Chapter 19: Milap (The Meeting)

2015

Samaira Apte found Leela on a Wednesday in November. The finding that was — the finding was not dramatic. The finding was not the cinematic finding (the chase, the confrontation, the reveal that happened in a single explosive scene). The finding was the investigator's finding: slow, methodical, the culmination of thirty-seven years of work condensed into a single moment that was, itself, quiet.

The finding happened in Pune. At a hospital — not KEM, not Mumbai. A hospital in Pune called Sahyadri, the hospital where Bharati had been admitted three days earlier. Bharati who was — Bharati who was seventy-two and whose seventy-two years had finally produced the thing that seventy-two years produced: the body's decline. The decline that was not dramatic (not cancer, not heart attack, not the sudden-decline that dramatic narratives preferred). The decline that was: age. The aging that was the particular aging of a woman who had spent forty-four years doing the work that should have been done by the system and that the system did not do and that the not-doing had been carried by Bharati's body and that the body was, now, declining under the weight of the carrying.

Bharati was in the hospital. Chinmay was with her. And Leela had come — Leela had come from Panchgani to Pune because Bharati was in the hospital and because the hospital was the place where the family gathered when the family-member was in decline, the gathering being the network's version of the family's gathering, the version that was dispersed and that required the re-gathering and the re-gathering being the vulnerability.

Samaira found Leela because Samaira had been watching the hospital. Not specifically — Samaira had been watching Kaveri's shelter. Samaira who had, over the twelve years since she had found Vandana at the market, maintained her surveillance. The surveillance that was not constant (Samaira was sixty-three, Samaira did not have the endurance for constant surveillance) but periodic — the periodic watching that was: visit Pune quarterly, observe the shelter, note the visitors, the noting being the investigation's heartbeat, the heartbeat that kept the investigation alive.

On this visit, Samaira noted: unusual activity at Kaveri's shelter. A car — a car that Samaira had not seen before, a white Maruti Swift (the car that had replaced the Maruti 800 in India's middle-class fleet, the replacing being the particular Indian automotive evolution that Samaira tracked the way she tracked everything: automatically, compulsively). The car arriving at the shelter at 7 AM. A woman getting out — a woman who was approximately fifty. Not tall, not short. Dark hair, no grey. Wearing a salwar kameez that was ordinary and that was, in its ordinariness, the particular clothing of a person who did not want to be noticed.

The woman entered the shelter. Stayed for twenty minutes. Exited. Got in the car. Drove — not back the way she had come. Drove toward Sassoon Road. Toward Sahyadri Hospital.

Samaira followed. The following that was — the following was Samaira's skill, the skill that thirty-seven years had refined to the point where the skill was instinct: follow at three cars' distance, vary the distance, never make eye contact in the mirrors, the mirrors being the danger and the danger being: if the followed-person saw the following-person in the mirrors, the following was over.

The woman parked at Sahyadri Hospital. Entered. Samaira parked. Entered.

Inside the hospital: the woman went to the third floor. Ward 307. Samaira waited — waited at the nurses' station, the waiting that was the positioning, the positioning being: I am a visitor, I am waiting for someone, the waiting is unremarkable.

Samaira waited forty-five minutes. The woman exited Ward 307. The woman's face was — Samaira saw the face and the face was the face that the investigation had been seeking for thirty-seven years. Not because Samaira recognised the face (Samaira had never seen Lata Jadhav's face as an adult; Samaira had only the childhood photograph from the 1978 missing-persons file). Because the face matched. The face matched the description that Samaira had built over thirty-seven years of investigation: the woman near the van (Mrs. Kulkarni's description — but that was Bharati, not Lata; the description had been misattributed). The woman who gave Rohini the evidence (Rohini's non-verbal confirmation — young, Marathi-Hindi, no name). The woman who was the network's operative.

