By Kiran Desai (page 307-312) The phone sat squat in the drawing room of the guest house encircled by a lock and chain so the thieving servants might only receive phone calls and not make them. When it rang again, the watchman leapt at it saying "Phone, la! Phone! La mai!" and his whole family came running from their hut outside. Every time the phone rang, they ran with committed loyalty. Upkeepers of modern novelties, they would not, would not, let it fall to ordinariness.
"HELLO?"
"HELLO? HELLO? "They gathered about the cook, giggling in delicious anticipation.
"HELLO?"
"HELLO? PITAJI??"
"BIJU?" By natural logic he raised his voice to cover the distance between them, sending his voice all the way to America.
"HELLO? HELLO? "They gathered about the cook, giggling in delicious anticipation.
"HELLO?"
"HELLO? PITAJI??"
"BIJU?" By natural logic he raised his voice to cover the distance between them, sending his voice all the way to America.
"Biju, Biju," the watchman's family chorused, "it's Biju," they said to one another. "oh, it's his son," they told one another. They watched for his expressions to change, for hints as to what was being said at the other end, wishing to insinuate themselves deeply into the conversation, to become it, in fact.
"HELLO HELLO????"
"?????HAH? I CAN'T HEAR. YOUR VOICE IS VERY FAR."
"I CAN'T HEAR. CAN YOU HEAR?"
"He can't hear."
"WHAT?"
"Still can't hear?" They asked the cook.
"HELLO HELLO????"
"?????HAH? I CAN'T HEAR. YOUR VOICE IS VERY FAR."
"I CAN'T HEAR. CAN YOU HEAR?"
"He can't hear."
"WHAT?"
"Still can't hear?" They asked the cook.
The atmosphere of Kalimpong reached Biju all the way in New York; it swelled densely on the line and he could feel the pulse of forest, smell the humid air, the green black lushness; he could imagine all its different textures, the plumage of banana, the stark spear of the cactus, the delicate gestures of ferns; he could hear the croak trrrrr whonk, wee wee butt ock butt ock of frogs in the spinach, the rising note welding imperceptibly with the evening.......
"HELLO? HELLO?"
"Noise, noise," said the watchman's family, "can't hear?"
"Noise, noise," said the watchman's family, "can't hear?"
The cook waved them away angrily, "shshshshshsh," immediately terrified, then, at the loss of a precious second with his son. He turned back to the phone, still shooing them away from behind, almost sending his hand off with the vehemence of his gestures.
The shadow of their words was bigger that then substance. The echo of their own voice gulped the reply from across the world.
"THERE IS TOO MUCH NOISE."
The watchman's wife went outside and studied the precarious wire, the fragile connection trembling over ravines and over mountains, over Kanchenjunga smoking like a volcano or a cigar - a bird might have alighted upon it, a nightjar might have swooped through the shaky signal, the satellite in the firmament could have blipped-
"Too much wind, the wind is blowing," said the watchman's wife, "the line is swaying like this” –her hand undulating.
The children climbed up the tree and tried to hold the line steady. A gale of static inflicted itself on the space between father and son.
“WHAT HAPPENED?” –shrieking even louder- “EVERYTHING ALL RIGHT?!”
“WHAT DID YOU SAY?”
“Let it go,” the wife said, plucking the children from the tree, “your’re making it worse.”
“WHAT IS HAPPENING? ARE THERE RIOTS? STRIKES?”
“NO TROUBLE NOW.” (Better not worry him.) “NOT NOW!!”
“Is he going to come?” said the watchman.
“ARE YOU ALL RIGHT?” Biju shrieked on the New York street.
“DON’T WORRY ABOUT ME. DON’T WORRY ABOUT ANYTHING HERE. ARE THERE PROPER ARRANGEMENTS FOR EATING AT THE HOTEL? IS THE RESTAURANT GIVING YOU ACCOMODATION? ARE THERE ANY OTHER PEOPLE FROM UTTAR PRADESH THERE?”
“Give accommodation. Free food. EVERYTHING FINE. BUT ARE YOU ALL RIGHT?” Biju asked again.
