One String Attached

by Pankaj Dubey

  With his mind made up, he started working on the gharara suit. He pored over his draft—imagining her as he cut the pattern. She is here with him, wagging those thin painted fingers—with a take on everything he does, always ahead of him. Wanting him to play catch-up. She-devil, Aaina is! His own sprite. How he loves this wickedness in her! Maybe even more than her eyes. Shivam sighed. She unsettles him so . . . he will breathe once he sees her . . .

  He gives her kurti a sweetheart neckline, accentuating the décolletage, knowing it will make her neck seem longer. He has not seen her neck but knows it must be slender and delicate.

  He had told her he would arrange for the fabric. It struck him that fate had arranged for it already—that radiant orange piece Babuji had given him to stitch . . . for the goddess. It would make for a stunning kurti. Flamboyant in colour, with tone-on-tone embroidery. His Aaina would glow in it. Like a goddess! For the gharara bottom, he would need to buy plain silk. But how? Where would he get the money from? He was just an apprentice, yet to start earning. And Babuji would ask him a hundred questions before parting with anything more than a hundred rupees. Shivam was still pondering on it as he wounded up work and walked up to unlock his cycle. But instead of mounting it he stood watching it. Cycle! That’s it. He smiled, having figured how to buy the silk for her gharara.

  * * *

  So many purchases were still pending. Besides suits, jewellery and gifts, a nikah calls for a stocking up of umpteen other things, all equally important. Ammi’s brother, being a heart patient, had put Abbu in charge of the arrangements. Abbu, an official in the state government, had called up the many contacts he had across businesses and government departments, looking for assistance. They would help him buy items at wholesale rates, he believed. His contacts proved useful, but in a totally different way. They warned him that things had changed rapidly in the past few days.

  ‘Keep it simple and short,’ said one.

  ‘Hold the events in-house or shift them to Faizabad,’ advised another.

  ‘Postpone it. This is not the right time for it,’ suggested a key officer in the Culture Department.

  Half the arrangements had already been made. It was only in these past three days that this new uncertainty had gripped the town, raising many doubts in the local minds. Mr Farooqui got anxious. So many outsiders had flooded Ayodhya overnight. Hundreds were camping in tents near the disputed religious site.

  ‘Rates for everything have doubled,’ reported the man Abbu had sent out to buy groceries and rent bedding, blankets and plastic chairs because more guests were expected two days before the nikah. The fellow had returned with not even half the stuff Abbu had listed. The sudden deluge of visitors had upped the demand for basic things, the price of essentials had hit the roof. All this hit Abbu hard.

  And it was not just the prices. The air was thick with rumours and a sense of uncertainty that made it difficult to plan or even book services such as that of the florist, decorator, caterer and photographer. The make-up artist Salma had booked from Lucknow had called to cancel. Even the local girl Ammi had summoned to apply mehndi for the bride and all the other women had refused to come.

  ‘What should I do?’ Abbu spoke to Mr Ansari then, calling up his Lucknow friend, whose nephew was an inspector in the city’s police department.

  ‘It’s not a good time for the community . . . especially in Ayodhya,’ his friend cautioned.

  Abbu turned to Mamu to discuss this. ‘Should we cancel the walima and have just the nikah?’

  ‘What about the advance we have given for the hall?’ Mamu pointed out. ‘They won’t refund.’ The father of the bride was worried about the finances too.

  There was no getting around the problem. Abbu decided to take his chances and go ahead with the programme as planned. Only now the celebrations would be more muted.

  Though Aaina, doing Ammi’s bidding, walked in and out of the living room several times while the discussion was on, she registered nothing about the conversation or the tension in the air. Her mind was full of other things . . . delicious things . . . things that refused to make space for anything else.

  * * *

  Too much was going on at Shivam’s place too, with all kinds of people landing up at their doorstep—politicians, religious leaders, influential local heads. Much talk was on . . . in hushed voices, which often rose to argue . . . and fell again when someone in the group reminded them to keep things low. Mahantji was found more at home, discussing important things, than worshipping at the Hanuman temple he was in charge of. He did go there to conduct the daily rituals, but that was it. He no longer lingered to attend to devotees or supervise the cleaning up after the pujas and prasad-offering to the deity. There was a stream of people to meet him these days. They came for his support and advice, or so they said.

