Clear Light of Day by Anita Desai

Author:Anita Desai
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt

She heard him coughing as she rushed into his room. He was lying in bed under his thick winter quilt with Begum at his feet as limp as a rug. Both stiffened to hear her race in.

‘Raja,’ she shouted, ‘Mahatma Gandhi’s been killed. Murdered. He’s dead.’

Raja gave a violent jerk and shot out of bed, the heavy quilt sliding to one side and falling to the floor, rolled up like a corpse. Raja’s hair stood on end. Begum’s began to bristle, too. ‘You must be mad,’ he shouted at her. ‘You’re crazy.’

‘I tell you—everyone in the city knows—everybody in the bus was talking—where’s the radio? Turn it on—let’s listen.’

Raja hurried to the radio on his bookshelf and fiddled with the knobs in a kind of desperation. ‘Bim,’ he said, almost sobbing, ‘there’ll be more riots—killing—they’ll slaughter every Muslim they can find—anywhere.’

‘God no, not again, not again,’ whispered Bim, but then the crackling of the radio sorted itself out and resolved into formal music, wailing miserably. A woman’s voice was singing the Ram Dhun mournfully. Raja and Bim stood by, cracking their knuckles, waiting for a news announcement. When it came, they sank onto Raja’s bed with relief to hear it was not a Muslim but a Hindu who had killed the Mahatma.

‘Thank God,’ Raja cried out, pulling up the quilt off the floor and hugging it to him almost violently. ‘Thank God. I thought of the Hyder Alis—what they would have to go through—’

Bim glanced at him and his expression made her look away in embarrassment. It was as if the skin had been drawn off his face, leaving it peeled and bare. ‘What do you think will happen now?’ she murmured, turning to pat Begum who was calmed by her low voice and came to lay her muzzle on her lap, looking for reassurance.

‘I think now perhaps Indians will forget Pakistan for a bit. Perhaps they will turn to their own problems at last. I don’t know—at a time like this—it must be all chaos, Bim, chaos.’

They spent the evening listening to the news broadcasts, heard Nehru weep, were reduced to silence and shivering, then to irritation by the mournful dirges that were being sung continuously, sat together worried and relieved, shocked and thoughtful.

At last Raja said ‘And your tea-party, Bim? How was it? Has Mrs Biswas approved of you as her daughter-in-law?’

That made Bim leap to her feet, switch on the light and start bustling about as if electrified. ‘Daughter-in-law?’ she spluttered. ‘Dr Biswas’s mother—just don’t talk to me about her—about them—I hope I never have to see Dr Biswas again—he gives me the creeps—he’s—he’s just—’

‘Oh Bim, don’t be so hard on him—poor violinist, poor musician. So Mozart—ach so Mozart,’ sang Raja, laughing, clasping his hands under his chin and making a sad clown face to make Bim laugh. And Bim laughed.

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