No Love Lost and Other Stories

by Shobhaa De

  NO LOVE LOST

  NO LOVE LOST

  Frankly, I didn’t want to talk to anybody while strolling in my building compound during the lockdown. This was not the time to make new friends. If I had wanted to, I could have been the most popular woman in the neighbourhood. Everyone knew who I was. My television serials from the 90’s were still being watched. And since no new serials were getting made in studios, people were sitting at home, makkhi maaroing and watching all these stale, flop shows.

  Mind you, my roles were all very glamourous and nobody forgot how well I had played the ‘saas’ role in Ekta’s hit show. Still, for so many years I had lived in the same building and not really mixed with my neighbours, if you know what I mean. I had zero in common with these people - they were chhota mota businessmen running shops and dukaans in arcades. Selling rubbish - China ka samaan. Now they were denying they had all that unsold Chinese maal in the store room. Just because the Corona virus came from China - no denying that fact! I agree with what that Trump chap kept saying from the beginning - Corona came from China.

  Bas, baat khatam. So what? Admit it, bhai? These men should not deny all their stuff is cheap made-in-China nonsense that doesn’t last for a week. Why act like you are a Tata or a Birla? Am I pretending I am Mrs. Ambani? I know who and what I am. But at least I made a name for myself… earned well, saved well. I don’t need anything from anybody. I am a single lady… thank God, no family! Or people would have come and sat on my head saying, ‘You may die of Corona… so give us all your money!’

  It is my hard earned money - why should I give it to some faltu people claiming to be my rishtedar? Since when, bhai? Where were you when I had an accident on the sets and was in hospital for three months? Anyway, that’s an old story. Today, I can walk with my head held high, even in this stupid building filled with stupid people, with irritating children who call me, ‘Woh TV-wali aunty.’ Arrey... Get lost! Aunty tere baap ki hogi. Leave me alone.

  Had it not been for the lockdown, my life would have continued as nicely as always. Now, my doctor told me to go and walk downstairs or else I would again have my old problem and fall sick. He said exercise is good for me, and a little fresh air, also. I started walking even though I felt he was wrong in asking me to expose myself to infection, mixing with all those unhealthy people - maybe they had gone to China to buy all those kachrapatti things? Who knows which person was infected? These people are expert liars. They won’t go for testing themselves, and they will shamelessly infect others. Besharams!

  I watch news and all that - I know that at my age (not saying exact age, but you can guess), I can easily pick up the virus and if I pick it up, then toh, death is certain. Nobody recovers at this age. I am not scared of dying or anything. But why of Corona? So, when neighbours offer food, snacks and all that, I refuse. They think I am being rude. But they should also realise it is not safe for me to eat their food! Who knows the state of their kitchen? What oil they use? Whether anybody has sneezed directly on the food? Do they wash their hands properly like they show on TV? I doubt it. Still… I refuse politely because I don’t want to insult anybody.

  Yesterday, that silly security guard called me ‘Maaji’. Do I look that old? Yes, these days I cover my head with a dupatta or a scarf, because Doris, my regular salon girl, is not there to come over and give me a proper hair touch up. Mind you, I spend on good hair colour and refuse to use mehendi. I may have to change Doris - she is Chinese. And these building people won’t let her enter, even after this lockdown. This is most unfair. I can also say, throw away all those Chinese goods, we are scared to get the virus which we know has come from China. But nobody is saying that! Till Doris or some other girl can come to fix my hair colour, I have to cover my head. It is bad for my fans, and my image, to be seen with white hair. I cannot recognise my own self! Such a buddhi, I suddenly look! By god - greying is not for me.

  I have realised how cruel and budtameez most people are - neighbours are the worst. I may be old, but I am not deaf. I can overhear them talking in the common passage leading to the small lobby (our building is over 30 years old).

  They say things like, ‘If something happens to this buddhi during the lockdown… like, if she gets corona or something, how will anybody know? Who will take care of her? She has nobody. People like her should live in old people’s homes and not in a decent co-operative housing society. It is not our problem if she falls sick. But if something happens to her, our building will get sealed. It will be called contaminated, and our property price will go down. All those municipalitywallas will arrive and start harassing us for nothing. No hospital will take her. Waisey bhi, there is such a shortage of ambulances and doctors. I wanted to shout, ‘You bloody gadhey… look after your own bloody selves. Don’t worry about me. I am taking turmeric water thrice a day and gargling with salt.’

