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  TANYA TANIA

  Born in Kolkata, Antara Ganguli grew up in Bombay. Her interest in India-Pakistan started with the 1992 riots when she wrote down the names of the girls in her class to identify who was Hindu and who was Muslim.

  Antara has written for The Atlantic Monthly, The Wall Street Journal, Stanford Social Innovation Review, Times of India, Indian Express and others. She is a 2014 Asia Society Young Leaders Fellow and a 2015 Sangam House Fellow. She works in international development and currently lives in Dhaka, Bangladesh.

  TANYA TANIA

  A novel by

  Antara Ganguli

  First published in India 2016

  © 2016 by Antara Ganguli

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  The publisher believes that the content of this book does not violate any existing copyright/intellectual property of others in any manner whatsoever. However, in case any source has not been duly attributed, the publisher may be notified in writing for necessary action.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, events or locales, is entirely coincidental.

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  ISBN 978 93 85436 50 5

  2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1

  E-ISBN 978 93 85436 50 5

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  for my father Ram Shankar Ganguli

  CONTENTS

  Chapter1

  Chapter2

  Chapter3

  Chapter4

  Chapter5

  Chapter6

  Chapter7

  Chapter8

  Chapter9

  Chapter10

  Chapter11

  Chapter12

  Chapter13

  Acknowledgements

  1

  February 4, 1996

  New York, NY

  Dear Tania,

  Last night there was a snowstorm that made my window disappear. I woke up thinking you had died. This is my first letter in three and a half years. First letter since I left Pakistan. First letter since Nusrat.

  I am going to keep writing to you. If you never reply, you’ll still get my letters, slipping under your door like you had said, in the middle of somnolent afternoons, right before the perfect time for tea. You will not be home. You will be at college. And then one day, you will be in an office somewhere. And then who knows where, perhaps not even in India, but my letters will keep slipping under the door. Until you forgive me. And after then.

  Uncurl your lip, dearest. I am not assuming you will forgive me. I don’t even think you should forgive me. But I will keep writing to you. I have to write to you. I have to keep writing to you.

  It is the deep dark centre of winter here in New York. The worst part, really. Days go dark by five and my grandfather died over winter break. I have trouble eating and lost eleven pounds somewhere in the snowdrifts. It is my last semester and truth: I love seeing my ribs in the mirror. My body beautiful.

  It is impossible that I used to think summer in Karachi was unbearable but I did according to my letters to you. I crave the sun now, I crave sweat. I go to the gym and run and crank and pull and push just to feel it form over my shoulders and down my back. I push my tongue into the crevice of my upper lip and lick the drop there. Secretly, always secretly because otherwise people will think you’re crazy.

  Everyone has so many secrets. I never knew that before. Afterwards, I saw secrets everywhere. Streaming out of noses, rising above heads, disgorged and smeared on lips like a drunk girl’s lipstick.

  Here’s a secret! You were right, Ali IS gay! He came out to me when I was in the hospital for mad people. We are all weird, he told me.

  How prescient of you, T. How very clever. Here’s another secret. What I really want to say:

  Dear Tania,

  You were right. I was wrong. Now please forgive me because I’m hoping that will make it stop.

  Love,

  Tanya

  What do you think? It doesn’t matter. I will still write to you. This is only a first letter.

  Feb 14, 1991

  Karachi

  Dear Tania,

  Hello. My name is Tanya Talati and I am the daughter of Lisa Talati, your mother’s friend. They were at Wellesley College together. In college, my mother was Lisa Wilking. You must have heard of us.

  It is at my mother’s suggestion that I am writing to you. I broke my leg playing hockey and have to remain in bed with an immobilized knee. It is stultifying. I am reading my way through the American classics so that I will be well prepared for writing college admission essays. I’m reading Hemingway right now. He is alright. Not quite as dark as Dostoyevsky, who is my favourite.

  I thought perhaps you’d be interested in exchanging letters with me. Not in the manner of pen-pals as we are not strangers. We have a picture of you and your brother in our living room. You are a baby in a yellow dress sitting on your mother’s lap and your brother’s hands are around your throat. Congratulations on his admission to Princeton.

  Which American colleges are you going to apply to? I am going to apply to twelve colleges, including three backup colleges. My top choice is Harvard. You don’t have to tell me yours if you don’t want to but I should tell you though, that everyone in school comes to me to help them pick colleges. They phone me in the evenings and ask me about their chances of getting in. Sometimes I get two or three phone calls in one night.

  I have formulated a recuperation strategy for the three months it will take for me to be mobile again. Writing to you is on the list but its continued place and rank depends on you. Right now you’re Number 2, right above Chhoti Bibi and right below getting a handle on the family finances.

