An Obedient Father Read online

  “I assume your son didn’t have to pay for the whole celebration.”

  Mr. Mishra continued smiling, but his voice became irritated at the suggestion of bribery. “It was expensive,” he said.

  I felt embarrassed. Mr. Mishra and I had worked together for many years but became friends only when he visited me in the hospital while I recovered from my heart attack. Because Mr. Mishra did not accept bribes, I had thought he looked down on those of us who did. I also believed he was smarter and more generous than I was, and this made him especially irritating. During the conversations we had in the hospital, I realized that he was one of those people who love to gossip but are too well mannered to initiate such chatter. Our friendship was built on this insight, upon my leading conversations where I sensed he wanted to go but was too polite to go on his own.

  Mr. Mishra asked, “What news?”

  “Inspections, files, giving grants. Last week a young man, maybe twenty-six, came to me and said he wanted to open a school and needed a thousand square meters of land. I said you have to go to a different department and deposit a hundred forms before you’ll get one meter on government discount. So he pushes two ten-thousandrupee packets toward me.” I slid my hands slowly across the surface of the desk toward Mr. Mishra. To delight him, I sometimes exaggerated my crimes. “I had to say, ‘Put it away or I’ll call the police.’ I’ve never seen him before and he’s giving money like that. For a day or two, I was so certain the corruption people were after me, I could hardly eat.”

  Mr. Mishra snorted and shook his head.

  “Oh! Last week a monkey went into the women’s latrines,” I said. “The ones down the hall. There were three typists inside. They see the monkey and begin screaming. The monkey begins screaming, too.” I made the sounds of the women and the monkey screeching. “One woman runs out of the bathroom. And she shuts the door behind her. Shuts it and holds on to the doorknob. By now everyone has come to see what’s happening. The screams are still going on.” I started laughing. “The monkey has begun flushing the toilets.” I pretended I was jerking the toilet chain. Mr. Mishra joined my laughter. “I have to pull the first woman’s hands off the doorknob. One of the other women runs out. And she shuts the door and holds on. I tell her to open it and she says, ‘If I do, the monkey will bite me.’ Now the woman left inside is weeping. I open the door. The woman runs out. She’s been bitten on her arm, her leg, her stomach. The monkey didn’t leave till the hall was empty.”

  “Human nature,” Mr. Mishra said. As he laughed, he leaned over one side of his chair.

  “The needle for the rabies injection is a foot long.” In my anxiety to please him, I had been talking faster than normal.

  When our chortling stopped, Mr. Mishra asked, “Is there an inspection today? My stomach says, ‘Feed me.’” Every school we were responsible for had to be inspected twice a year to see if government regulations were being followed. For us, these occasions were something close to a party. The home economics department of the school would spend all day cooking an elaborate lunch for us. Everywhere we went in the school, we would be met with obsequiousness.

  Mr. Mishra’s gentle corruption renewed my confidence in our friendship. “Father Joseph’s school,” I said, and rubbed my hands for him to see. “And tonight is the wedding reception for Mr. Gupta’s son. We can fill up for the next three days.”

  Narayan, the driver I always used, was sitting on the building’s front steps drinking tea from a glass and reading a Spider-Man comic book. He was a short Brahmin in his late thirties who shaved his head and wore a blue uniform every day, even though drivers aren’t required to wear a uniform.

  “Narayanji, we are ready to go,” Mr. Mishra said.

  “Is the thief coming?” Narayan asked, glancing up at me standing beside Mr. Mishra.

  Neither of us answered for fear it would encourage his insults. Mr. Mishra bent and adjusted the rubber bands that held up his socks. Narayan finally stood and walked ahead of us to the jeep.

  Narayan and I had been friendly till I became Mr. Gupta’s man. We still shared a small business of renting out the education department’s jeeps at night and on holidays. Our friendship ended because Narayan had expected to grow rich from my new position, but since nearly all the benefits the position bestowed flowed directly to me, he felt cheated. He relieved this disappointment by insulting me whenever he could. Lately he had begun to claim falsely that I owed him fourteen hundred rupees from some complex embezzlement of the education department’s diesel.