  It was almost midnight when Shivam steered the bicycle he had borrowed from Babloo to a stop outside his house. His own bicycle was Rajan’s now, sold to fund the silk for the gharara bottom. He found that the spot he parked his cycle was occupied by two Ambassador cars, both with red beacons, announcing the exalted status of the passengers they’d carried to his front door. A Maruti car, two scooters and a police jeep were also parked alongside. Men in uniform were hanging around, on escort duty.

  Babloo was right, things were worse than he thought them to be. Brushing past the security personnel, Shivam tried to enter, dragging his cycle inside with him. But he was stopped.

  What the hell! . . . They won’t let me enter my own house or what?

  Shivam raised his voice, ‘Yaar, I can stop your entry here . . . you can’t.’

  His mother heard the commotion and rushed out. She calmed all of them and took her son in.

  ‘Too many important people inside,’ she told him in a whisper. ‘Mind your ways.’

  ‘Important!’ Shivam smirked as he leaned his cycle against the inner courtyard wall. ‘All they care about is power . . . and their own pockets.’

  His mother shushed him with an angry look. She showed him that they were all in Babuji’s room and cautioned him that his voice would carry to them.

  Shivam shook his head and ran up to his room. He wanted no role in all this religious drama. He had worked, without blinking, to finish Aaina’s nikah outfit. Only the hooks and lace edgings remained to be sewn in. He had started early in the day because there were other orders Masterji had passed to him. Around midnight, Murshid Mia had thrown him out of the shop, insisting he had to lock the place and go. Masterji was as impressed by his apprentice’s devotion as with his talent. The old man was unaware of the love angle behind this extra-human effort being put into the kurti.

  Babloo scampered up to Shivam’s room just as he had finished changing and was about to hit the bed and catch a few winks before dawn broke on the D-day. Yes, it would mark an important turning point in his life. She would show him her face. And together they would begin their journey on the path they have chosen to carve out for themselves. Yes, tomorrow! He would start the day by doing the hooks.

  ‘Bhaiya!’ Babloo shook his friend back to reality. He shoved a steel plate laden with roti and vegetables into Shivam’s face.

  ‘Mausi has told you to eat up here only. Too many bigwigs are loitering downstairs.’

  The sight of his friend up here at this hour startled Shivam.

  ‘You want money for some new cassette?’ he asked.

  ‘No, I want nothing,’ He said quickly. ‘I manage my own cash most of the times, Bhaiya . . . only, sometimes, I come to you.’ He sounded hurt.

  ‘Oye, overacting ki dukaan! Here, have this paneer curry, it’s amazing . . . and stop whining.’

  As the boys feasted on the curry and roti, Babloo confided in him about how the tension in the town was getting to him.

  ‘Everyone’s saying just one thing . . . something’s going to happen . . . something big is going to happen . . . ’

  Shivam nodded and rose to wash his hands.

  ‘And Bhaiya,
’ Babloo continued, his eyes large with fear, ‘they are terrified . . . yes, everyone’s terrified.’ His voice dropped to a whisper as he said this. Clearly, the boy was as rattled as the town with the recent goings-on. That was the reason he had come to his friend at this late hour. ‘Bhaiya, can I stay here with you tonight?’

  Shivam found this amusing and burst out laughing. For the next fifteen minutes, he teased his musical friend on how he ought to pawn his lousy voice to invest in some muscle and power. This was precisely what Babloo needed at this hour to change his mood.

  After all this goofing around, the two lay on their backs, talking about things.

  ‘Bhaiya, listen to this cassette na, it’s like your heart is talking to you.’

  ‘Why your heart never talks to you, Babloo?’

  The question had sprung up from nowhere but now that Shivam thought of it, it was strange that his friend had never expressed an opinion or interest in any girl. Was he? He turned to look at the young man lying next to him, dressed in kurta jeans. He had already plugged in the song on his small Walkman and was shaking his head with the music. Shivam sighed and listened in.

