One String Attached

by Pankaj Dubey

  ‘Yes, it’s her,’ exclaims Shivam, finding his voice.

  Babloo hugs him. What is happening sounds illogical but true. If it is true, he won’t mind singing in all the jagratras of the world forever. That smile on his friend’s face and the return of his glow . . . it makes him smile and even sing in happiness.

  Shivam fills him in on how the kurti landed at his shop as the two of them sit next to the bed, cradling their glasses of freshly made tea.

  ‘What will we do now, Bhaiya?’ Babloo asks.

  ‘Find her . . . what else?’ Shivam replies.

  ‘And what will you do when you find her, marry her?’

  ‘If I can . . . if she will let me . . . ’ His voice falls a few notches as he says this, realizing suddenly how things could have changed with her. Things might not be as smooth as he hopes.

  ‘Arrey, Bhaiya, we’ll keep a watch on her, like we did then. Then beg and plead with her to come with us. For always.’

  Shivam is laughing now. And Babloo with him. All their doubts drown in that joyful memory from the past.

  ‘Bhaiya,’ adds Babloo, sometime later, ‘she wasn’t available even then. Yet you went after her and got her, didn’t you?’

  Shivam nods.

  ‘Her Abbu couldn’t stop her then. How will anyone now?’

  Shivam hits Babloo hard on his back. This singer has become logical and brainy overnight.

  ‘What did your wife feed you last night?’ he jokes, aware that Babloo cringes at the mention of her.

  ‘Kya Bhaiya, I was thinking what all we’ll do when you get her . . . and you spoilt my mood.’ Short-tempered and immature, Babloo’s wife is always after him for something or the other.

  ‘I’ll . . . I’ll take her back to the Sarayu . . . to the river and its banks . . . the lanes and bylanes where she grew up . . . and I . . . and we’ll explore them together again.’

  ‘Wah! Bhaiya. I’ll come with you too.’

  ‘Your biwi? Shivam ribs him again. ‘She likes city life . . . she won’t go.’

  ‘Good, this will be the perfect excuse to leave her behind then,’ says Babloo. Both of them laugh some more, tickled by the idea of him being rid of her.

  ‘Bhaiya,’ Babloo gushes on, ‘our lives will become opposite na . . . you getting your girl, and I getting rid of mine.’

  A loud rap on the door forces them to put a pause to their mirth. Shivam gets up and opens the door.

  ‘Neeta?’ Babloo’s sister-in-law is at the door, with a steel bowl of something in her hand.

  ‘Babloo, he’s—’ Shivam starts saying something.

  ‘No,’ she stops him mid-sentence. ‘It’s you I want, you know this.’ And she offers him the bowl she’s carrying.

  Shivam opens the door wide. Babloo waves to her from where he is sitting on the floor.

  ‘Oh . . . oh!’ She is taken aback to see her brother-in-law there. Embarrassed, she turns on her heels and leaves, taking her bowl back with her.

  This sets off the boys again. Life is suddenly looking up. It is as if things are going back to how they used to be in the past.

  ‘Bhaiya,’ Babloo manages to gasp in the midst of all their laughing, ‘one more thing you will have to do when you get your girl—’

  ‘—Keep her far from this churail,’ Shivam interrupts, knowing exactly what his friend is going to say.

  Even as they laugh, Babloo makes a serious face. ‘Yes, this witch . . . she got her fangs in you big time . . . we got to keep her off Aaina.’

  ‘We’ll leave her here in Delhi with your wife Madhu na,’ Shivam reminds him.

  ‘Madhumakhi!’ Babloo corrects his friend.

  Shivam begins clearing the tea glasses. It is getting late. He has to leave for the shop. It is an important day.

  ‘Go back to your madhumakhi now,’ he orders Babloo, showing him the door. But his friend has some questions.

  ‘Bhaiya, will you follow the driver when he comes to collect the kurti? Or did he mention his address in the measurement slip?’

  Shivam shakes his head.

  ‘No, I’ll just get her address.’

  ‘What if he won’t divulge?’