“EVERYTHING QUITE NOW.”
“YOUR HEALTH IS ALL RIGHT?”
“YES. EVERYTHING ALL RIGHT.”
“Ahh, everything all right,” everyone said, nodding. “Everything all right? Everything all right.”
Suddenly, after this there was nothing more to say for awhile the emotion was there, the conversation was not; one had bloomed, not the other, and they fell abruptly d.
into emptiness.
The children climbed up the tree and tried to hold the line steady. A gale of static inflicted itself on the space between father and son.
“WHAT HAPPENED?” –shrieking even louder- “EVERYTHING ALL RIGHT?!”
“WHAT DID YOU SAY?”
“Let it go,” the wife said, plucking the children from the tree, “your’re making it worse.”
“WHAT IS HAPPENING? ARE THERE RIOTS? STRIKES?”
“NO TROUBLE NOW.” (Better not worry him.) “NOT NOW!!”
“Is he going to come?” said the watchman.
“ARE YOU ALL RIGHT?” Biju shrieked on the New York street.
“DON’T WORRY ABOUT ME. DON’T WORRY ABOUT ANYTHING HERE. ARE THERE PROPER ARRANGEMENTS FOR EATING AT THE HOTEL? IS THE RESTAURANT GIVING YOU ACCOMODATION? ARE THERE ANY OTHER PEOPLE FROM UTTAR PRADESH THERE?”
“Give accommodation. Free food. EVERYTHING FINE. BUT ARE YOU ALL RIGHT?” Biju asked again.
“EVERYTHING QUITE NOW.”
“YOUR HEALTH IS ALL RIGHT?”
“YES. EVERYTHING ALL RIGHT.”
“Ahh, everything all right,” everyone said, nodding. “Everything all right? Everything all right.”
Suddenly, after this there was nothing more to say for awhile the emotion was there, the conversation was not; one had bloomed, not the other, and they fell abruptly d.
into emptiness.
“When is he coming?” the watchman prompted
“WHEN ARE YOU COMING?”
“I DON’T KNOW. I WILL TRY….” He wanted to weep.
“CAN’T YOU GET LEAVE?”
He hadn’t even attained the decency of being granted a holiday now and then. He could bot go home to see his father.
“WHEN WILL YOU GET LEAVE?”
“I DON’T KNOW…”
“HELLO?”
“La ma ma ma ma ma ma, he can’t get leave. Why not? Don’t know, must be difficult there, make a lot of money, but one tiain, they have to work very hard for it….Don’t get somets certhinging for nothing…nowhere in the world…”
“HELLO? HELLO?”
“PITAJI, CAN YOU HEAR ME?”
They retreated from each other again- Beep beep honk honk trr butt ock, the phone went dead and they were strated in the distance that lay between them.
“HELLO? HELLO?” –into the rictus of the receiver. “Hello? Hello? Hello? Hello?” they echoed back to themselves. The cook put down the phone, trembling.
“He’ll call again,” said the watchman. But the phone all, remained mute.
“WHEN ARE YOU COMING?”
“I DON’T KNOW. I WILL TRY….” He wanted to weep.
“CAN’T YOU GET LEAVE?”
He hadn’t even attained the decency of being granted a holiday now and then. He could bot go home to see his father.
“WHEN WILL YOU GET LEAVE?”
“I DON’T KNOW…”
“HELLO?”
“La ma ma ma ma ma ma, he can’t get leave. Why not? Don’t know, must be difficult there, make a lot of money, but one tiain, they have to work very hard for it….Don’t get somets certhinging for nothing…nowhere in the world…”
“HELLO? HELLO?”
“PITAJI, CAN YOU HEAR ME?”
They retreated from each other again- Beep beep honk honk trr butt ock, the phone went dead and they were strated in the distance that lay between them.
“HELLO? HELLO?” –into the rictus of the receiver. “Hello? Hello? Hello? Hello?” they echoed back to themselves. The cook put down the phone, trembling.
“He’ll call again,” said the watchman. But the phone all, remained mute.