  They called this society ‘decent’. Do they know the meaning of that word? At least, the old security guard who lives under the staircase gives me more izzat. He salutes me and says, ‘Good evening, madam.’ It feels nice to be called ‘madam’ again. I feel I am back in the Film City studio which had become my second home, when I was shooting for ‘Ghar ki Baat’ - India’s craze at that time. I tip him from time to time, but if you ask me his name - sorry! I have never asked.

  One young neighbor called Sapna is also good to me. She’s quite considerate, unlike most young people, who lack tameez. She offers to get me fruits and vegetables, when those vans arrive outside our compound. She says she is part of some ‘buddy’ system. Of course, I pay her the exact amount when she drops off three mangoes and four oranges (everyone says oranges build immunity, since they contain Vitamin C – I say, what rubbish! One will need to drink a tanker of orange juice for that to work).

  Still, Sapna at least offers! Maybe she has her own matlab. Once she asked me, ‘Auntyji, you must have kept up with your old contacts in television, na?’ I quickly told her I had broken off from that world long ago. Then she said she wanted to audition for some dance show, because she thinks her dancing is better than Madhuri Dixit’s. I just smiled and kept quiet. As if it is so easy to become Madhuri Dixit! All these thoughts come to me when I walk round and round, round and round inside our small compound. For me to keep ‘social distance’ comes naturally. I keep it anyway - lockdown or no lockdown.

  Today I opened my old ‘television trunk’ as I call it. It is filled with all sorts of ajeeb cheez - caps and beads and high heel shoes. I found two smart caps. Good! I can wear those during my walks, so that my grey hair remains hidden. I also found large, tinted goggles, which look better than my old spectacles. I broke one arm of my chasma the other day and fixed it with a safety pin. I cannot go for a walk wearing that.

  I must say, the security guard is very observant. He commented, ‘Madam, as soon as the lockdown is lifted, I will come with you to the chasmawala dukaan.’ I gave him ten rupees. At least, he had noticed! When he came to the flat with the electricity bill, he noticed other things also - the floors had not been swept or swabbed for a month. My unwashed clothes were lying on the armchair. There was a thick layer of dust over everything. I saw his eyes go to my small dressing table where I kept my lipstick, kaajal, deodorant, tissues. My gold bangles and diamond rings were also there, next to the cold cream jar. He definitely saw all that.

  He looked around and said, ‘Madam, if you want I can come and clean… once my duty hours are over.’ I politely refused because, frankly, I was worried. God knows about his hygiene levels! He could also rob me under the pretext of helping me. I don’t trust anybody. Whether or not he washes his hands as top filmstars show us on television. And his clothes are from his home in the nearby slums, not that he has new uniforms. Those clothes may be carrying the virus… I don’t believe what I read about the virus not surviving on clothes for so many days. Why take the risk? And if he is after my bangles and rings, then he would make a plan to kill me. These people had turned desperate during corona. Our building staff had not
been paid for two months. Robbing me would solve this man’s problem quickly.

  Last evening I met those two gossipy ladies from the tenth floor, and they were walking without maintaining a proper distance. One of them had also removed her mask from her face. So I asked loudly, ‘Is the mask meant for the neck or for covering your nose and mouth? Remember, there are senior citizens living in the complex.’

  Both the women glared at me angrily and that woman not obeying rules said, ‘Auntyji… please mind your own business, theek hai? We know our responsibility. You keep your dialogues to yourself! Life is not a daily soap.’

  I walked on, my head held high. What third class people live here. I don’t feel like calling them ‘padosis’. Once this lockdown business ends, I will stop my walks. And look for a replacement for Doris.