  ‘We’ll do a narco test on him . . . like they do in that Crime Branch you watch on TV,’ teases Shivam. And he shoos Babloo out before the guy can annoy him further with questions.

  17

  There is a song in his heart as he lifts the shutters to Aaina Boutique this morning. The guard strolling in the apartment compound catches the shift in his mood and looks at him with interest. Munjal is staring too but checks himself from crossing over to find out what is brewing. He has been dismissed by that two-paisa tailor way too many times for his bruised ego to ignore.

  However, there is a change on the tailor’s side this time.

  ‘Chacha!’ Shivam saunters over to his neighbour. ‘Guard Bhaiya, looking dapper today,’ he says cheerily.

  The guard looks carefully at the darzi from head to toe for a sign of some ailment or black magic.

  ‘It’s the same face and the same uniform you see me in every day.’

  ‘I’m seeing with new eyes, maybe,’ replies the tailor weakly, realizing that the joke is on him.

  ‘Not just new eyes, you got a new face too,’ observes Munjal. ‘You look really innocent without that beard.’

  The compliment makes him blush. Now, this is too much for Munjal to digest. He has to get to the bottom of it.

  ‘Did you get swapped with your identical twin?’ asks the older man. He’s probably thinking of the kind of photocopy he has in his business.

  ‘I’ve made peace with my life,’ answers Shivam and returns to his shop with a smile, giving the other two enough to chew on.

  However, as the hours pass, Shivam’s smile fades. It is time to close shop, yet no Honda City has come to pick up the kurti package. Why? Yesterday, it had been so urgent . . . and today no one has bothered to collect it . . . Is something wrong? Has she . . . forgotten about the kurti? No, she couldn’t have . . . must be the driver, the idiot must not have reported for duty today.

  Shivam’s mind goes into a spiral, riding first one horse and then another, whizzing past so many thoughts, only to end up in a daze.

  He flounders through the night and the next day somehow, waiting. Customers come and go, cars stop and drive away. But the Honda and its driver do not appear. Babloo checks in with him as soon as he gets home.

  Shivam goes looking for the car the next day. He asks around for the driver, assuming he works in the neighbourhood and must live close by. He checks from one apartment complex to another, asking, corroborating, and drawing blanks. He goes from pillar to post. When he is about to give up, in a stroke of luck, he ends up at a chemist’s shop and finds the man he has been looking for entering it. It seems God has finally switched over to Shivam’s side.

  Shivam follows him into Anytime Chemist and watches the chauffeur, in plain clothes now, buy a pack of condoms. As he pays for it, stuffs it inside his pocket, and turns to leave, the tailor blocks his way. The driver raises his eyebrows because he doesn’t recognize the tailor.

  ‘You came to my shop with that packet of clothes for alteration,’ begins Shivam.

  ‘So?’ the driver says and tries to brush past the tailor.

  ‘It’s done . . . all complete.’

  ‘Fine. Now, tear it,’ mutters the fellow and walks out of the chemist shop.

  Shivam runs behind him and catches him again on the road.

  The driver gets annoyed at this and says, angrily, ‘Stop following me, I don’t work there any more!’

  ‘But Bhaiya . . . those clothes,’ says Shivam softly ‘I need my payment.’

  At this, the driver stops and laughs harshly. ‘I asked for a day off and they couldn’t give me that! They’ll pay you . . . scoundrels, all!’

  ‘Just give me the address, I’ll try,’ Shivam prods him.

  ‘B-404, IFS apartments,’ barks the driver and takes off.

 
‘B-404, IFS apartments,’ repeats Shivam to himself and the night sky.

  Then he sprints again to catch hold of the driver, who, by now, is just a far-off blot on the dark road.

  ‘Bhaiya!’ Shivam runs up to the man. ‘Bhaiya, how does she look, your memsahib?’ his voice quivering with anticipation.

  ‘Like rasmalai . . . good enough to eat.’ Chuckling, he continues on his way.

  Shivam walks back to his scooter, stars in his eyes.

  18

  Shivam’s nights are more alive than his days—his eyes are free to dream of her and his heart bold enough to believe in what the mind conjures up. When he awakes, he is out searching for his dream.

