Ratul Ghosh
“What kind of a name is this? It’s ridiculous isn’t it?”
He smiles at Sandhya and looks away. It’s another new, mysterious habit of his. He coughs discreetly into his elbow. There’s a curtain of acrid smoke suspended in the room, drifting in from his open kitchen where the parathas were fried. It shrouds his expression. His name was Kashyap. That is what she called him all those years. It’s his name—still—for her, though now he insists it’s all the same.
“You can call me anything you like,” he says. “What is in a name? Both Atlas and the Tortoise carry the world on their back. Kashyap means a tortoise in Sanskrit.”
“You could have chosen something else, you know? Atlas isn’t a name. It’s a book of maps. Do you know anyone called Atlas?”
“No, but that is the point… Ma. A pen-name has to be unique.”
The word, Ma, comes out after a slight hesitation, she feels. And yet it warms her heart every time he says it. Kashyap. Atlas—whatever. His father has saved his name as AA in his phone. Like a battery size.
“I named you Kashyap for the sage—just so you know—not for a tortoise.”
“Yes, I know. Also the one who drinks water.” He took a sip as he spoke and smiled. He then sighed and there it was again, that certain tiredness that seems to have bent his spine and drooped his shoulders. Or was it exasperation? Was she speaking too much?
“You know, we thought we’d never find you again. I had stopped believing in miracles.”
“Well well. What do we know? Scientists don’t know one percent of the universe. They don’t even know what causes hiccups.” He speaks like a scientist-turned-philosopher, and like he’s on stage.
“Your language has changed. Sometimes I feel you are a different person.”
“I am… Ma. So are you. It’s like the river one doesn’t step into twice. Time changes everyone.”
“Everything too.”
“No, not everything. Some things don’t change. But only because we have created them inside our heads.”
“I’m not sure what you mean, Beta.”
“It’s okay, Ma. You must rest now. Shall I call the driver?”
She sighs. It’s always over before all she needs to say is said. But Kashyap, Atlas, is right. Even though the therapy has ended, she still tires easily. He is holding her bag ready, its contents packed and checked. AA waits, like Eliot’s “eternal Footman”.
Sandhya keeps thinking on her way back home. Kashyap seems different, but also distant. He smiles the blank, patient smile of a doctor. Sandhya doesn’t know what to make of him. He has always hidden his pain. But she’d rather have him back as this distorted, bland reflection than not at all. The years without him were so empty. Her other two children aren’t even around. She can just hear them sometimes on their weekly calls, and she sees their children on forwarded videos. She doesn’t know what to say to them, and they, to her.
She can’t wait till she is home again, for then, she has a reason to call him again. AA is on top of the list of saved numbers, naturally.
“Hello, Beta? I’ve reached safely. The driver was good. How are you?”
“The same, Ma. The same.”
The hesitation before he says, “Ma” is shorter when they speak on the phone.
“Why don’t you move in with us, Kashyap? It’s your house too, you know?”
“No Ma. I’m happy here. We talked about this. Let’s keep it this way. I don’t need anything. I’m good.”
“It’s because of your father, isn’t it?”
“No.”
“He has forgiven you. Everything. He even said the property…”
“Ma! Stop. If I need anything I will tell you. You take care.”
“Okay. All in good time. Fine then.”
“Cool. Okay bye now.”
Atlas has understood that the call goes on forever if he waits for Sandhya to hang up. Sandhya says bye to a dead phone. These calls aren’t like the old days where one would hear a click, and a series of beeps, then the dialtone when someone hung up. Now it just goes silent and it seems like the other person is still there—and if one waits—may say something more.
She has brought back a tiffin-box full of alu paranthas which Atlas had made for her and that she was too sick to have then. She pries the lid open and breaks off a small portion, has it cold. He is now the only one who makes it the way she made it back then, with the ajwain, the amchur, the chopped coriander stalks and a hint of lemon, the onions still crunchy. She has no idea who has taught him. Maybe he has experimented with ingredients long enough to re-discover the recipe. He must be busy with his logistics business, whatever that is, but he seems to have time for meticulous cooking. Just not as much for her.
She is happy though, for all that she can squeeze out of these unyielding days.
She has another morsel and then puts the tiffin-box in the fridge. She will have more later, warmed up on the tawa and with the dhaniya-mirch chutney he has packed for her. Right now, her stomach is queasy and the taste in her mouth, metallic. She walks slowly to the balcony to distract herself, and looks at the sky. It is clear after the rains, and she can see the Saptarshi, the big dipper. The sapta-rishi, she corrects herself. One of them is Marichi, the father of Sage Kashyap.
