A Long Way Home

by Mitali Meelan

  Nyra wasn’t clicking pictures, although the camera hung lidless from her neck. She seemed to take it all in with her eyes first. For a rather hot day in the middle of the week, quite a crowd of people had gathered here.

  It took us another hour and a half to tour the whole place.

  I made lists as we went. The stalls sold scented candles made by rural women, fairy lights, khadi and cotton clothes, bedsheets, satin scarves, decorative wooden, metal, tin articles and show-pieces for home decor, coasters, jams and pickles made by the blind, gift boxes, hand fans made of peacock feathers, diaries, mouth and leg paintings, accessories, village purses, hats, colouring books, stuffed toys, paper lanterns, mugs and even puppets.

  We glided along the tangled walkways and I selected two of the most intriguing stall owners to interview later.

  An entire section in the middle of the exhibit was reserved for food and refreshments. Cupcakes, chaat, gola, South Indian, Punjabi and Chinese food, Indian burger and palm-sized pizzas.

  The food section was our last stop. After a quick snack break, we dug into our work. I asked Nyra to get snaps of this area. The sky had turned a deep shade of orange, the sun now the size of a toy globe ducking behind the distant mountains. The place was starting to fill up, the lights of the stalls and the pathway flicking on. A perfect landscape to capture some lively moments under the open sky.

  While she clicked, I set up the laptop and made a list of questions I wanted to ask the shortlisted NGOs in my notepad and typed out the article.

  ‘If this is my job, I would work for the rest of my life.’ Nyra joined me a while later.

  I glanced up at her. ‘Perks of working in a creative field.’

  She gave me a small smile, then saw my write-up. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you.’

  ‘No, I can pick up where I left off,’ I told her, noticing the scarf she’d wrapped tightly around herself. She had it on from the time we left office and I couldn’t resist asking her. ‘Aren’t you feeling hot?’

  ‘No.’ she said simply. ‘I’m never really hot.’

  I’d beg to differ, but of course, I didn’t say that out loud. Instead, I minimized the draft. ‘Have you got the pictures?’

  She nodded and set the camera between us. The first few clicks were ordinary, but then it got better. Towards the end of her collection, I had to double take. There was one pattern I noted in her images. She had not just clicked things, a dry slideshow of how everything was set up at this place, but she had captured the emotions of people hanging out here. There were three that jumped out at me.

  She had clicked the man making dosa from behind the stall, his dimpled face smiling down at his creation, the stuffed dosa looking appetizing. The steam twisted up in knots and ended with the faces of a mother holding her child. While the mother looked on hungrily at the food, the boy stared with big eyes at the camera.

  The next was the palm-sized pizza stall, too packed for her to even stand, let alone click a picture. But she’d used it to her advantage. Blurring the crowd of people at the back, she had taken a low-angle shot of the table with tiny dishes lined up, the ingredients filling the corners of the image.

  In the third one, she’d made a girl hold up a rainbow coloured iced gola towards the sky. The girl’s hand, half her face and the gola were in focus, while the setting sun, the crowd and the exit arch were blurred to form an impeccable background.

  I sent the shortlisted pictures to Heena and while she replied, we headed towards the ‘mouth and hand painting’ stall.

  ‘You have quite an eye,’ I told Nyra, swerving to avoid a woman carrying a long umbrella under her arm. ‘Some of them were worthy of printing even.’

  In response, a smile touched her lips. She lifted her camera to her eye and snapped a picture of the counter we were headed towards.

  ‘Hello, I’m Arihant from Splash! magazine and this is Nyra, our photographer. We’d like to interview you, if you don’t mind,’ I said to the man in the wheelchair, who was in charge of the stall. He seemed to be expecting people from the press to cover the event. He was only surprised we had chosen him.

  ‘I’m P. Sahani.’ His handshake was firm, if not bone-crushing. He called over one of his landscape artists painting at the back, a man without arms. ‘The magazine people I told you about,’ he informed the artist. ‘He’s Veer.’

