Tara Sethna’s life changed forever on a day by the river Seine. Her Parisian holiday had been a gift from her dad, for graduating from the London School of Economics. From there she was headed to India for a month for a sabbatical. Until she “figured things out”.
Returning to that day, nothing could have quite prepared Tara for the beautiful hand of fate dealt her by the lanky, melancholic-looking street artist. Whose portrait of Tara brought “something to the surface”, which is how she would find herself describing the experience in the years to come.
He had rendered her stark naked, while fully clothed. In an instant, she was changed forever. That night, they talked under the light of the stars, and kissed tenderly. Then they headed to Pierre’s studio apartment, where they made sweet love.
‘What do you know about Independence, young lad?’
A few days later and many miles away, Farokh Sethna jumped at the sound of the doorbell. His only daughter was finally back from London. He had sent his Mercedes to the Mumbai airport to fetch Tara. She had insisted she come straight to Navsari (the Sethna office) to share some great news. No news can be better than the presence of those you love, thought Farokh, dismissing his butler with a wave of his hand. Many hugs and kisses later, he asked Tara:
“Who’s that gentleman behind you? Your porter?”
Tara and Pierre exchanged glances, and burst out laughing.
“Daddy, this is Pierre. We’re in love…”
“On Republic Day? She bloody comes here with a gora on a day marked to forget the foreigners?”. Farokh was seething with anger.
“Relax, Farokh,” Benaifer assuaged her husband, lovingly massaging his arm. “Besides, he’s not even British!”
“And you’re okay with French kissing?” Farokh pushed Benaifer’s hand away. “Where is that bugger, anyway? Making the host wait for dinner in his own home? The gall!”
“Boy needs to shower, na? It was my idea to have him stay in the guest room, remember? Otherwise they would be showering together…” Fow Benaifer thrived on troubling her darling Farokh!
Lunch was a feast. Under chandeliers that had borne testament to countless dinner parties with wine that overflowed.
“Thank you for having me over on this most special of days, sir,” said Pierre, raising his glass of Merlot to the three Sethnas, who raised their glasses in turn.
Tara, looking pleasantly surprised, addressed her newfound beau.
“Why yes, it’s Republic Day! All our cars have a sticker of the Indian flag on the windshield, on both Republic and Independence Day.”
“Oh, so there’s an Independence Day as well?”
“What do you do, Pierre?” A question that instantly cut him short. Tara retorted, almost instantly.
“Pierre’s a great artist, daddy. You must see his work.”
Benaifer cast a stern look Farokh’s way, as though to keep him in check. Pierre seemed unperturbed as he went on: “What’s the difference between the two days, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Beg your pardon?” Anything to slaughter the Frenchman. Give me one chance, just one, dear Zarathustra, Farokh seemed to implore.
“You know, your Independence and Republic Days.”
Farokh was about to speak, but Tara intervened, once again.
“It’s interesting you ask that, Pierre! Growing up, I could never quite tell the difference, yet now I do.”
“And what’s that?” Pierre seemed genuinely interested.
“What do you know about Independence, young lad?” Farokh could not contain himself any longer. Tara started to speak, but daddy shushed her.
“Let the lad speak for himself.”
‘Independence is…To not have others speak for you constantly’
It is through Pierre that Tara realised that she had been quietly crushed under the hammer of her father’s opinions all along
PixabayA protracted silence ensued. Farokh was amused. Pierre had nothing to say. Farokh had guessed as much, with a sense of satisfaction. And then, the Frenchman spoke.
“Independence is just that, sir. To be granted the opportunity to be heard. To not have others speak for you constantly.”
Tara, suddenly distraught, interjected.
“I always wanted to be an artist, daddy. Why did you send me to London to learn business?”
Farokh was livid. How could this bloody Frenchman do this to his daughter?
“I’ve heard enough. After your holiday, you’re working in my office.”
“No, daddy, I’m going back to Paris with Pierre.”
“And what will you bloody do there?”
“I’ll sketch on the street. Because that’s what Pierre does! He’s a documenter of emotion.”
“Documenter of emotion my foot! I gave you your independence, and this is how you treat me?”
“What independence, daddy? Do you even know what today is?”
“It’s Republic Day.” There was no way Farokh was losing a fight with a foreigner in his own home, especially on a day that celebrated victory over the foreigners!
“Exactly,” retorted Tara, before adding: “The day the Constitution was framed. The day we achieved our Independence, not just the sense of it.”
Farokh was quiet. Shaken this time, but not stirred. Unfortunately, only good with a martini.
“It took me years to understand what stalwarts like Babasaheb Ambedkar gave India, daddy. Laws created by the people, for the people. All this while you have only given me the idea of what it means to be free. But am I, really? I’m not going to sit in your office in Navsari for the rest of my life, daddy.”
It was years later that Farokh Sethna would admit to Benaifer over some buttered scones and jam in their garden that he had been sorely mistaken.
“Little Behram and Monique are such darlings.”
“Yes, your grandchildren have such lovely names. Both French and Parsi. Isn’t that how it should be? Scones and vada pav, served at the same table?”
Farokh nodded, with an air of nostalgia. It was Republic Day today. Years ago to this day, a Frenchman had told him that the true meaning of Independence is the chance to “speak for yourself…”
We were truly free when we stopped listening to the British, stopped following their laws. And started listening to our people to make our own. In the process, we gained real freedom, not the mere idea of it.
Rohit Trilokekar is a novelist from Mumbai who flirts with the idea of what it means to love. His heart’s compass swerves ever so often towards Kolkata, the city he believes has the most discerning literary audience.