***
Ravi, as his father, may not hate Kashyap, but he still doesn’t like what is happening. There is something very disconcerting about it. Dangerous, even. Of-course, it was nice of Kashyap to agree to meet with his mother, especially now that she may not have very long left. He hasn’t asked for money or brought up his academic failures or their falling out. Kashyap has, however, refused to enter their home. From what one hears, he is polite and considerate. He also seems to be rich. His studio apartment is quite nicely done up. He may have skimmed the money off him just to spite him. Who knows. He was always impossible to decipher. Ravi hates the gossamer of lies around Kashyap. While it had always existed, he could see it more clearly as time went by and the light changed. His eloquent and effortless lies, his manipulative traits. The sly, practiced sycophancy of a man proficient at bumming drinks off sympathetic strangers. Ravi knows the type. The years when Kashyap was gone were peaceful. Not ideal, but better than the alternative. Not all parent-child relationships turn out like storybooks. Some go well. Their two daughters were fine and well settled. It’s just that they were too busy to come and care for Sandhya in her twilight years. The travesty is that the worst child has the most time. The unwanted prodigal has to be tolerated, for Sandhya.
Sandhya has fallen asleep. Ravi walks into the bedroom and looks at her. The smallest exertion tires her. She must have decided to nap, but he knows she may only wake up in the wee hours. He pulls the covers around her as she smiles wanly and mutters something in her sleep. He stares at her sunken face, the expanding dark circles and the lines of fatigue for a long time till he feels a sob swell in his throat. He gulps it down and quietly walks out to the living room. He walks over to the drinks cabinet and wonders if a drink may help him gulp down the lump stuck in his throat. He decides against it and walks out to the living room balcony, and looks at the stars that Sandhya saw before. There’s a small table and chair there where they used to have their morning tea. He sits. How we imagine shapes in the sky and stories in people. The Ursa Major, the Big Bear, looks nothing like a bear to him. It looks like a ladle, or a wheelbarrow at best. He also knows the stars aren’t even close to each other. It’s all an illusion. In our heads.
Atlas, too, is an illusion. But a complicated one. Ravi knows the other Atlas that Sandhya doesn’t know, that Sandhya cannot bear to see. He decides to eat something. He has missed dinner. The fridge is full of uneaten food sent up from the restaurant they own. All of it is rich and greasy, and tastes the same. On the top shelf, however, is a tiffin-box. He picks it up, brings it to his nose and inhales.
It smells, of all things, of old times when everything was fine.
***
It was awkward to run into him, of all places, in the Alcoholics Anonymous meeting. The scarring memory jolts out of storage and starts playing itself on a loop.
Ravi couldn’t muster up a glance at his son’s face though he felt Kashyap was staring at him throughout. He had thought of running away, and discontinuing the AA experiment. He almost succeeded, till he saw Kashyap leaning languidly against his car, smoking a cigarette. He saw Ravi stumbling down the verandah stairs and smiled a cocky smile.
“Hi,” Ravi was fumbling with his words. It was the surprise of seeing him after a decade mixed with the embarrassment at being found out. AA was no longer anonymous. “What are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same, Daddy-Ji.” It seemed to Ravi that Kashyap had raised his voice for effect. Some others, who were leaving, stopped and stared. “…but I know what you are doing here. It won’t work, but I’m glad you’re trying to quit.”
“And me,” he turned away, taking in his surroundings with a smirk, “I have a simple program that works. It’s based on one alcoholic helping another. Haha.”
“Kash… wait, please. Stop. Don’t make a scene here. Have some decency. What do you want? More money?”
“Want money? No Papa. Need money? Yes Papa. Open your purse. Ha Ha Ha.”
Asshole. While it was just a thought in Ravi’s mind, Kashyap laughed.
“Same to you,” he said.
He was insufferable. He always was. Ravi transferred ten thousand rupees through UPI.
The irony. A father has to ask for his son’s phone number. And as he saves it, his fingers hesitate. K, a… backspace, backspace. What if Sandhya goes through his phonebook? God knows she won’t be able to take the shock. Of all places, times, and people, this is what destiny deals him.
The number is finally saved just as AA. The money is transferred.
***
Ravi is convinced that God is a sadist. He is taking away what he holds dearest and rubbing his face in what he detests the most. God has repeatedly and accurately identified what he might most hate to do, and then made him do exactly that.
“I want to see my son’s face again.” She had said in a delirious wish. Ravi had agreed. At moments like those, one agrees to anything. Feeling like a cheat, he had told Sandhya he would try to find him. He called Kashyap, who had picked his call in two rings, but had said nothing suspecting a pocket dial. Ravi blurted everything out—about the disease, the prognosis. About Sandhya’s fading away, and her wish. The clandestine call was followed by a call on the speakerphone with Sandhya, who was still in the hospital.