  ‘Veer?’ Nyra called, sounding surprised, and I turned to her. For a moment, her eyes glazed, a faraway look in them which lasted for a fraction of a second. Then she stepped forward. ‘Do you mind if I take a few pictures of you while you paint?’ she asked him and his face lit up with a smile. She slipped inside the stall, angling her camera to capture his talent as Mr Sahani turned to me.

  ‘We feel privileged that you chose us,’ he said.

  ‘Well, you deserve it.’ The question-answer session ensued. I recorded his answers, reading the questions off my list. He talked about his struggles, his vision, how the NGO came to be and supported countless families of talented artists.

  ‘We work on commission basis, more like royalties.’ He pointed to the stack of greeting cards to our side. ‘Now, you see the paintings on these cards and gift tags? They are printed from the original. 40 per cent of each sale goes to the creator. The paintings at the back,’ he turned, ‘they are all originals. 70 per cent of the cost will go to the painter.’

  ‘That’s quite a generous percentage,’ I observed.

  ‘It is,’ he agreed. ‘We have a wide reach too, throughout India. Our paintings have graced the walls of Raichand palace in Delhi and the royals of Uttar Pradesh. The paintings bought from our website have free shipping.’

  ‘Apart from the sales, is there any other way the painters earn?’

  ‘Yes. They work for international and government schools, teaching the skill. There are a lot of schools that approach us, wanting tutors because we meet their standards. Once they have a vacancy, we let our interested candidates know. They can apply through us. Once selected, the fees are directly credited to the teacher’s account. The NGO takes a minor share from their salary for the first six months. It’s only about 10 per cent. The only requirement for our artists to appear for an interview is to be a part of the NGO.’

  ‘We know how the schools select the painters. But what’s your procedure?’

  ‘It’s quite simple. You have to be disabled in some way that you can’t draw with your hands. You have to love painting. It’s okay if you cannot draw just yet. We teach you and we thrive on helping each other.’

  ‘Last question,’ I said as Nyra emerged from the back, scrolling through her captured images, her brows furrowed, concentration veiling her face. ‘What are your future plans?’

  ‘Well’—Mr Sahani folded his arms—‘for one, we are extending our powers to those who are good in art and craft. Some are good with a brush, but many crafts people have approached us asking if we’d be keen on helping them sell their wonderful art pieces. We hope to take the project off the ground some time in the next year.’

  ‘Right. Thank you for your time and cooperation, Mr Sahani.’ Before leaving, Veer offered us one of his small landscape paintings that he asked us to hang up in our office.

  Our next stop was the pickle and eatables counter, the one run by the blind.

  By the time we were done, it was half past eight. In the cab, I turned to Nyra who had taken off her scarf and was reclined in her seat, eyes closed. ‘Tired with the job already?’ I asked and she tilted her head to me. She had been on call with Heena, who kept giving her redos of the last pickle stall. Her food and painting pictures were finalized comparatively quickly. The last one required some tiring retakes.

  ‘Will I get in trouble if I say yes?’

  I scoffed. ‘Not with me.’

  ‘It was tiring. But not the job per se. I didn’t have a very good sleep last night.’

  ‘Why not?’

  She hesitated. ‘Just … out with a few friends.’

  I nodded
, then involuntarily, my gaze dropped to her arm, a small light bruise peeking out from under her sleeve. ‘What happened there?’

  She followed my eyes, stirred in her seat and tugged at her sleeve to pull it down. ‘Just a small mishap. Nothing serious.’ She smiled, turned to her side so that her arm was hidden from my view. I wouldn’t have been suspicious if she had simply shrugged it off. Her attempt to hide it was what got me thinking. ‘When do you think this article will be up on our website?’

  Change of topic. But I decided not to press it. It was not my business anyway. ‘In a couple of days,’ I told her. ‘I have to write it by tomorrow afternoon.’

  ‘Will you be able to?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. With deadlines, you just have to.’

  She mused for a second. ‘I’m glad Heena liked my pictures. I was worried she’d hate everything I clicked.’

  ‘Yeah, well, she’s easy to please.’ That made her laugh heartily.