But it was the eyes. The eyes that Samaira recognised. Not from the photograph — from Vandana. From the market in Pune, twelve years ago. From the woman who selected coriander leaf by leaf and whose eyes were the eyes of a mother who was waiting. Leela's eyes were — Leela's eyes were Vandana's eyes. The particular genetic inheritance that mothers passed to daughters and that daughters carried without knowing and that the carrying was visible to anyone who had seen the mother, the visible being: the shape of the eyes, the depth of the looking, the particular quality that said: I am searching for something and the something is the thing I lost.

Samaira approached. In the corridor. Third floor. Sahyadri Hospital.

"Leela?"

The name that Samaira used — the name that Samaira guessed, the guess being: the network renamed the children, the renaming being the protection, the new name being unknown. But "Leela" was the name that Vandana had told her — the name that the network had communicated to Vandana once, years ago, the name that Vandana had given Samaira at the market and that Samaira had held for twelve years.

The woman stopped. The stopping that was — the stopping was not the startle-stop (the stop of a person who is surprised). The stopping was the professional-stop — the stop of a person who has been trained to respond to unexpected situations with calm rather than panic, the calm being Bharati's training, the training that said: when the unexpected arrives, stop. Assess. Respond.

"Kaun?" Who?

"Mera naam Samaira Apte hai. Main private investigator hoon. Mumbai se. Main — main tumhe bahut time se dhuundh rahi hoon." My name is Samaira Apte. I'm a private investigator. From Mumbai. I've been looking for you for a very long time.

Leela's face. The face that — the face that Samaira watched for the response. The response that would tell Samaira: run or stay? The run being the network's trained response (the response that said: when found, flee, the fleeing being the survival). The stay being: something else. The something-else that Samaira hoped for — the hope that thirty-seven years of investigation had produced, the hope being: when I find her, she will stay. She will talk. She will tell me.

Leela stayed.

"Bahut time matlab?" A very long time meaning?

"1978 se. Saintees saal." Since 1978. Thirty-seven years.

"Saintees saal?" The repetition that was — the repetition was the processing. The processing that said: this woman has been looking for me for thirty-seven years. This woman has spent more years looking for me than I have been Leela. This woman — who is this woman?

"Main Vandana-tai ki taraf se hoon," Samaira said. I'm on Vandana's side. The sentence that was — the sentence was the key. Not the investigator's key (the evidence, the files, the connections). The human key. The key that said: I know your mother. I am here because of your mother. The mother being the thing that unlocked the door that the network had locked thirty-seven years ago.

"Aai?" The word. The word that Leela said — "Aai," the Marathi word for mother — the word that Leela had not said aloud in thirty-seven years and that the saying produced the same response that Raju's first words had produced five years ago: the crack. The crack in the wall. The crack that let the inside-thing out, the inside-thing being: the daughter who had been hidden inside the operative, the daughter who had been submerged by Leela, the daughter who was, in the saying of "Aai," surfacing.

"Haan. Tumchi Aai. Vandana-tai. Ti Pune madhe aahe. Ti pachhattis varsha vaatchat aahe." Yes. Your mother. Vandana. She's in Pune. She's been waiting for thirty-five years. Samaira switched to Marathi — the Marathi that was Vandana's language and that was, therefore, the language of the mother, the mother-language being the key that turned in the lock.

*

They talked. Not in the corridor — in the hospital cafeteria. The cafeteria that was the particular Indian hospital cafeteria: fluorescent lights, Formica tables, the smell of sanitiser and idli-sambar simultaneously, the simultaneously being the Indian-hospital experience: the clinical and the domestic coexisting in the same space.

Samaira told Leela: thirty-seven years. The thirty-seven years that were: the file on Lamington Road, the ACTIVE drawer, the Nagpur visits, the KEM surveillance, the Borivali chawl, the Kaveri encounter, the Vandana encounter, the Deshpande partnership, the Satpura clearing (the empty clearing, the cold fire-pit, the flat rock), the Prerna connection, the Rohini trail. Thirty-seven years of: I did not stop. I did not let go. The not-stopping being the thing that Samaira was and that the being-of-the-thing had consumed Samaira's life, the consuming being: no marriage (the investigation was the relationship), no children (the investigation was the child), no retirement (the investigation was the purpose, the purpose being: find Lata Jadhav).