  ANGIE’S BENARASI SAREE

  ANGIE’S BENARASI SAREE

  People think I have gone mad… and that I’ve have always been mad. They may be right. Why? Because when I tell them ‘My loom talks to me’ they laugh and don’t believe me! But it does. It has always talked to me, from the time my grandfather asked me to sit by his side and showed me what he was weaving for a ‘dulhan’. I was six or seven years old at the time. I was totally mesmerised… I practically fell into a trance. As if I was seeing a divine vision. I could not take my eyes off my Abbaji’s fingers as they deftly moved and moved and moved, on that ancient, wooden loom, which had been in the family for five generations.

  I silently watched my father, crouching over his own loom in another corner of the room. He was muttering his prayers softly… but the music I heard was coming from my grandfather’s loom. Only I could hear it… I still hear it. And yes - my loom speaks to me. This is Abbaji’s loom - he left it to me and not to my father. He understood the language of the looms. So do I.

  For my father, weaving was just a job. A family tradition. For me - weaving was life! Normally, my loom and I would have been communicating very happily at this time of the year. The busiest time - with order books full and buyers pestering us to deliver on time. The entire gully would have hummed with activity, with the clackety-clack of the spindles moving rapidly to weave those heavenly, hand-woven silk sarees as if only certain families from Benaras (I still call it by its original name - somehow Varanasi doesn’t have the same poetry in it), had Allah’s blessings.

  Some of these designs were hundreds of years old. I was possessive about a few especially created by my Abbaji, and refused to share them with junior weavers. This was our family’s legacy. I guarded our jaal kaam with my life. All those intricate patterns, hand drawn by skilled craftsmen over 70 years ago. My father had retired a few years ago, unable to sit crouched up in that awkward position for hours and hours. His back troubled him too much these days. So it was left to me to carry forward our family’s ancient weaving traditions. I had great hopes for my son, Ali.

  I wanted him to take over the pedi from me and train young weavers as I had been doing. But Ali had other plans. He wanted to become a big shot. A suit-bootwala. Get out of this locality, which is right behind the ghats, and move into the newly developed, chakachak areas of Benaras in the far end of the town. He was ashamed of our small home, and did not invite his friends over - not even during Eid.

  Well… this year’s Eid had been like no other Eid in my memory. In my lifetime, I hope I will never spend such an Eid. My loom was silent and sad. So was I. Our entire mohalla was silent - had been silent for two months now, after all our orders got cancelled, and the money owed to us by those who had already taken our sarees and lehengas, was not given by the middlemen. They had simply thrown up their hands and said there was none to give.

  Everything collapsed overnight. Thank God I had some cash in the tin box - an advance given by a tourist - a memsaab from phoren. Imagine, this mem wanted to get married in America wearing my saree! I had sold many of my weaves to these goralog in the past, when they came to Benaras as tourists and were brought to our mohalla by guides to show how we worked. But this order was different. Her name, she told me, was Angelina - she wrote it down. But I found it hard to pronounce, so she said, ‘Just call me Angie’. That was easy.

  I called her ‘Madam Angie’, and she laughed, saying, ‘No madam. Just Angie!’ Such a big memsaab and so humble. She had a special request - she told me the other weavers in the gully had refused to take her order as they didn’t want to deal with extra double-double work. They’d told her - ‘Go to Azarbhai - he is mad! He may do it for you.’

  That’s how Angie came to me and asked, ‘Will you weave a special saree which has my love story in it? I will pay extra for the trouble.’ I immediately liked the idea, and asked my loom. Both of us agreed it was unique and a challenge we could meet if we worked very hard. She wanted it for her wedding in June. She told me it was a good time to get married in New York because the weather was always very fine at that time. We negotiated a price - I was most reasonable. I also offered her jalebis and special milk tea, which she enjoyed.

  Only after that she told me her love story, which touched my heart so much, I started getting many beautiful ideas and images for this special saree. Madam Angie wanted the Taj Mahal to be a part of the design, because she had sat on the bench in front of our Taj, with the man she loved and was going to marry. Mohabbat is like that only.

  But I told her, ‘No madam. Please listen to this poor weaver and do not wear a mausoleum design on your wedding day. It is such an auspicious occasion. We will weave only auspicious motifs for you.’