  CHAPTER 9

  I

  moved away from my office group at the sandwich stall to take the call. Nisha, Abhishek and Vishaal were leaving when Nyra and I returned to the office. They invited us to tag along to their street food party. Being starved since we last ate at the NGO exhibit, neither of us could decline the offer.

  ‘Ari, do you know where Ishaan is?’ Mom asked.

  I checked the time in Nyra’s wristwatch. ‘In office, I guess?’

  ‘He isn’t; I called. He is not receiving his phone either.’ She sounded tensed.

  ‘Maybe he’s out with his friends. What’s wrong?’

  A pause. ‘Can you come to Naupada police station? Bring Ishaan if you find him.’

  In a minute, I was on my way to the place where I thought I might find my responsible brother.

  I had never been inside the Copper Club. It was drowned in blinding blue and red flashing lights. There was only one bartender at the wide bar counter. Between the bar and the woman singing on stage at the other end of the room, there were dozens of tables with men enjoying the show. The place stank of alcohol and barbecue.

  Seeing how unnoticeable this place was from the outside, it was astonishingly crowded and nauseatingly lively on the inside. Not an inch to turn without bumping into someone. I squared my shoulders and made my way through the crowd, and found Ishaan somewhere in the middle of the counter.

  He had a drink in his hand, a girl was saying something in his ear. He listened intently, then when she pulled back, he gave out a quick short laugh. The girl, wearing all black with her hair pinned up, took a drag of the cigarette and passed it on to him. He was staring in my direction but it took him a second longer to recognize me.

  He pushed off his weight from the counter, frozen in place, and stared with what I could only guess was shock. The girl followed his gaze, found me and her eyes narrowed in suspicion. ‘Who is he?’ I saw her lips form the words.

  I approached them, introduced myself before Ishaan could. ‘Hello, I’m Arihant Adhikari,’ I said, holding out a hand to her, feeling rage bubble in my veins. ‘Ishaan’s brother.’

  The girl peeked at Ishaan, one quick look of sympathy. Then, reluctantly, as if her hand was tied to a dead weight, she lifted her hand for a shake. Her grip was surprisingly strong for her small frame.

  Ishaan’s scowl deepened, the mirth that I saw in his eyes moments ago now gone. This was the Ishaan I was used to. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I can ask you the same.’

  ‘That’s none of your concern.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘But I guess we should be of some concern to you.’

  He blinked, then averted his eyes to take a sip of his drink. ‘What do you want?’

  The girl intervened. ‘I will give you two some space,’ she said and took a step back, but Ishaan grabbed her wrist.

  ‘Stay,’ he said, his eyes warming when they met hers. ‘It’s okay.’

  Who was this girl? Was she the reason he shut out the topic of his marriage? ‘Does Baba know you’re here?’

  He scoffed. ‘Baba doesn’t know a lot of things, baby brother, does he?’

  I frowned, not liking his tone. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Nothing. Let’s just stay out of each other’s business.’ He took a long puff, then let the smoke roll out of his mouth in short circles. ‘Tell me what brings you to my den.’

  I glanced at the girl, not sure if I wanted her to hear this. But the way she stood by his side, like she knew him better than any of us did, I decided it didn’t matter. ‘Saloni was caught shoplifting.’

  The bike ride to the station was nothing short of a race.

  At the police station, Saloni sat aside with her shoulders stooped forward, looking guilty. The sight froze all thoughts in my mind. As soon as we entered, Mom got up and stumbled over to us—Ishaan, to be precise. His face was hard set, as he touched her arm reassuringly. ‘It’s okay. We’ll sort it out.’

  With that, he moved her aside gently and headed with purposeful steps towards the police. She wasn’t crying, but she was terrified, I could tell. I tried to soothe her.

  ‘Aai, it’s okay.’ I said. ‘This won’t go too far, whatever it is. Where is Baba?’

  ‘At office,’ she said, her eyes red. ‘He doesn’t know. These people called at home and I rushed here. I didn’t have the time to tell him. Besides, I don’t want to give him more pressure.’

  I squeezed her arm reassuringly and we joined Ishaan.

  ‘Can you please tell us what happened?’ Ishaan sounded calm, collected. I hadn’t expected him to be so, but I guess he was the one in the house most equipped to handle stress.