  Today, he has reached the IFS Apartments, located strategically near the main road and within walking distance of the colony market, garden and bus stand. This residential complex houses only senior civil service officers and their families. Shivam walks up to the guard’s cabin and peeks in to give the flat number.

  ‘Who do you need to visit?’ the guard cross-checks.

  ‘I have to deliver the clothes Madam asked me to alter,’ he replies, lifting up the plastic bag.

  ‘Wait,’ the guard replies as he presses some buttons on the intercom to make a call.

  ‘Hello, a tailor is here for a delivery,’ he tells the person on the other end.

  Shivam adds his shop location. The guard waves him through.

  ‘Take the lift to the fourth floor.’

  Shivam smiles and thanks him. He tries to appear normal. However, as soon as he is past the gate and waiting for the lift, his mouth turns dry and hands get clammy. Will she recognize him? Will she show it when she does? What if she doesn’t . . . It will be Aaina . . . yes, Aaina.

  He quells all last-minute doubts and firmly presses the button to call the lift. He can never mistake the kurti. He put his life into it. She wouldn’t have given it to anyone, this much he is sure of.

  Happy and nervous at the same time, he is overwhelmed and begins to sweat. There’s a fan in the lift, he switches it on. When the lift reaches the fourth floor and stops, his palpitations increase. Pulling out a handkerchief, he wipes the perspiration on his face. The years have shaken his confidence. He turns to examine his face again on the steel door of the lift. He sets his hair right. Ready, he looks around for Flat 404 and finds it. There is a Ganesh painting hanging by the door of this flat. There’s a name plate too, and on it is engraved: Arvind Gupta.

  Shivam’s heart is in his mouth. A deep breath later, he presses the doorbell.

  The next minute, the door opens and a face peers out.

  ‘How much?’ she asks, craning her neck out of the opening. He can see a thin scar running down her left cheek that the curly wisps falling on her face fail to cover.

  ‘Is no one home?’ Shivam asks anxiously, craving a glimpse of his girl, if she is there.

  ‘Do I look like a ghost to you?’ retorts the girl.

  ‘I only meant . . . ’

  Before he can explain himself, she opens the door a wee bit more, snakes her hand out, and grabs the bag of clothes from his hand.

  ‘You came to give this na?’

  ‘Is Madam there?’ Shivam asks tentatively.

  This time, she replies by slipping her free hand inside her blouse to pull out a mini cloth purse. She takes out a hundred rupee note and hands it over to him.

  ‘I want . . . ’ Shivam takes it, still trying to engage in a conversation. But the door is slammed on his face.

  Shivam is taken aback. This is not how it was supposed to play out. For a minute, he stands there, his mind blank. Then he turns and takes the stairs down and out of the main gate. The guard smiles, watching him leave.

  ‘Madam wasn’t there,’ he tells the man and stops, hoping to learn more from him.

  The security guy only nods. His mouth is full of paan.

  ‘She’s not at home or what?’ Shivam wants to confirm.

  Again, he shakes his head. He dislikes people who expect him to respond when they can see his mouth is busy chewing betel leaf.

  So many new doubts spring to his mind now. Shivam dares another question, not realizing he sounds too inquisitive for a tailor and it will only make the guard suspicious. ‘Ma’am and sir . . . is theirs an inter-religious marriage?’

  Losing his cool, the guard spits out his paan and gives Shivam an earful. ‘The people who live here . . . I’m here for their security . . . not to narrate their family lives to passing assholes . . . get it!’

  His anger sears through, shutting Shivam up.

  ‘You got your money?’ asks the guard, to which Shivam nods.

  ‘Then leave,’ the man dismisses him, pointing towards the exit. ‘This is the IFS Apartment. Top babus of the Foreign Service stay here. This gate . . . it’s there to keep you people off.

  Shivam has no rejoinder to this and exits with his head down. He entered with hope and excitement. He leaves with more questions than answers. But it will take a lot more than this to shake him off.