  Our office is near Delhi University, and on our way to the inspection, we went through Revolution Square, where last winter several college students had set themselves on fire to protest V P. Singh’s increase in caste quotas.

  As we entered the square, Narayan snorted and said, “Rajiv Gandhi’s sons.” The outrage over their deaths had led to Rajiv Gandhi’s overthrow of V P. Singh and Chandrashekar becoming Prime Minister. This was the first thing he had said since we got in the jeep, and I think he said it because he knew how much I had been moved by the actions of those foolish boys.

  “Be kinder,” I said, leaning over the front seat. “They didn’t know better.”

  “How smart do you have to be? Even I know a few thousand government jobs don’t matter.”

  “Don’t be an animal,” I said. “Laughing at young boys dying.”

  “Call me an animal, and I’ll make you walk.”

  In the way that some people get religious with old age, over the last few years I had become sentimentally political. The young men’s actions reminded me of the days when I cut telegraph wires to slow the British.

  “They sacrificed themselves like Mahatma Gandhi, like the Independence leaders who went to jail.” My throat began tightening with emotion.

  “Mahatma Gandhi was crazy, too,” Narayan answered, waving a hand near his ear where my mouth had been. “He thought sleeping naked but chaste with young girls gave him special powers. These boys probably thought dying would create new jobs out of nowhere, like magic, like my son thinks being bitten by a spider will let him climb walls.”

  Mr. Mishra leaned forward also and said, “Still, Narayanji, respect the dead.”

  “Now Rajiv Gandhi wants to take control directly, so Parliament has to be dissolved.”

  “Narayanji, we should at least do what we can,” Mr. Mishra replied.

  “You and I both eat Rajiv Gandhi’s salt,” I said.

  “I am too far from power to eat anyone’s salt,” Narayan said.

  Mr. Mishra opened a newspaper. I looked out at the colonial-style university buildings that we passed. They were white turning yellow, with verandas and broad lawns. Perhaps the thought of the boys who immolated themselves shamed me into trying to be better than myself. “Narayanji, I will give you the money you were speaking of.”

  Narayan honked his horn and reached over his shoulder to take my hand. I had bribed him and now, I hoped, Father Joseph would bribe me.

  Two or three rows of students in blue shorts and white shirts were lined up doing jumping jacks in front of Rosary School’s main building. The steel pole that had defeated Father Joseph was gone.

  Narayan stopped the jeep before the steps of the main entrance. We got out and stood beside the jeep and waited for our presence to be recognized. A peon came, greeted us, and went to tell Father Joseph. After a few minutes, the head physical education teacher, Mrs. Singla, a heavy woman with hennaed hair and a widow’s white sari, came down the front steps smiling. “You should come see us even if there isn’t any work reason,” she said, pressing her hands together in namaste.

  Mrs. Singla led us along a gallery that had classrooms on one side and was open to the sun on the other. A peon in khaki shorts and shirt sat on the floor outside Father Joseph’s office. Mrs. Singla said, “I’m sure we meet all your requirements.” The peon stood and opened the door.

  Father Joseph was behind his desk reading a man’s palms. Father Joseph looked up, said, “One minute
,” in English, and motioned Mr. Mishra and me to a sofa along the wall. We sat down. There were rugs on the floor, and the walls were lined with bookcases made of glass and curved steel. An air conditioner chilled the room with barely a hum. This school is rich, I thought.

  “You have to fight your selfishness,” Father Joseph said.

  “I try,” the man said. He was in his early twenties and might have been a teacher.

  “The palm you were born with shows that you have a small heart. But the palm you have made shows that you can change.”

  Mrs. Singla stood near the sofa. “Sir, one day, will you read my hands?”

  “Someday,” he answered with his eyes on the man’s palms. Father Joseph twisted his lips. “I won’t tell you everything now,” he said, and released the hands. “Some things only suffering can teach.” “Thank you, sir,” the man said, and stood.