Outside, the frogs said tttt tttt, as if they had swallowed the dial tone.
He tried to shake the gadget back into life, wishing for at least the customary words of good-bye. After all, even on cliched phrases, you could hoist true emotion.
“There must be a problem with the line.”
“Yes, yes, yes.” As always, the problem with the line.
“He will come back fat. I have heard they all come back fat,” said the watchman’s sister-in-law abruptly, trying to comfort the cook.
The call was over, and the emptiness Biju hoped to dispel was reinforced.
He could not talk to his fther; there was nothing left between them but emergency sentences, clipped telegram lines shouted out as if in the midst of a war. They were no longer relevant to each other’s lives except for the hope that they would be relevant. He stood with his head stll in the phone booth stdded with bit of stiff chewing gum and the ususal FuckShitCockDickPussyLoveWar, swastikas, and hearts shot with arrows mingling in a dense grafitti garden, too sugary too angr too perverse-the sick sweet rotting mulch of the human heart.
If he continued his life in New York, he might never his pitaji again. It happened all the time; ten years passed, fifteen, the telegram arrived, or the phone call, the parent was gone and the child was too late. Or they retrn and found they’d missed the entire last quarter of a lifetime, teir parents like photograph negatves. And there were worse tragedies. After the initial excitement was over, itoften became obvious that the love was gone; for affection was only a habit after all, and people, they forgot, or they became accustomed to its absence. They returned and found just the façade; it had been eaten from inside, like Cho Oyu being gouged by ternites from within.
They all grow fat there……
The cook knew about them all growing fat there. It was one of the things everyone knew:
"Are you growing fat, beta, like everyone in America?” he had written to his so, long ago, in a departure from their usual format.
“Yes growing fat,” Biju had written back, “when you see me next, I will be myself times ten.” He laughed as he wrote the line and the cook laughed very hard when he read them; he lay in his back and kicked his legs in the air like a cockroach.
“Yes,” Biju had said, “I am gowing fat-ten times myself,” and was shocked when he went to the ninety-nine-cent store and found he had to buy his shirts at the children’s rack.
He tried to shake the gadget back into life, wishing for at least the customary words of good-bye. After all, even on cliched phrases, you could hoist true emotion.
“There must be a problem with the line.”
“Yes, yes, yes.” As always, the problem with the line.
“He will come back fat. I have heard they all come back fat,” said the watchman’s sister-in-law abruptly, trying to comfort the cook.
The call was over, and the emptiness Biju hoped to dispel was reinforced.
He could not talk to his fther; there was nothing left between them but emergency sentences, clipped telegram lines shouted out as if in the midst of a war. They were no longer relevant to each other’s lives except for the hope that they would be relevant. He stood with his head stll in the phone booth stdded with bit of stiff chewing gum and the ususal FuckShitCockDickPussyLoveWar, swastikas, and hearts shot with arrows mingling in a dense grafitti garden, too sugary too angr too perverse-the sick sweet rotting mulch of the human heart.
If he continued his life in New York, he might never his pitaji again. It happened all the time; ten years passed, fifteen, the telegram arrived, or the phone call, the parent was gone and the child was too late. Or they retrn and found they’d missed the entire last quarter of a lifetime, teir parents like photograph negatves. And there were worse tragedies. After the initial excitement was over, itoften became obvious that the love was gone; for affection was only a habit after all, and people, they forgot, or they became accustomed to its absence. They returned and found just the façade; it had been eaten from inside, like Cho Oyu being gouged by ternites from within.
They all grow fat there……
The cook knew about them all growing fat there. It was one of the things everyone knew:
"Are you growing fat, beta, like everyone in America?” he had written to his so, long ago, in a departure from their usual format.
“Yes growing fat,” Biju had written back, “when you see me next, I will be myself times ten.” He laughed as he wrote the line and the cook laughed very hard when he read them; he lay in his back and kicked his legs in the air like a cockroach.
“Yes,” Biju had said, “I am gowing fat-ten times myself,” and was shocked when he went to the ninety-nine-cent store and found he had to buy his shirts at the children’s rack.
