Noon Read Online Free PDF

Javeris were a rich Muslim family with a large house in Malcha Marg. When Udaya drove up to pick him up, she
was met at the gate by Mrs Javeri, dressed in an embroidered cream kurta. Rehan was still playing inside and Mrs Javeri asked Udaya if she might have a word in private.
    ‘Mrs Tabassum, I hope you don’t mind . . .’
    ‘Just Udaya is fine.’
    ‘Udaya, I hope you don’t mind my talking to you about this. It’s a very small thing, but I thought you should know.’
    ‘Not at all. Please go ahead, Mrs Javeri.’
    ‘Naseem is fine.’
    ‘Naseem.’
    ‘Well, the thing is that we were all sitting, us adults, my husband, Sahil, and a few of our friends, inside the drawing room a moment ago. The cake had been cut; the children had finished
their games, passing the parcel and what not; some were taking rides on the eli, others opening return presents, when your boy, Rehan – a sweet boy; one of Karim’s very dear friends
– came up to where we were sitting. He didn’t say anything, or do anything . . .’ Here, Mrs Javeri became flustered. ‘I mean, he wasn’t rude. He just stood there for a
few seconds, quietly, till one of us took notice of him. And then he said, straight out of the blue, to my husband: “You are not, by any chance . . .” These were his exact words –
“Sahil, my father?”
    ‘That was it. Nothing else. Nothing untoward. Just this. And when my husband, a little surprised naturally, said, “No, son, I’m not,” he turned around and walked away. A
small thing, Udaya, you know, but still, I felt if I was the mother, I should like to be informed. I hope you don’t mind my . . .’
    ‘No, no, Mrs Javeri, not at all. Thank you for telling me,’ Udaya said, trying her best to appear calm. But, inside, she felt a kind of wonder at the changes taking place in her son,
at the inscrutable logic of his fear.
    On the way home, Udaya and Rehan hardly spoke. The light, after months of haze, had acquired sharpness and length. A cool, faintly scented wind was blowing. It was nearly Dussehra.
    Gently Udaya mentioned what had occurred at the birthday party. ‘You didn’t really believe he was your father, did you?’
    ‘No,’ Rehan replied, and became quiet.
    ‘Would you like to meet him, your father?’ Udaya asked.
    Rehan was silent for a moment, then said: ‘Maybe, but not now.’
    ‘I can write to him, you know. But, baba, I can’t guarantee he will respond as you want him to.’
    Rehan nodded.
    ‘Baba, tell me: are you still scared?’
    ‘No,’ Rehan replied.
    ‘What did you think, that just because she didn’t have a man protecting her, something would happen to your mama?’
    Rehan did not reply.
    ‘I have you,’ she said, ‘and I’m a tough old thing myself. We’ll be fine, believe me.’
    They had crossed the flyover, and the Delhi that lay about them now was a city in which the fading afternoon, with colonial police stations and Muslim tombs in its fold, brought a kind of peace
upon the passengers of the green Suzuki.
    Rehan said, as if seeing a line of reason to its end, ‘You think I’ll ever meet him?’
    ‘I’m sure you will,’ his mother said, her strong and natural voice returning, ‘and maybe you’ll like him; or, as with Nani and me, maybe you’ll want to meet
him and move on. But whatever the case, give him a kick from your old mummy when you do.’
    Rehan chuckled. ‘Why, Ma?’
    ‘Because,’ she said, ‘he was not very generous with either you or me.’
    ‘He didn’t give us anything? No car, no house?’
    ‘Not a tissue to wipe my nose on.’
    That was all that was said. It gave Rehan a great feeling of comfort, as if he had been made a partner in the life his mother had cobbled together for them. And though, in some
important way, the fear of the last many months had already evaporated, what might have taken weeks or months to bear fruit was speeded to its conclusion by the scene they returned to that evening
at the little