  Father Joseph got up from behind his desk. He had on black pants and a white short-sleeved shirt which revealed thick arms with veins like garter snakes. Mrs. Singla and the man left.

  Father Joseph moved to a chair across from us and crossed his legs. There was a mannered quality to his gestures. Like some other Christian priests I’ve met, Father Joseph had an air of condescension, as though we were still in the Raj and Christianity were still the religion of the powerful. He leaned forward and pointed at some papers on the table between us. “I’ve looked at your forms and I’ve personally made sure everything is right.”

  “Much of the inspection report depends on our impressions,” I said, also in English. Mr. Mishra giggled at seeing the jousting start. Father Joseph glanced at him. “We have to see how the teachers teach,” I said. To have to lie and justify myself without any introductory chatter made the conversation feel out of control. Also, for me, speaking in English was like wearing too-tight clothes. I had to plan all my motions or a seam might give.

  Father Joseph shifted back in his chair. “Will you have something cold to drink or something warm?”

  “Why don’t we have something cold while the tea is being made,” Mr. Mishra said. He was grinning.

  After the peon had been sent to bring drinks, it was hard to start a conversation. Father Joseph appeared both aloof and firm. He took a pack of cigarettes from a pants pocket.

  I moved forward on the sofa and knitted my fingers together. Normally, whoever had come with me would leave to examine the school after we had our drinks and I would be able to talk to the principal alone. But I had the feeling that Mr. Mishra wanted to push our new friendship and stay as long as possible.

  I watched Father Joseph smoke for a moment and then asked if he thought Rajiv Gandhi would be a better leader for having lost the prime ministership. He knew I was raising money for the Congress Party and politeness should have made him say that Rajiv Gandhi had benefited from losing his title.

  “Does a lion’s nature improve from fasting?” Father Joseph asked, arching an eyebrow.

  I became flustered. The peon entered with three Campa Colas and three teas on one tray. “Still,” I said, immediately feeling the need to defend Congress and through it my authority, “the Congress Party is the only party that can rule India. What other party has ever been able to hold power for long. They are the only ones who have appeal all over the country. They are the only ones who have people in the villages.”

  “Would Congress say something else?” Father Joseph smiled at me. “We’ll see how many seats they get in the new elections.” I don’t think he had any strong political affiliations.

  I accepted the tea with one hand and the Campa Cola with the other, and having both hands full simultaneously made me feel greedy and crass. Mr. Gupta raised money for Congress because Congress had controlled Delhi when he started in education. Currently the BJP was very strong. To keep Mr. Gupta from defecting, Congress had given him more and more freedom. Mr. Gupta was able to grant favors to principals by carefully bribing whoever might oppose him in the BJP.

  Mr. Mishra slurped his Campa Cola loudly. Father Joseph glanced toward him, and Mr. Mishra smiled, revealing his teeth.

  “Rajiv Gandhi thinks that India is his family estate. The Nehru family has controlled the Congress Party for too long. Jawaharlal Nehru, then Indira Gandhi, then Rajiv. How much longer?” Father Joseph spoke too quickly for a conversation, but not quickly enough to be obviously argumentative.

  “And before Independence and Jawaharlal there was Motilal Nehru,” Mr. Mishra said. “And every night on TV now, you see Rajiv Gandhi’s daughter handing out blankets to the poor, as though she’s already started campaigning for her seat.” Father Joseph and Mr. Mishra both looked at me as if waiting for an answer. My helplessness began churning into anger.

  “The Nehrus gave birth to India.”

  “And they’ve been taking advantage of their child for a hundred years,” Mr. Mishra responded.

  “This is Jawaharlal’s centennial anniversary,” Father Joseph confirmed. “At least for one hundred years, the Nehrus have run Indian politics.”

  I felt surrounded. “Would you rather have the BJP win?” I asked, putting my empty Campa bottle on the table. I had accepted the fact that these negotiations were going to be more about force than about delicacy. “They are the only party other than the Congress that can win the central government, and the BJP is full of Hindu fanatics. If they had their way, they would make every non-Hindu leave the country.”

