Chapter 20: Ghar Wapsi (Homecoming)

2016

The reunion happened on a Sunday. A Sunday in January — the January that was Pune's best month, the month when the weather was what Pune's weather wanted to be all year: cool mornings, warm afternoons, the particular pleasantness that January provided and that the rest of the year revoked. The January that was — the January was the month that Vandana had chosen. Not Samaira, not Leela. Vandana. The mother who had been waiting for thirty-eight years and who, when told that the waiting could end, had said: "January madhe. Mi pohe banvin. Ti yeil tevha pohe tayar asel pahije." In January. I'll make pohe. When she comes, the pohe must be ready.

The pohe must be ready. The sentence that was — the sentence was the mother's sentence, the sentence that said: after thirty-eight years, the first thing is the pohe. Not the words (the words would come). Not the crying (the crying would come). Not the questions (what happened, where were you, why didn't you come back, the questions that thirty-eight years had accumulated and that the accumulation had compressed into a pressure that would, when released, produce — what? Vandana did not know. The not-knowing being the particular terror of a reunion: the not-knowing what the reunion would be). The first thing was: the pohe. The pohe that Vandana had been making for thirty-eight years for a daughter who was not there and that would now, for the first time, be made for a daughter who was there.

Kaveri's shelter. Kothrud. Pune. The shelter that Vandana had been in for thirty-eight years — not continuously (Vandana had moved, had lived in other places, had spent years in a flat in Shivajinagar that the network had arranged, the arranging being the gradual normalization of Vandana's life, the normalization that said: you are no longer hiding, you are living, the living being the thing that the hiding prevented and that the not-hiding allowed). But Kaveri's shelter was the place. The place that was the beginning — the beginning of Vandana's after-Sitapur-Gali life — and that would now be the place of the reunion.

Vandana woke at 4 AM. The 4 AM that was — the 4 AM that Vandana could not sleep past because the sleeping-past was impossible when the waking was going to produce the thing that thirty-eight years had been waiting for. The 4 AM that was dark (Pune's January dark, the dark that was cool and that had the particular quality of pre-dawn: the quality that said: the day is coming, the day is extraordinary, the extraordinary is approaching).

Vandana went to the kitchen. Kaveri's kitchen — the kitchen that had been Vandana's for so long that the possessive had shifted, the kitchen that was now Vandana's kitchen even though the kitchen was in Kaveri's house, the shifting being the particular claim that daily cooking established: the kitchen belongs to the person who cooks in it, the cooking being the sovereignty.

The pohe. The pohe that Vandana began at 4 AM because the pohe needed to be perfect and the perfect needed time and the time was the four minutes (the soaking, the sacred four minutes) but also the preparation-time, the time that preceded the four minutes: the selecting of the flattened rice (the best quality — not the thick flakes, not the thin flakes, the medium flakes that absorbed the water at the right rate and that produced the right texture, the right-texture being: soft but not mushy, each flake distinct, the distinction being the standard that thirty-eight years of daily pohe-making had established and that today's pohe would meet or exceed).

The mustard seeds. Selected. The curry leaves. Fresh — the freshest, from the curry-leaf plant that Vandana maintained on Kaveri's balcony, the plant that was the descendant of the plant on Sitapur Gali (not literally — the Sitapur Gali plant was long dead; but the maintaining of a curry-leaf plant was the continuity, the continuity being: the plant is the same even when the plant is different, the same-ness being the act of maintaining rather than the genetics of the plant). The turmeric. The green chillies — Nagpuri mirchi, because Vandana had never accepted Pune's mild chillies, the never-accepting being the Vidarbha stubbornness that was Vandana's inheritance and that Vandana had, unknowingly, passed to Leela, the passing being the particular transmission that genes accomplished without the transmitter knowing: the mother's stubbornness in the daughter's palate.

The peanuts. The peanuts that Vandana selected — the best peanuts. The extra peanuts. The extra peanuts that were for Lata, that had always been for Lata, that were — today — actually for Lata. The actually being the word that thirty-eight years had been waiting for: actually. Not mentally. Not symbolically. Actually.

*

Leela arrived at 10 AM. In the white Maruti Swift. Alone — Raju had offered to come ("Main bhi chalunga" — I'll come too) and Leela had said no, the no being the particular decision that said: this is between a mother and a daughter, this is the space that only two people can occupy, the two being the two who had been separated and who were now being reunited and the reuniting being the intimate-thing, the thing that witnesses would diminish.

Samaira was there. At the shelter. Not inside — outside. On the street. The investigator's position — the position that said: I brought this moment into existence and I will watch from outside because the inside is not mine. The inside belongs to the mother and the daughter. The watching from outside is the investigator's completion: the case is closed. The file can move from ACTIVE to CLOSED. The moving being the thing that thirty-seven years had been working toward.

Leela parked. Got out of the car. Stood on the street in Kothrud and looked at the shelter — the shelter that was an ordinary house, the ordinary house in which Leela's mother had lived for decades, the living being the waiting and the waiting being the love and the love being the thing that distance could not destroy.