Ravi must admit Kashyap handled it well. He was polite, measured. No smart-alec cockiness. There was nothing said of the acrimonious parting, the ensuing years of no news, the accidental meeting and the ten-thousand rupee blackmail. He had always had that flair. When Sandhya asked him why his name was showing up as AA on the screen, as usual he pulled something out of thin air.
“It’s a new name. I’ve… I’ve had to change my name, Ma. It’s a long story. It’s like…. Like a pen name I use. A is for Alias, no,…I mean Atlas. So Dad must have saved it as AA for short. And the second A is for…” It sounded like an intentional, dramatic pause, “…Anonymous.”
Sandhya thought it was a joke, and smiled.
“You have always been silly, Kashyap.”
Slimy. Ravi thought, as he hung up. He could imagine Kashyap saying, “Same to you.”
***
Sandhya is still sleeping and Ravi does not know what to do with himself. He fidgets for a bit and then picks up his phone. He wants to tell Kashyap something and he knows that if he doesn’t, the moment will pass and leave regrets in its wake. He first types AA, then deletes it, then Kash…then deletes again, and he tries again.
“Son, I have been meaning to say that I really appreciate what you have done…” he deletes the last two words “… are doing for Sandhya. It must be hard. But you are doing a great job. God bless you.”
He thinks, hesitates, then sends the message. There’s only one grey tick on it. He can still delete it. But he wants to say more.
“I know I have been guilty…” he doesn’t know what to say now. He deletes the line and types, “Now that Sandhya might…” and he deletes again. “You are a better person….”, “I was wrong to….” he stares at the screen till it blurs and goes off and he sees his own haggard face reflected in it. He unlocks the phone again, and manages to type, “I’m sorry.” His finger quivers over the send button for a while but he forces it down. The message is sent. Both messages are awaiting the second tick-mark. Kashyap may have switched his phone off. There was something else Ravi had picked the phone up for. He opens his contacts, and renames AA to Kashyap.
At three in the morning, Ravi wakes up cold on the balcony. His head is on the table. His phone is facedown and an empty glass smelling of whiskey is beside him, icy to touch. He is immediately filled with shame. The constellations have spun around the pole star. The son, the wife, and the malaise have moved on and he stays stuck in a tiny, cowardly rut. He sheepishly picks up the plate of Sandhya’s parathas he has polished off, and goes to the kitchen to wash his face. The bedroom is quiet.
At around the same time, in another corner of town, on the floor of the balcony of a nameplateless apartment, Kashyap lies cold and awake on his back beside another empty, cold glass. Later in the day, he will switch his phone on to see a bunch of deleted messages from his father, except one that says, “I’m sorry.” At this moment, however, he thinks only of his mother. Will she become a star when she dies? He considers the impossibility of living on an earth where she doesn’t exist, and suddenly feels everything sums up to an overwhelming, choking futility. He is glad that he can still give his mother some moments of happiness, but it makes no difference to the progression of the disease. She gets worse all the same. She can now hardly eat what he cooks for her. What comes out of all these made-up names and stories and charades? The sheer pointlessness of it all—the money he has made almost as a revenge, the made-up enmity with his father that now looks petty. What were we all fighting for? What were we fighting against? Was there anything at all one could do, when all seems preordained and written in the stars? All dust to dust.
The stars.
He turns on his right and looks out. His ear is squashed against the cold floor. The clear, vast night makes him feel insignificant. Where is a shooting star when you need one? He can just see the big dipper twinkling. It seems to be saying something in Morse code. He keeps gazing at it. These stars are actually far from each other, he remembers someone telling him. All meaning is imagined. It’s a trick. In reality, nothing makes sense. From his recumbent position, the sky is sideways and the constellation looks like a huge question mark.
Ratul Ghosh has spent most of his earlier left-brained life in the C-Suite across boring conglomerates and clueless startups. In the time he had left, he managed to compose music, belong to unheard-of bands and write the odd word or three. He loves the poets, from Eliot to Bukowski and Cohen; and the writers who mix the real with the imaginary, like Pratchett, Gaiman and Murakami. He has also been a columnist for the Economic Times and a TEDx speaker. 2023 was a discontinuity for him, with his father’s cancer treatment and demise, and as part of the reset, he began writing. His first short story was among the winning entries for the Deodar Prize in the Bangalore Literature Festival 2023 and was published in Hammock. His subsequent publications include Usawa Literary Review, The Bangalore Review and Muse India. His latest story won the BWW RK Anand Memorial Award and shall be published in Out of Print. He is working on a memoir and a collection of short stories. Instagram: @altratul/; X: @ratul_tweets