  13

  Morning dawned. Shivam had barely slept. During the little sleep that he got, he was dreaming. Up with the sun, he ran out. To the Sarayu. Wanting to dive in. And pray to the river for blessings. The Sarayu was an intrinsic part of his life.

  He heard the temple bells toll as the gods are woken up lovingly and venerated. Shivam folded his hands in front of a deity, offered some flowers and took his cycle to the sabzi mandi, the vegetable market. A song from a faraway radio lifted his heart as he pedalled rhythmically. He reached his destination in a matter of minutes. This particularly congested area of Ayodhya was quiet and forlorn at that hour. But for some reason, a special police contingent was stationed at the roundabout that day. The men, sitting or standing, were half-awake although on. The litter strewn across the lane greeted him as he made his way towards Murshid Mia’s shop.

  He was early. Those days, even Masterji came to work hours before the shop officially opened. He was swamped with orders and wanted to finish as much work as he could in the early morning hours when he would not be disturbed. But not at 6 a.m. No, unlike Shivam, Masterji was not driven by love or hormones to land there at dawn.

  The head priest’s son wandered around a bit, waiting for the old man to appear and for his day to officially begin. Someone who was cycling by stopped next to him. It was the newspaper boy. He had finished his rounds and, sighting a familiar face, paused to chitchat.

  ‘Shivam Bhaiya, you here, at this hour?’

  ‘Work,’ Shivam told him.

  ‘Kya Bhaiya, don’t tell me you too are cursed like me . . . working such odd hours.’

  Shivam smiled, pulled out a Hindi paper from the stack peeping out of the fellow’s sling bag, and began to read:

  6 December 1992: Hundreds of right-wing activists have congregated at the historic town of Ayodhya after their Rath Yatra to garner support for a temple at the disputed site. The state government has rushed additional police forces to the town and cordoned off the sensitive areas. But the town is like a tinderbox, one spark could inflame passions and char lives.

  The newspaper hawker interrupted him, ‘We’ve never had these fights here before. This Hindu-Muslim thing . . . have we?’

  Shivam nodded. None he could recall.

  ‘It’s these bloody outsiders, all this ruckus is their doing!’

  ‘Yes, and we have to pay,’ replied Shivam.

  A policeman shouted from behind them, rapped the newspaper wallah for standing in the middle of the lane and chatting.

  The boy pedalled away, muttering that the bloody police was acting like this was Kashmir and they were under curfew.

  Shivam panicked, realizing that things were far more serious than he had presumed. He had been blind and deaf to the goings on. Babloo was right. Things are actually bad! There is unease in the air. Like they are all waiting for something. They want to stop it . . . but don’t know what exactly to stop, and how. The ring of security in the town should make him feel safe. But why was he feeling different? Shivam shivered at his thoughts.

  Murshid Mia arrived on his scooter soon after and they opened the shop. As Shivam measured out the zari he needed to stitch on the kurti, all thoughts of the local situation evaporated. Only Aaina and her kurti ruled his mind.

  It did not take him more than an hour to finish the lace and hooks. His labour of love was ready. Now he only had to wait for his love to arrive and make it hers. He took the kurti to Masterji and spread it before him for his opinion. Murshid Mia was impressed, not just with the cut and styling but also with his neat work. He passed another two dress orders, which required careful and intricate work, to Shivam. This promotion would have given Shivam a high on any other day except today. As the hours went by, he was finding it more and more difficult to concentrate on his work, or on anything else. Every few minutes, he would turn his wrist to check the time. 9 a.m. . . . 10 . . . 11 . . . and 12.15 now. She couldn’t have forgotten. No. Then why is she making him wait this way? Teasing him, was she? It’s possible. With her, anything was possible. But wasn’t this part of her charm! Shivam smiled at the thought.

  Masterji turned to show him something and was tickled to see the boy smiling at nothing. But before he could quiz him on it, he had some visitors. No, they were not customers. Three men—two of them middle-aged and one quite old—had trooped into the shop. They came past the front counter and drew Masterji into a huddle, inside the curtained trial room. They conferred in whispers that Shivam could not help but overhear as he was sitting by the nearby sewing machine.