  Fortunately, she listened to me, and we decided on four or five motifs that had meaning in her life. Since her groom also loved India and had proposed to Madam Angie in Benaras, that too on the ghats, just after they had participated in the Ganga Aarti, I told her I would weave the ghat itself on the border, along with diyas, and then add whatever else she wanted to the pallu. She agreed to peacocks dancing since there were many peacocks in the garden of the hotel where both of them had stayed.

  Slowly, carefully, an emotional story was created and a fresh amount fixed. I didn’t overcharge her, though I could have, since this saree required months of hard work. But my loom and I were already hearing the shehnai! I started weaving Madam Angie’s saree after seeking Allah’s blessings and offering dua to her and her future husband, Mark Saab. After she left, we kept in touch over WhatsApp, with me using Ali’s smart phone, and sending her pictures as the saree progressed on the loom.

  Throughout that period, I only listened to Ustad Bismillah Khan saab playing the shehnai as only he could. I feel a weaver’s mood and state of mind affects what he creates. This was a very precious responsibility given to me by a good woman. I wanted her saree to be a masterpiece! Nothing less.

  While I was halfway through it, something terrible befell the world. At first, I ignored what I was hearing, and continued to weave. I told myself, these are just stories. In India, we are used to all kinds of diseases. In Benaras life and death have always co-existed through centuries - we take both for granted. I had grown up seeing funeral pyres and corpses burning on the ghats all day and all night. Death did not frighten me. But what Ali was sharing with his friends and sometimes with his ammi and me, was something far worse - it was an unknown harbinger of death and suffering. Maybe he did not want to scare us by discussing this topic. But from the little I could make out from what they were showing on television, I knew it was a major calamity... and the whole world was getting infected by... some said an insect, some said a bat, some said a chemical. But all said it came out of China.

  Finally all those badey badey scientists decided it was a bat that had done this to our duniya. A bat! Tauba! Tauba! Now, this chamagaadad pakshi was known to all - we had so many in the fruit trees of Benaras. How could these pakshis kill thousands and millions of people? There must have been some mistake. I kept weaving and ignoring all those TVwallas shouting and shouting, trying to scare everybody for nothing. This carried on… till one day, I think it was March 24th, just b
efore we sat for dinner, that I saw Modiji on the TV screen.

  As you know, Benaras is very proud of the Prime Minister - this is where he fought his election and won his seat. I had personally campaigned for him! I don’t feel ashamed to say it even now, unlike some others from the mohalla who are very upset and hate him. Not me! Anyway, what he said made me go numb with shock. Initially, I could not understand that within four hours our world would turn ulta-pulta and completely change! And change so fast, we would be left in this pathetic condition wondering where our next meal will come from.

  I asked Ali to explain and he raised his voice. His Ammi told him to show respect and keep quiet, but Ali was angrier than I had ever seen him. He told both of us, ‘I should have left this mulk two years ago and gone to New Zealand. I stayed back for what - this?’ Even at that point, I didn’t know the full story of the ‘lockdown’ - I had just learnt a new word, without understanding its place in my life. Today, I know! And my loom also knows. We console each other these days and pray for better tomorrows.

  For the first time in our lives, there were no new clothes for Eid. But at least we were more fortunate than many others - we had a roof over our heads. And the money given by Madam Angie as an advance. But where had Madam Angie disappeared? I had asked Ali to contact her a few times to request her to send a little more money, since there were zero orders this year for Diwali - generally our busiest period. Ali said he had tried and received no response. Maybe Madam Angie was busy with other wedding preparations. I told him to keep trying, and not feel shy to ask for a little help. Americans are ameer and generous. She would understand and send what she could - I was very confident.

  After two or three weeks of sending her WhatsApp messages and not getting a response, I began to worry. By now, I had watched on TV what was happening in New York. That big city was looking like a big kabarsthan! More bodies lying there than on our Benaras ghats. It gave me a big, big shock. The loom also felt something was wrong. It was not like Madam Angie to ignore so many messages. Only a little work remained on her saree - I had matched the blue of her shining eyes by getting the silk dyed to the exact shade before I started with the zari patterns. I had attached colourful silk tassels to the end of the pallu - those were my artistic gift to Madam Angie and not included in the original design or cost.