he read attar: by the notes they carried, the notes, which was not olfactory but behavioural, the top note being what a person showed, the heart note being what a person felt, the base note being what a person was.

Ishan's top note had changed.

The change was visible in the shop. Visible in the way Ishan arrived at 9 AM (the shop's opening time) instead of his usual 8:30 AM, the thirty-minute difference. Thirty minutes he now spent at the haveli before work, practising alone on the marble, the solo practice, which was student's homework, the homework that the teacher had not assigned but that the student's body demanded because the body, once it had begun learning, wanted to continue learning the way a river that had begun flowing wanted to continue flowing: the momentum was its own instruction.

The change was visible in the way Ishan handled the attar bottles. His hands, his hands that had been steady for thirty years, the steadiness, the perfumer's requirement, the requirement that the hands not tremble because trembling hands spilled attar and spilled attar was wasted attar and wasted attar was the perfumer's sin: his hands had not lost their steadiness but they had gained something else: a fluidity. A movement quality that was different from the perfumer's careful, conservative movement. The fluidity — Waseem recognized this, the fluidity of a body that was learning to move differently, the differently, which was : dance.

Waseem had not asked. Waseem had not asked because Waseem was a Lucknawi father, and Lucknawi fathers did not ask. Lucknawi fathers observed. Lucknawi fathers gathered data — father's surveillance — the data-gathering, the surveillance that was not intrusive but ambient, the ambient: I am here. I am watching. I am not interfering. I am noting. When the data is sufficient, I will speak. Until then, I watch.

The data became sufficient on Day Nine.

Day Nine was a Tuesday. Tuesdays were slow days at Nakhlau Itr, the slowness, market's rhythm, the rhythm: Saturday peak, Sunday strong (temple crowds from the nearby Hanuman Setu Mandir spilling into the market), Monday moderate, Tuesday slow, Wednesday moderate, Thursday building, Friday strong (Juma crowds from the nearby mosques spilling into the market). The rhythm: the heartbeat of a market that served two religions and that benefited from both religions' prayer schedules, the schedules producing foot traffic and the foot traffic producing customers and the customers producing revenue and the revenue producing the ₹1,200/day average that Nakhlau Itr needed to survive.

On this slow Tuesday, at 3:47 PM, with the shop empty except for Sultan (who had followed Ishan from the haveli and who now considered the shop his second office, the second office: glass shelf near the window whereSultan sat and supervised the attar bottles with the imperial disinterest that he had previously reserved for the baithak's Kathak lessons). At 3:47 PM, Waseem Farooqui spoke.

"Beta."

Ishan was cleaning the glass counter. The cleaning: the daily ritual, the counter wiped with a soft cloth and rose water, the rose water (cleaning agent that his D)ada had used and his Abbu used and that he used because the rose water cleaned the glass and left the scent and the scent was the shop's atmosphere and the atmosphere was the business.

"Haan, Abbu?"

"Ek baat poochhoon?"

May I ask something?

The sentence. The sentence: . Ishan recognized this, the sentence that his Abbu used before asking the questions that were not about attar or inventory or the shop's finances.

"Poochhiye."

"Tum rozana dopahar ko jaate ho. Do ghante ke liye. Do hafte se. Kahan jaate ho?"

You go every afternoon. For two hours. For two weeks. Where do you go?

The question. The question: direct. More direct than Waseem usually was, the directness: the indication that the ambient surveillance had reached its limit and that the father's patience had been exhausted and that the father required data from the source rather than from observation.

"Qaiserbagh. Junaid ke haveli mein."

Qaiserbagh. At Junaid's haveli.

"Junaid ke haveli mein kya karte ho?"

What do you do at Junaid's haveli?

"Kathak seekh raha hoon."

I'm learning Kathak.