Leela's hands were shaking. The shaking that was — the shaking was not the operative's shaking (the operative did not shake; the operative was trained for calm). The shaking was the daughter's shaking. The daughter who was forty-nine and who had not seen her mother since she was twelve and who was now standing on a street in Pune and who was shaking because the shaking was the body's response to the impossible: I am going to see my mother. After thirty-eight years. I am going to see my mother.

Leela walked to the door. Knocked. Three knocks — and then stopped. Stopped because the three knocks were the knocks that had started everything, the three knocks at 11:47 PM on August 26, 1978, the three knocks that had been the beginning of the taking. And the taking had begun with three knocks and the reunion was beginning with three knocks and the symmetry was the thing that Leela noticed and that the noticing produced: a laugh. A small laugh. The laugh that said: the knocking is the story. The knocking began the story and the knocking is ending the story and the story is thirty-eight years long and the story's symmetry is — ridiculous. Beautifully ridiculous.

The door opened. Kaveri — Kaveri who was now eighty-nine and who was smaller than ever but whose eyes were the same teacher's eyes and whose posture was the same teacher's posture. Kaveri who looked at Leela and who said: "Aat ye." Come in. The two words that were — the two words that were Kaveri's gift: not drama, not tears, not the making-of-a-moment. The making-of-an-entry. The simple: come in. The in being the place where the mother is.

Leela entered. The shelter — the shelter was a house. A house that smelled of — the house smelled of pohe. The smell that was — the smell that was everything. The smell that was Sitapur Gali and the kitchen and the morning and Vandana's hands and the four minutes and the mustard seeds and the curry leaves and the turmeric and the chillies and the peanuts and the — the smell that was home. Not the Satpura-home. Not the Panchgani-home. The first home. The original home. The home that the nose remembered before the mind could say "this is the smell of home" and that the nose's remembering produced: the crying.

Leela cried. In the doorway. Before she saw Vandana. The crying triggered by the smell — the smell that was the mother's smell, the cooking-smell that was the love-smell, the love that the nose knew before the eyes confirmed and the confirmation being: the nose was right. The mother is here. The mother has been cooking. The cooking is for me.

Vandana was in the kitchen. Of course Vandana was in the kitchen — where else would Vandana be? The kitchen being the place, the only place, the place where Vandana was Vandana and where the Vandana-ness was the pohe and the pohe was the love and the love was the thing that had not stopped for thirty-eight years.

Vandana heard the crying. Turned. From the stove. The turning that was — the turning was the slow-motion turning that happened when the body moved but the mind was ahead of the body, the mind having already processed what the turning would reveal and the processing producing the particular preparation that the body needed: brace yourself. The thing you have been waiting for is here.

And then Vandana saw Leela. And Leela saw Vandana. And the seeing was — the seeing was thirty-eight years compressed into a single visual exchange, the exchange being: the mother seeing the daughter (the daughter who was twelve the last time and who was now forty-nine, the forty-nine being the time that the mother had missed, the missing being written on the daughter's face in the particular language of aging: the lines, the maturity, the twelve-year-old's face grown into the forty-nine-year-old's face, the growth that the mother had not witnessed and that the not-witnessing was the cost, the cost that Bharati had carried and that was, now, visible). And the daughter seeing the mother (the mother who was thirty-four the last time and who was now seventy-two, the seventy-two being the time that the daughter had missed, the missing being written on the mother's face in the particular language of aging: the grey hair, the smaller body, the thirty-four-year-old's strength compressed into the seventy-two-year-old's resilience, the compression that the daughter had not witnessed and that the not-witnessing was the price of safety).

"Aai."

"Lata."

The two names. The original names — not Leela (the operative's name, the network's name, the name that meant play). Lata. The name that the mother had given and that the mother spoke and that the speaking returned the daughter to the daughter's original self, the original-self that had been hidden inside Leela for thirty-eight years and that was, in the mother's speaking of the name, un-hidden.

Vandana put down the ladle. (The ladle. The ladle that Leela had dropped five years ago when Raju spoke. The ladle that was the kitchen's instrument and that was, in the putting-down, the relinquishing of the activity in favour of the person. The ladle put down the way weapons were put down: the laying-down that said: I am done with the doing, I am here for the being, the being-with being the thing that the ladle could not provide.)

Vandana walked to Leela. Leela walked to Vandana. The walking that was — the walking was the closing of the distance. The distance that had been: Nagpur to Satpura to Panchgani to Pune. The distance that had been: thirty-eight years. The distance that was now: three metres, two metres, one metre, zero.