  The officer looked at us. ‘You belong to a good family,’ he said. I was wearing a thoroughly pressed black shirt and jeans, coincidentally a good thing. ‘According to what the staff at Paula Wears reported, your sister entered the store at seven-thirty this evening. She didn’t have any arms or guns. The security confirmed that and we couldn’t find anything in her belongings that could be termed as dangerous.’

  I glanced in the direction of Saloni, who was hidden behind the walls now. I tried to imagine my silly sister, who worried more about her hairstyle than her report card, with a handgun. It was such a far-fetched thought, I ended up with an image of her holding a water gun she used to play Holi with when she was little.

  The man went on. ‘The theft was amateur and unplanned. She wanted a dress.’ He produced a packet from under the table and placed it before us. Inside, there was a blue coloured dress.

  ‘According to our reports,’ he continued, ‘she tried this dress on in the changing room, then came out wearing her own clothes. A few minutes later, she tried four more dresses, leaving all of them in the changing room. Finally, she took a pair of earrings to the cash register and bought them with cash. That was a legal purchase; the cashier packed her earrings and thanked her. Then, while leaving, the buzzer went off, alerting the entire staff. She was called to the manager’s room and frisked. They found that she had been wearing the first dress under her kurta.’

  I glanced at the shimmering royal blue off-shoulder dress lying in front of us, the officer pointing an accusing finger towards the right. I tore my gaze off the proof of offence, stopped imagining Saloni being taken away and looked at with disgust and accusation. She was far too naïve to have to go through any of this. She was too young.

  ‘That store is intolerant to theft but we’ve pacified them. I’ve been in this field for years.’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘I can tell who would likely be a repeat offender and who would’ve learned a lesson for life.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Ishaan said, leaning forward. His back was covered with sweat, his short hair stuck to his neck. ‘I know my sister. She will never do this again. Please tell me what we’d need to do to pacify the owners and the fine.’

  The man nodded and picked up a pen. ‘The fine will be twice the cost of the stolen item, which amounts to eight thousand. She’ll also be barred from visiting the mall un
til she submits a written apology. Shoplifting is a compoundable offence and it can be taken to court. But because she is a minor and a first-time offender, the store is ready to sort out the matter without making a fuss. That is, if you’re okay with it.’

  All of us were stunned into silence for a moment. Ishaan was the first to move a muscle. He reached into his back pocket and took out his card, then handed it over to the man. ‘We’re okay with it.’

  ‘It’ll be helpful if you give the apology letter right now,’ the man said. ‘We’ll submit it to the store manager.’

  ‘I’ll do that,’ I told him, glad to be of some use. ‘I’ll write the letter and have her sign it.’

  The officer nodded, then got up to release my sister. When Mom saw her, she rose to her feet and let her sit on the chair. Saloni avoided meeting our eyes, neither talking to anyone nor showing any emotions. Ishaan only briefly glanced at her sideways before he left his seat to get to the officer who had talked to us. Meanwhile, I wrote the letter and Saloni signed it without reading it.

  When we were out of the police station, standing in an awkward semicircle, Ishaan turned to the girls. ‘I’ll book a cab for you two.’

  Saloni, for the first time, glanced up at him and I saw her eyes welling up. ‘Ishu da.’ His forehead creased only slightly, his eyes boring into the ground between us. The heavy silence was interrupted by Mom’s phone blasting with music. It was Baba.

  No one moved, so I took the phone from her hand and answered it. ‘Hello, Baba.’

  ‘Ari? What are you doing home?’

  ‘I’m not home,’ I said and saw Saloni’s eyes widen at me. She had lost the glint in them; the colour was drained from her face. ‘I met Mom at the sabji bazaar. But yes, I’m staying over tonight.’

  ‘That’s good.’ He sounded genuinely happy. ‘I called to ask if your mother wants anything sweet for dinner. I can bring ice cream.’

  Mentally trying to think of ways to break the news to him without making my sister feel cornered, I answered him a moment later. ‘Not today, Baba,’ I murmured. ‘You just come home directly.’