The silence. The silence being. The stillness: Waseem Farooqui's processing time, the processing time of a man who had expected several possible answers (a woman, a business deal, a health concern, a secret hobby) and who had received the one answer he had not expected: Kathak. His son was learning Kathak. His son. The perfumer, the shopkeeper, the man who could not walk through the market without bumping into the fruit seller's cart. Was learning Kathak.

"Kathak?"

"Haan."

"Kyun?"

Why?

"Lucknow Mahotsav mein dance competition hai. December chaudah-pandrah."

There's a dance competition at the Lucknow Mahotsav. December fourteenth and fifteenth.

"Aur tum; tum uss competition mein participate kar rahe ho?"

And you. You're participating in that competition?

"Haan."

"Akele?"

Alone?

"Nahi. Ek partner hai."

No. There's a partner.

The word partner, the word landing in the shop's silence the way a drop of attar landed on a wrist: small, contained, and then expanding. Expanding because the word partner in the context of a thirty-year-old unmarried Muslim man learning dance carried a weight that the word partner in a professional context did not carry, the weight that was: who is this partner? Is this partner the reason for the fluidity in your hands? Is this partner the reason you arrive thirty minutes late? Is this partner the reason Sultan has started following you to a haveli in Qaiserbagh?

Waseem did not ask these questions. Waseem asked one question, the one question that the Lucknawi Muslim father was entitled to ask, the entitlement — cultural, the culture dictating: the father has the right to know the identity.

"Kaun hai partner?"

Who is the partner?

"Nandini. Nandini Tiwari. TCS mein kaam karti hai. Gomti Nagar mein rehti hai."

Nandini. Nandini Tiwari. Works at TCS. Lives in Gomti Nagar.

Tiwari. The surname landing in the shop: the landing; different from the word partner's landing because the surname carried information that the word partner did not. Tiwari was a Brahmin surname. Tiwari was a Hindu surname. Tiwari was the surname that told Waseem Farooqui: told him in the way that Indian surnames told everything, the everything, caste and community and religion and region and class, the telling that was surname's function inIndia, the function that reformers wanted to abolish and that society had not abolished and that surnames performed every day in every conversation: I am this. You are that. Now we both know.

The silence was longer this time. The longer silence being Waseem's recalibration, the recalibration of a father who was processing not one piece of information but two: his son was dancing and his son's dance partner was Hindu. The two pieces being not equivalent — the dancing: unusual and the partner's religion being significant, the significant — weight that interfaith anything carried in India, the weight that was 2026's weight and 1947's weight and the weight of every year in between. She shifted her weight. The cold followed.

"Beta."

"Haan, Abbu?"

"Yeh competition ke liye hai?"

This is for the competition?

"Haan."

"Sirf competition ke liye?"

Only for the competition?

The question. The question: the father's question. The question that meant: is this only dance? Or is this becoming something else? The question that Indian fathers asked when the answer they received was insufficient, the insufficiency, which was not in the content but in the subtext, the subtext: you are spending two hours a day with a woman named Tiwari and I need to know if I should prepare your mother or if I should not worry.

Ishan put down the cleaning cloth. He put it down on the glass counter and he looked at his father, his father who was sixty-three and who had been married for thirty-six years to Ishan's mother Rukhsana and who had raised three children (Ishan, his sister Saba, his brother Faisal) in the flat above the shop and who had never once in his life asked Ishan about a woman because there had never been a woman to ask about, the never-being being Ishan's romantic history: empty. The empty history of a man who lived in a perfume shop and who smelled of sandalwood and rose and who was shy and who was clumsy and who had never, until Zoya, met a woman who made him feel the way bergamot made him feel: bright, surprised, awake.

"Abbu, main honestly nahi jaanta. Abhi ke liye. Competition ke liye hai. Woh mujhe Kathak sikha rahi hai. Main usse attar sikha raha hoon. Exchange hai. Uske baad: uske baad ka mujhe nahi pata."

Abbu; honestly I don't know. For now, it's for the competition. She's teaching me Kathak. I'm teaching her attar. It's an exchange. After that, I don't know what comes after that.