  I hope you will write back. My mother seems to think that we will become best friends. I have explained to her that this is unlikely but just so things are transparent between us, you should know that I left it a little vague. I don’t like to upset her.

  Anyway, it would be nice to hear from you. This broken knee means no hockey championship for me this year (and with Natasha at the helm, that means no hockey championship for anyone). No summer in Boston at my grandparents’ with a shot at winning the Breaststroke 400 metres next year. No internship in a lawyer’s office. My room has a sick person smell. Although Chhoti Bibi says it doesn’t smell and she’s the only other person who has been in it.
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br />   I hope you will write back. What’s life in Bombay like? Is it anything like the movies?

  Yours sincerely,

  Tanya Talati

  March 2, 1991

  Bombay

  Dear Tanya,

  A movie about Bombay teenagers? BORING! I mean, not me. My life is really hectic. Between school and keeping my mom off my back and trying to keep my boyfriend from having sex with me (or anyone else), I really don’t have time to write to you.

  From your letter you sound like a Boring Person. But you play hockey. Do you play hockey in a salwar kameez? Because my mom said you wear a salwar kameez to school. That’s cruel.

  In my school, which is like the best school in Bombay, only boys play hockey. My brother says I should force them to change the rules. He says it’s sexist. Now that he’s left and gone to college in America, suddenly everything in India is shit.

  Yeah, my mum talks about Lisa Aunty and you and your brother all the time. What’s it like having an American mother? Does she like living in Pakistan?

  What’s it like having a twin brother? Sammy is two years older than me. He’s cleverer than me but I have more friends. Like when I broke my leg, there used to be a line of people outside my bedroom. My dad put up a super cute sign saying VISITING HOURS FOR THE STAR. My dad does really cute things like that. My mom gets mad at him for doing things like that. A lot of things make her mad.

  Your brother is cute in the pictures your mom sends us at Christmas. Is he cute in real life?

  By the way, you are OBSESSED with college. If I was even half as obsessed as you, my mom would love me. Actually she’s the one making me write back to you but she told me not to tell you that. But I’m super honest.

  I can’t believe you actually want to go to Harvard and actually want to LIVE there for four years! I hate Harvard. My mother made me visit over the summer. It was like the World Conference of Boring People. I wanted to laugh about how everyone looked like a Boring Person but there was no one to laugh with because EVERYONE was a Boring Person. A BP. If you say BP really fast it sounds like a fart except it’s an oil company.

  Are you really good at hockey? I’m good at all sports. Like really good. I’ve won a shitload of awards. There is a whole shelf in the school prize cupboard right when you enter the principal’s office that is just full of prizes that have my name on it except this one prize that is for Hindi debates. I keep waiting for them to throw it away but they haven’t yet.

  Being good at sports is super easy for me. Sammy has the brains gene, I have the sports gene. I’m also the most popular person in the family but that comes from no gene, you have to work super hard at it. And sometimes you have to be mean to people. I’ve been mean to so many people in my life, I don’t even remember all of them. Like the other day I just picked up a book that had fallen from a girl’s desk and she looked so surprised. I mean I can pick up a book you know. I’m not a monster.

  I am though. Sometimes.

  My parents fought about you today. Don’t get excited, my parents fight about everything. And it’s not like they fought about you exactly. Like I asked my mom about you at dinner and I asked about what your school uniform is and she said it’s a salwar kameez and my dad was like I’m surprised they don’t make them wear burkhas and then my mom called him racist and then they started arguing again and I got up and left because that’s the best time to use the phone.

  If my mother let me do laser treatment for my pimples I could relax a little because it’s easier for hot people to be popular. I asked my dad if being hot matters as much when you’re grown up and he said that when you’re an adult, money replaces looks. Actually he said, ‘Money replaces everything.’ But he said it in that way where they’re not really talking to you even though it sounds like they are.

  So tell me more about this hockey stuff. Are you really the captain? Do you have a boyfriend?

  Love,

  Tania

  P.S. Has your mother started the Wellesley Alumni Association in Pakistan? I’m pretty sure my mom started the Wellesley Alumni Association in India just so she can get me into Wellesley. I hate Wellesley almost as much as I hate Harvard.

  March 20, 1991

  Karachi

  Dear Tania,

  I wasn’t going to respond to your rude letter but I admit, my curiosity is piqued. If your boyfriend is trying to have sex with other girls, why is he your boyfriend?

  Let me take this opportunity to clarify some of your misconceptions.

  One, it’s really none of your business whether I have a boyfriend or not but just to set the record straight, I do. His name is Ali Naqvi. He is extremely good-looking. He is a painter and is very creative which is a good match for me because I am logical, rational and unemotional. I’m going to be a lawyer.