Leela listened. The listening that was — the listening was the operative's listening (the listening that heard everything and that filed everything and that assessed everything). But the listening was also — the listening was the daughter's listening. The daughter who was hearing, for the first time, that someone outside the network had been searching for her. That the searching had lasted thirty-seven years. That the searching was one woman's obsession. That the obsession was funded by two hundred rupees per case and that the two-hundred-rupees was the particular Indian economy of dedication, the dedication that could not be bought but that could sustain itself on almost nothing.

"Aai kashi aahe?" Leela asked. How is Mama? In Marathi. The Marathi that Leela had not spoken regularly for thirty-seven years but that the tongue remembered because the tongue's memory was older than the mind's memory, the tongue remembering the mother-language the way the hands remembered Vandana's pohe: automatically, deeply, the depth being: this was the first language, this was the language that the mouth learned before the mouth knew it was learning.

"Ti theek aahe. Ti strong aahe. Ti — ti roj pohe banvte. Tumchya saathi. Jasta shengdane. Tumchya saathi." She's okay. She's strong. She — she makes pohe every day. For you. Extra peanuts. For you.

Extra peanuts. The extra peanuts that — Leela's hands. The hands that went to the face. The hands covering the face. The covering that was — the covering was the crying. The crying that was not the operative's crying (the operative did not cry; the operative assessed) and not the leader's crying (the leader could not cry; the leader led). The crying that was the daughter's crying. The daughter who had been making mental pohe with extra peanuts every night for thirty-seven years and who was now told that the mother had been making physical pohe with extra peanuts every morning for thirty-seven years and the two-directional pohe-making was the connection that the distance had not destroyed and that the destruction-failure was the evidence that the connection was real.

"Roj?" Every day?

"Roj. Pachhattis varsha. Roj." Every day. Thirty-five years. Every day.

Leela cried. In a hospital cafeteria in Pune. Under fluorescent lights. At a Formica table. Over chai that was too milky and too mild (Pune chai — the twenty-five-year disappointment that Vandana had experienced and that Leela was now experiencing, the disappointing-chai being the particular genetic inheritance: mother and daughter both disappointing-chai drinkers, the drinking being the shared complaint that neither knew the other shared).

Samaira waited. The waiting that was — the waiting was the skill that thirty-seven years had taught: wait. The waiting produces the thing that the pushing does not produce. The waiting produces: trust.

"Main unhe milna chahti hoon," Leela said. I want to meet her.

"Haan." Yes.

"Par — Bharati-didi. Hospital mein hain. Main — main abhi nahi ja sakti. Bharati-didi — woh —" But — Bharati-didi. She's in the hospital. I can't go right now. Bharati-didi — she —

"Main samajhti hoon," Samaira said. I understand. The understanding that was — the understanding was the investigator's understanding, the understanding that said: this woman has two families. The born-family (Vandana, the mother, the pohe) and the made-family (Bharati, the network, the mission). The two families existing simultaneously and the simultaneously being the particular condition that the network had produced and that the network's children lived with: the dual-belonging, the belonging to the before and the after, the before being the family that was born and the after being the family that was made and the two families being, both, real.

"Jab ready ho, bolo. Main Vandana-tai ko laaungi." When you're ready, tell me. I'll bring Vandana.

"Promise?" Leela said. The word in English. The same word that Vandana had used. In the market. Twelve years ago. The word that mother and daughter both used, the using being the inheritance that neither knew the other shared — the English word in the Marathi conversation, the word that said: this is too important for Marathi, this is too important for Hindi, this word needs the English weight, the English-weight being the particular gravity that bilingual speakers assigned to the borrowed word.

"Promise," Samaira said. For the second time. The first promise made to the mother. The second promise made to the daughter. The two promises being the investigator's burden and the investigator's purpose and the purpose being: reunite. The reuniting that had been the goal for thirty-seven years and that was now — close. Not complete. But close.