The honesty. The honesty: . Thing that, the honestyWaseem Farooqui had taught his children above all other things: jhooth mat bolo. Sach bolo. Sach mein barkat hai. Don't lie. Speak the truth. Truth has blessing. The teaching — the Muslim father's teaching, the teaching that was also the Hindu father's teaching and the Christian father's teaching and the Sikh father's teaching, the teaching; universal, the universality: truth.

Waseem nodded. The nod — the nod, which was father's acceptance. Not approval — acceptance. The distinction: approval said I agree with what you are doing. Acceptance said I have felt what you are doing. I will not interfere. I will watch. I am your father. Watching is my job.

"Ek baat yaad rakhna," Waseem said.

Remember one thing.

"Haan?"

"Attar. Attar dharm nahi dekhta. Gulab Hindu nahi hai. Oud Muslim nahi hai. Mogra Christian nahi hai. Attar. Attar insaan pe lagta hai. Insaan ki khaal pe. Khaal ka koi dharm nahi hota."

Attar, attar does not see religion. Rose is not Hindu. Oud is not Muslim. Jasmine is not Christian. Attar, attar is applied to a person. To a person's skin. Skin has no religion.

Skin has no religion. The sentence. The sentence, which was perfumer's theology, the theology that three generations of Farooqui noses had developed through the daily practice of applying attar to every wrist that entered the shop: Hindu wrists and Muslim wrists and Sikh wrists and Christian wrists and atheist wrists and the wrists of people who did not declare their religion because their religion was private and private was their right. The attar did not ask. The attar landed on the skin and the skin received the attar and the receiving was the same regardless of the God that the skin's owner prayed to.

"Lekin: lekin duniya dekhti hai," Waseem added. But, the world sees.

"Main jaanta hoon."

I know.

"Jaante ho toh theek hai. Main kuch nahi kahunga. Lekin, agar kabhi kuch, agar kabhi tumhe zaroorat ho, toh mujhse baat karna. Main tumhara Abbu hoon. Abbu se baat karna galat nahi hota."

If you know, then it's fine. I won't say anything. But, if ever, if you ever need. Talk to me. I'm your father. Talking to your father is never wrong.

Ishan nodded. The nod — the son's nod, the nod that said: *I have heard you. I respect you. I will talk to you when I need to.

Waseem picked up the cleaning cloth. He resumed wiping the glass counter. The resumption, the conversation's end, the conversation ending not with a conclusion but with a return to the routine, the routine that was shop's heartbeat: wipe, arrange, sell, close. The heartbeat continuing the way heartbeats continued: without decision, without effort, by the body's own insistence on being alive.

Sultan jumped off the glass shelf. Sultan walked to the counter. Sultan rubbed against Waseem's leg — cat's affection: the rubbing, the affection that cats rationed the way Nakhlau Itr rationed its oud attar: sparingly, to the deserving.

Waseem reached down and scratched Sultan behind the ear. The scratching producing the purr: the purr (cat's music), the music that was not tabla and not ghazal but the music of contentment, the contentment of a cat who had two offices and two humans and the stubborn security that comes from knowing that both offices and both humans would be there tomorrow.

---

His fingers on the attar bottle were precise, the glass smooth and cool under his touch. She extended her wrist. His fingers steadied it. The contact was brief, dry, precise.

That evening, Ishan went to the baithak for the session. Nandini was already there, already in the centre of the room, already barefoot on the marble, already in the sama that was her starting position and her resting position and the position that her body returned to the way a compass needle returned to north: automatically, by the magnetism of training.

She was practising. She was dancing. Not teaching him but dancing for herself, the dancing: self-practice that she had begun onDay Three, the self-practice that happened in the fifteen minutes before he arrived, the fifteen minutes being her private time with the marble and the room and the ghost of Nani.