  19

  Next day, he’s back at the IFS apartments, this time in his new purple T-shirt. A different guard is on duty today. Shivam does not approach him. He hangs around a fruit seller, whose cart is parked close to the apartment complex gate, and bides his time making idle talk with the vendor. Cars, as well as people, keep exiting and entering the complex—residents and regular staff breeze through while visitors pause to be screened.

  A silver Honda City glides out—the one that dropped off the kurti for alteration. Shivam’s antennae go up. He runs to the vehicle and tries to peer in. The windows are rolled up and the glass is tinted. Before the car drives away, the rear window of the car accords him a glimpse of its passengers. Two kids in school uniforms, jumping on their seats. And beside them is this woman in orange . . . a kurti . . . the same one he delivered the day before. Shivam’s heart leaps out of his chest. But the car is gone.

  What stops by him next is a cycle. It bears the guard who’d shooed him off the previous day. Glaring down at him, the guard barks, ‘Are you a terrorist?’

  Shivam shifts from one foot to the other, feeling awkward. He stares at the ground.

  ‘This is the second day you are here. What is it?’

  ‘I . . . I just want to meet Madam. I had stitched her kurti.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So, she knows me,’ Shivam says lamely.

  The guard gives him such a look of derision that he wilts.

  ‘Yes, she knows you,’ repeats the guard, ‘she smelt your fingers in those stitches.’

  Shivam squirms, the guard’s dirty talk making him more uncomfortable.

  ‘That car that just left? She was in it,’ Shivam begins to explain. ‘Those tinted glasses . . . she couldn’t see me. But if she sees me, she will stop to meet me.’

  The guard looks at him, top to toe, disdain on his face.

  ‘You get lost, now! Else, I call the cops,’ he warns him. Shivam moves away.

  The guard takes out a paan from his pocket, puts it in his mouth, and savours it before pedalling on to duty.

  * * *

  In their two-room tenement in Trilokpuri basti, Babloo’s wife, Rashmi, sits, chopping vegetables. Half of this front room is occupied by a bed and a cupboard, while the rest of it functions as a kitchen and living room. A living room because it boasts of a television set and a few cushions on the floor that work as a sofa. The tiny space with a door at the back leads to the other room. It is barely large enough to hold a bed, a few storage trunks and Babloo’s music equipment. A medium-sized toilet, with adequate water supply, situated opposite the kitchen, is the one luxury Rashmi enjoys over many of her neighbours.

  Rashmi’s sister, Rekha, is looking out of the window. The parked bikes, vending carts and the heaps of refuse in the bylane outside don’t interest her. It’s the lock outside Shivam’s door that gets to her. He’s gone so early today. And she knows for certain that he is not headed for his shop. She mulls over it. Then when s
he can’t hold it, she blurts out her thoughts to her sister.

  ‘He’s gone . . . in that new T-shirt . . . the purple one.’

  ‘Did you see him leave?’

  ‘I heard his bike and checked. But too fast he was.’

  ‘You must be right,’ Rashmi responds gravely, ‘It is a girl.’

  ‘I told you before. All this shopping–vopping . . . it had to be a girl.’

  Her sister sounds so glum, Rashmi stops chopping to console her. ‘But it’s not proven, is it? He’s not the Romeo type. Maybe we’re jumping the gun,’ she suggests, trying to be more positive.

  ‘You ask your husband na,’ Rekha whines, ‘he’ll know for sure.’

  Rashmi laughs. ‘You think he’ll tell me? No way.’ She shakes her head. ‘Those two are thick as thieves.’

  ‘I’ll ask Shivam then,’ replies her sister, with some determination.

  Rashmi is not taken with this idea either. ‘That won’t help. He will definitely not tell you,’ she says. ‘Your Babloo jija, okay, there are times he hides things too but he doesn’t keep things to himself. Sooner or later, they come out. But Shivam is different. He won’t speak a word about what is going on with him. Sometimes I wonder how Babloo, with his silly bhajan singing, is his friend. Both completely opposite.’

  ‘Silly bhajan singing?’ screams Babloo from the bathroom. He has been listening to the conversation about his friend and feels hurt that his livelihood is being dragged in. ‘Come to my show and see. The public goes mad dancing.’