  ‘Thousands . . . thousands are there in those tents . . . most of them armed.’

  ‘All this police force that’s come,’ Masterji intervened, ‘they will take care.’

  ‘Don’t be naïve,’ shouted one of them. ‘They’re with them . . . even they want a temple.’

  ‘I’ve seen them chatting . . . even eating with those ruffians in the tents . . . supplying them stuff,’ added another.

  ‘What should we do then?’ Masterji’s his voice was really low now, his confidence shaken.

  ‘Be wary. And run. At the first sign of trouble . . . run.’

  ‘Low . . . speak low,’ admonished someone. ‘That Hindu boy is sitting just outside.’

  And the voices dropped. Shivam could still hear them if he wished but he wanted none of this. He walked out of the shop for some air. He stood just outside the front counter and waited for the meeting to end. No, he would not stray far, he could not afford to. She might come any moment now. In fact, she might already be there. And that one thought was enough to drive away any tension that may have lurked in him after overhearing that talk inside.

  The visitors soon left because a couple of customers came asking for Masterji. Shivam regained his perch at the work table inside, while Masterji attended to them.

  Another hour rolled by. Shivam sat drumming his fingers on the table more than working. Isn’t the function in the evening? Why isn’t she here till now? Had they barred her from stepping out? Everyone seemed to be blowing up the situation, making things seem far worse than they were.

  Shivam stomped his foot in anger and disgust. Masterji jumped at the noise and turned to look at him. He was on edge too. Ever since that meeting in the trial room, his usual poised demeanour was gone.

  ‘Something bit me.’ Embarrassed at his sudden outburst, Shivam made an excuse.

  Nodding, Murshid Mia went back to stacking orders for delivery. He wanted to wind up things a bit early and close shop by evening to be on the safe side. But there were a few important trials and deliveries lined up for the day. These were for regular customers and he would have to wait until they showed up.

  Shivam picked up a lehenga panel and pretended to work on it, his mind galaxies away from the pieces of fabric on his table.

  ‘Assalam Walekum, Chacha!’

>   His head jerked up at that voice, the lehenga panel slid to the floor.

  ‘Walekum Assalam, beti,’ greeted Masterji.

  ‘You’ve come alone . . . ’ Masterji observed in a disapproving tone ‘not a good time to be out and . . . ’

  Shivam jumped in to cut him, ‘It’s her fitting and delivery . . . for that nikah kurti . . . she had to come.’

  ‘You should’ve sent someone to collect.’ The old man was not convinced that it was a good idea for her to show up. ‘But now that you’re here, come in,’ he said and motioned her towards the trial room, where Shivam now stood, holding her outfit. ‘Let’s free you fast so you can go,’ said Masterji, almost as an instruction to Shivam, who nodded in understanding.

  Aaina took the suit from Shivam and stepped behind the tiny, curtained room.

  While she was getting into her new outfit, Shivam and Masterji waited at the front counter, their back to the trial room.

  ‘Murshid Mia!’ A middle-aged man in kurta pyjama called out even as they heard the sound of his feet before he reached the shop. Masterji hurried out to meet him. Shivam saw the duo cross over to the other side and talk, their heads bent close together. Just then a group sauntered past, singing lustily, raising flags and sloganeering. He immediately peeked at the police personnel he had seen in the morning. They were standing in a group in the far corner, and gawking. He had watched them march up and down the lane, in twos and threes, at regular intervals. It was surprising they weren’t saying anything now. However, at this time, Shivam’s eyes were on the road but his mind was on the girl inside.

  ‘Shivam!’ Masterji called him. The boy ran up to his mentor, praying Aaina would not reach out to him that very instant. ‘Can you mind the shop for seven-eight minutes,’ requested the old man. ‘I have to go up to the next lane for some urgent work. I’ll see to it and rush back.’

  ‘Yes, I’ll manage,’ Shivam replied. This seemed like a God-sent opportunity to be alone with his Aaina. He sprinted back to the shop, pushing his way past another rowdy group passing by.