  Ali Naqvi has never ever tried to have sex with me.

  Two, having a twin brother is far worse than having a big brother. When your twin brother is Navi, it is like having no brother at all.

  Three, no we do not play hockey in salwar kameezes. We play in shorts. I suppose now we are much cooler?

  And finally, no, my mother did not start an alumni association. My mother is not one to start things.

  Your letter demonstrates a sad lack of intellectual curiosity. I admit I am disappointed. Is it not at all interesting to you to consider a correspondence with your mother’s best friend’s daughter? We could find out from each other what our mothers were like in college. Do you have any pictures of them from that time? All the pictures in our house are from after we moved to Pakistan.

  Chhoti Bibi is here so I must go. I’ve taught her to play chess with me. She’s terrible but it’s better than nothing.

  Tanya

  March 30, 1991

  Bombay

  Dear Tanya,

  Your boyfriend sounds gay. You better send me a picture.

  My boyfriend is the best-looking boy in school. I’m saying that objectively. Even my mother thinks he’s good looking and my mother hates him. There are a couple of boys in 12th who are better looking but they’re boring good-looking you know? Like I can’t deny Arjun has a weird nose. His eyes are scary because he’s the intense, staring type. His hair stands up and he won’t let me touch it because he spends hours punking it up.

  He punks it up damn well.

  It was quite hard to get him to fall for me. I have lots of experience in making guys fall for me. It usually takes two months, three if he’s already with someone. But with Arjun, it took six months. Sometimes I think that he purposely made it that way so that I’d be stuck.

  Sometimes I wish I hadn’t done it.

  When Arjun dresses up, he looks like a model. Every morning I wait to see him stride into class, always late, always hair half wet, always looking like the world is a joke and only he knows the punchline. He keeps our relationship a secret in school. I’ve thought about breaking up with him a thousand times. I’ll tell him, look baby either we’re together in front of everyone or we’re not. But then when no one else is watching, he looks straight at me and I can’t breathe.

  What’s Mr. Naqvi’s story? Is he also reading the correct writers for college admissions? Do you do homework on your dates? Do you even have dates? Tell me the truth. Did you make him up?

  So Nusrat said I should say sorry for my first letter. I mean I didn’t think it was that bad but whatever. Sorry.

  So who is this Chhoti Bibi chick? Your dad’s first wife? Ha ha.

  Love,

  Tania

  PS—Seriously man, I was just kidding about the first wife thing. Don’t get your panties in a bunch.

  April 9, 1991

  Karachi

  Dear Tania,

  It is a testament to how bored I am that I continue to write to you. But my options are limited. I choose you.

  Chhoti Bibi (thanks for the unnecessary translation) is the niece of Bibi. Bibi is our servant. She runs our house and all of us, including my mother, which is odd now that I think of it,
because I remember when my mother used to run the house and Bibi.

  Chhoti Bibi showed up at our house three months ago. She ran away from her village because she was married off to someone she didn’t like. She bit him on their wedding night. Then she broke a window and escaped. It took a week to find her. By then the husband’s family wouldn’t have her back so they sent her to us. She’s learning how to be a servant.

  Chhoti Bibi comes and sits with me twice a day. I suspect she does it for the air conditioning. I don’t really mind. There’s something about her although I can’t say what it is. She is a big girl who likes to wear green and yellow salwar kameezes with huge nylon flowers on them. Her hair is always oiled into fat, tight plaits with a fluorescent pink ribbon threading through them all the way up to a narrow river of scalp at the exact centre of her head. If Chhoti Bibi has ever heard of colours that don’t give you a headache, she has shown no indication of it yet.

  I suppose it’s strange to discuss a servant quite so much. It’s the broken knee. I don’t see anyone these days other than Chhoti Bibi.

  But still. There is something about her. Her first day here, she strode into the house and walked straight to the kitchen although there’s no way she could have known where it was. She caused an uproar that morning by letting in a strange dog who relieved himself on the hall carpet that she then proceeded to wash with great enthusiasm, not realizing it was a fragile heirloom and Bibi almost had a heart attack when she saw it hanging on the line between our panties and pyjamas.

  The other day, the gardener tried to be fresh with her and she slapped him. Right across the face. He lost his balance and fell into the pond and she went in and saved him which was quite unnecessary as the pond is only about three feet deep. The gardener was so insulted he tried to quit three times and had to be given the weekend off to drink and recover his self-esteem.

  And was she embarrassed? No, not Chhoti Bibi. She came to my room and squatted in front of the AC, flinging her plaits over her shoulders so the air played over the nape of her neck and asked me to tell her the story of how my parents met. This has now become a daily ritual. Her conclusion to it is always, ‘And then Baji was born, looking like a fairy doll.’