He stood at the doorway. He stood and he watched: the watching, which was different from the teacher-watching and different from the partner-watching and different from any watching he had done before. The watching was the watching of a man seeing something he had not been meant to see, the private dance, the dance that was not for an audience but for the self, the self that was dancer, the dancer: Nandini, Nandini dancing alone in a Nawabi baithak with the evening's light coming through the arched windows and the neem tree's shadow crossing the marble floor and her feet, her feet striking the marble with the authority of a woman whose feet had been silent for fifteen years and whose feet had decided that the silence was over.

Her tatkar was, her tatkar was not the beginner's tatkar that she had shown him on Day One.

She was fast. She was precise. Her feet were, her feet were instruments. Her feet were tabla. Her feet were producing the rhythm that the tabla produced, the rhythm that the speaker on the windowsill produced, but her feet were producing it from the body, from the floor, from the contract between skin and marble that Kathak was.

She did a chakkar. A spin. The spin, which was ; thing he had not seen her do before. The spin, the thing she had described but not demonstrated, the thing she had said her Nani was famous for: jab woh chakkar karti thi toh lagta tha ki woh ceiling ko chhoo rahi hai. When she spun, it felt like she was touching the ceiling.

He understood now. He understood because she was spinning, spinning on the marble, her dupatta flying, her bun holding, her body becoming a vertical line that rotated on its axis, the axis, which was her spine and the spine: thread that she had described: the invisible thread pulled upward from the crown, the thread that held the dancer vertical while the body spun, the spinning, the Kathak's most visible miracle: a human body becoming a top, a top becoming a blur, a blur becoming beauty.

She stopped. She stopped in sama — the stopping — as sudden as the spinning, the suddenness, the control, the control that training produced: *I can stop at any point. I can stop on any beat.

She was breathing hard. She was smiling. She was smiling the smile that dancers smiled after dancing, the smile that was not for anyone but for the body, the body that had done the thing it was made to do, the thing that it had been prevented from doing for fifteen years, the prevention now lifted, the lifting, the baithak's gift.

She saw him in the doorway. The seeing producing, the seeing producing a different smile. The smile that was for him, not for the body. The smile that said: you saw me. You saw me dancing alone. You saw the thing I do when no one is watching.

"Kitni der se ho?" she asked. How long have you been here?

"Kaafi der."

Quite a while.

"Tumne dekha?"

You saw?

"Haan."

She stood in the centre of the room, barefoot, breathing, the smile fading into the expression that replaced smiles when the smiled-at person was also the person who made you feel something you had not planned to feel: awareness. The awareness of being seen. The awareness of being seen by a person whose seeing mattered.

"Tumhara chakkar, tumhara chakkar bohot achha hai," he said. Your spin, your spin is very good.

The understatement, the understatement, the only thing he could say because the truth; your spin is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen and I have spent thirty years looking at beautiful things in glass bottles and none of them compare to you spinning on marble with the evening light on your face, the truth was too much. The truth was mogra without a partner. The truth was a scent that overwhelmed. The truth needed to be diluted with a lighter note, and the lighter note was: "bohot achha hai."

"Shukriya," she said. And then: "Chalo. Tumhara toda practice karein."

Thank you. And then: Let's practise your toda.

The session began. The boundary rebuilt itself, the boundary that the dance and the attar and the deal constructed around them, the boundary that said: we are here for the competition. We are here for the exchange. The boundary holding. The boundary holding the way a dam held water: by the strength of its construction, not by the absence of pressure.

The pressure was there. The pressure had been there since the jasmine lesson. The pressure of two people who had acknowledged that being here was the place they wanted to be and who had not yet acknowledged what that wanting meant and who were performing that Indian restraint of not-acknowledging, the not-acknowledging, which was cultural practice thatIndian men and women deployed when the feeling preceded the permission, the permission (social approval that I)ndian relationships required before the feeling could be expressed.

The feeling was there. The expression was not yet.

Thirteen days to go.