The embrace. The embrace that was — the embrace was the thing that the body had been waiting for. Not the mind (the mind had been occupied with survival, with the network, with the operations, with the being-Leela). The body. The body that had been twelve when it was last held by this body and that was now forty-nine and that was being held again and that the being-held produced the particular sensation that the body remembered: the mother's arms. The mother's chest. The mother's heartbeat (the heartbeat that the twelve-year-old had heard in the womb and that the body remembered from the womb and that the hearing-again produced the regression, the regression being: forty-nine years old and a child, a child in her mother's arms, the being-a-child that was possible only in the mother's arms and that was, after thirty-eight years of not-being-a-child, the rest, the particular rest that the body needed and that only the mother's body could provide).

Vandana held. Leela held. The holding that was — the holding was tight. The tight that said: I will not let go. The not-letting-go that was the promise that both bodies made to each other and that the promise was: this is the end of the distance. This is the end of the separation. This is the end of the thirty-eight years.

They stood. In the kitchen. Holding. The holding that lasted — minutes. The minutes that were — the minutes were outside time. The minutes that did not count because the minutes were the reunion's time, the reunion's time being the time that was not clock-time but emotional-time, the emotional-time being: as long as the bodies need, the needing being the measure and the measure being: longer than minutes, shorter than forever, the exact duration of a mother holding a daughter who has been gone for thirty-eight years.

The pohe was on the stove. The pohe that was — ready. The pohe that had been made by a seventy-two-year-old woman at 4 AM for a forty-nine-year-old woman who was, in this kitchen, twelve again. The pohe that had extra peanuts. The pohe that was perfect.

"Bas, bas," Vandana said. "Pohe thanda hotoy." Enough. The pohe is getting cold.

The sentence that was — the sentence was the most mother sentence. The sentence that said: the crying is done, the holding is done, the reunion is happening, but the pohe is getting cold and the getting-cold is the practical matter that the mother addresses because the mother is practical and the practical is the love and the love is: eat. Eat the pohe. The pohe that I made for you. The pohe that I have been making for you for thirty-eight years. Eat.

Leela sat at the table. Kaveri's table — the table in the kitchen where Vandana had fed Meena and Geeta and all the women who had passed through the shelter over the decades. The table that was now the reunion-table.

Vandana served the pohe. On a plate. The plate placed in front of Leela the way plates had been placed in front of Lata on Sitapur Gali — with the particular care that the serving required: the pohe centered, the garnish (coriander, lemon wedge, coconut) arranged, the arrangement being the aesthetic that Vandana maintained because the aesthetics was the respect, the respect for the food and for the eater and for the act of eating, the act being sacred.

Leela ate. The first bite — the first bite that was — the first bite was: four minutes of soaking (perfect), mustard seeds (perfectly popped), curry leaves (fresh, from the balcony plant), turmeric (the yellow, the colour of home), green chillies (Nagpuri mirchi — hot, unapologetically hot, the Vidarbha identity in the bite), peanuts (extra, the extra that was Lata's, the extra that was the love), sugar (a pinch, the Nagpuri-style sweetness that balanced the heat), salt (correct), coriander (fresh), lemon (squeezed), coconut (grated).

The taste that was — the taste was home. Not the home-metaphor. The actual taste of home. The taste that the tongue remembered from thirty-eight years ago and that the tongue confirmed: this is the same. This is the same pohe. This is the same woman's hands. This is the same recipe. This is the same love.

"Aai." Leela's voice. Small. The smallness being: the daughter. "Pohe khup bhari aahe." Mama. The pohe is amazing.

The sentence. The sentence that was — the sentence was the ritual. The ritual that had been interrupted thirty-eight years ago and that was now, in this kitchen, resumed. The ritual that said: the mother makes pohe, the daughter eats pohe, the daughter says the pohe is amazing. The ritual that was the morning. The ritual that was the family. The ritual that was the thing that the taking had interrupted and that the reunion had resumed and that the resuming was the proof: the connection was never destroyed. The connection was stretched. The connection was attenuated. The connection was reduced to mental pohe and unsent letters and two-word messages. But the connection was never destroyed. The connection was pohe. The connection was extra peanuts. The connection was: Aai, pohe khup bhari aahe.

Vandana sat down. Across from Leela. At the table. And Vandana — Vandana did not eat. Vandana watched. The watching that was — the watching was the mother's watching. The watching that said: I am watching you eat because the watching-you-eat is the thing I have missed for thirty-eight years and the watching is the joy and the joy is enough and I do not need to eat, I need to watch, the watching being the nourishment that the mother receives from the daughter's eating.

Outside, on the street, Samaira Apte sat in her car. The car that was parked across from the shelter. The car in which Samaira sat and from which Samaira could see, through the shelter's kitchen window (the window that was open, the January air being cool enough to require the window's opening for the cooking-smoke's exit), two women at a table. One eating. One watching.

Samaira took no photograph. For the first time in thirty-seven years of investigation, Samaira did not document. The not-documenting being: this is not evidence. This is not the investigation. This is the thing that the investigation was for. The thing that the file was for. The thing that the ACTIVE drawer held for thirty-seven years. The thing that was now happening and that did not need to be documented because the thing was not data. The thing was: a mother watching a daughter eat pohe. In a kitchen in Pune. On a Sunday in January.

The file was closed.