  Father Joseph shrugged and took a sip of tea. “That’s not going to happen. There are too many non-Hindus in India.” He paused, thought for a moment, and, as if ending the conversation, added, “What do I know about politics. I am just an ordinary headmaster.”

  We finished our tea in silence. I did not know what to do or say to show my strength.

  “Shall I send for more tea?” Father Joseph asked. I thought his English sentence was hiding the Hindi slang for bribe. I became outraged. He smiled broadly and I knew that he had mocked my bumbling delicacy. I cleared my throat and casually spat a clot of phlegm on the bit of rug beside my foot.

  Father Joseph looked at me in shock. I glanced at him and said in Hindi, “I know how much you charge students to get in here. I know the land we give you for one rupee a meter you then draw loans on for one hundred rupees a meter. You are a priest. What kind of religion do you follow?” I settled back on the sofa. Mr. Mishra had stopped smiling. “Why be greedy when there is so much.”

  “At last,” Father Joseph said, now in English.

  “At last what? Are you still a baby after all you’ve done?” I asked from where I was on the sofa. “We don’t sell toys.”

  Father Joseph said nothing. He put his teacup on the table.

  Father Joseph had not drunk his Campa. To highlight my greed I asked, “Can I drink yours?” He nodded and I gulped it down. “At last, little baby,” I said, and stood. “Take some time and think while we go look at your school.”

  Mrs. Singla led us around the school. I noticed as I walked through the halls that I was holding my shoulders back and letting my arms swing free. Mr. Mishra had never seen me behave this way, and I kept catching him looking at me. I began to feel contemptuous of him. I imagined myself as ruthless and powerful. I thought of finding Asha’s classroom and in front of her letting Asha’s teacher know our relationship. Mrs. Singla took us to a storeroom where cricket bats and field hockey sticks lay in mounds. I asked Mrs. Singla if there were any extra badminton rackets, because I wanted to give Asha a gift. I picked up a leather cricket ball there and kept flipping it from hand to hand for the rest of the afternoon.

  Eventually Mr. Mishra and I were left to wander by ourselves. The school has a lift, and I like lifts very much. We rode it up and down several times. Mr. Mishra went into various classrooms and asked children random questions. “What is a binary star?” or “What does D.C. mean in Washington, D.C.?” When someone answered, he might say, “Is that what you think?” I found this hilarious.

  Early in the afternoon Mr. Mishra was walking
down a hall about thirty or forty meters ahead of me. I called out to him. When he turned around, I held up the cricket ball and mimed bowling it. He crouched and brought his hands together as though he were a wicket keeper. I don’t know what made me stop miming, but I sent the ball shooting toward him. The ball hit the ground with a loud clap and Mr. Mishra was too surprised to catch it. Each time the ball hit the ground, there was the same loud clap. The classes all along the hall became quiet. The pride which had filled me evaporated. The surprise let me feel my ridiculousness.

  We roamed the halls till a bell dismissed the classes. Because it was summer, the school day was shorter than normal. The children lined up in the front field for their buses and we went to have lunch with Father Joseph.

  Mrs. Singla joined us for the meal. I remained quiet. Girls from the home economics department had remained after class to serve us. There was chole bature, malai kofta, nan, rice, kheer, gajar-kahalva. Once the food was in front of us, conversation ended. Father Joseph ate with knife and fork, but everyone else used bare hands. Mr. Mishra chewed so loudly it sounded as though he might be trying to say something. Mrs. Singla ate steadily, with her head bowed. Every now and then she looked up at the ceiling, shook her head, and moaned. I yearned to stuff myself, to eat until all my blood went to my stomach and getting up would make me dizzy, but my doctor had warned me against rich foods and I barely touched the various dishes.

  When we were ready to leave, Mrs. Singla gave me two badminton rackets and a tube of shuttlecocks. She offered Mr. Mishra a similar set, but he said no. Mr. Mishra stood as he refused her. Then he and she moved out into the hall. I moved back to the sofa I had sat on earlier.