One String Attached

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One String Attached Page 9

by Pankaj Dubey


  Rekha giggles and looks at her sister.

  ‘Show!’ Rashmi screams back to the bathroom door. ‘Don’t call your Mata ki chowki a show! As for public . . . it’s their love for the goddess that makes them sway . . . not your loud, tuneless singing.’

  The husband-wife fight does not end there. Rashmi rages on. ‘You are a fraud! You made me believe I was marrying a DJ! And what did you turn out to be? Bhajan mandli ka bandmaster! Singing paeans to deities in the mohalla. DJ, my foot!’

  Babloo waits for her to stop shouting. Only then does he risk stepping out of the toilet. He makes a wry face at his wife, who is back to chopping vegetables with a vengeance. Rekha lolls around on the cushion, enjoying this daily comedy show. The Hindi news blaring on TV isn’t half as entertaining.

  20

  Shivam sits inside an old Ganesh temple that faces the road. The place is so compact that there’s space only for God, his priest, and a couple of devotees to squeeze in. Perched near its entrance, Shivam takes care not to block the view of passing devotees, who pause before the enthroned deity, hands folded, offering their prayers and few precious minutes of their busy day.

  The mahant’s son from Ayodhya is here for reasons not so holy. Blessed by Ganesh, he gets an undisturbed view of everything that goes in and outside the IFS apartments from here. One thing still obstructs his vision though—he can do nothing about the last memories he has of Aaina. She flits before his mind’s eye . . . again and again—her blue eyes mesmerizing him, calling out to him, as she goes down that other lane, in the opposite direction, the one taking her home as riots roil the town. She does not want to go, he can see it in her eyes. She’s scared and her eyes grow larger and more intense, beseeching him to come along. He can’t . . . nor can he stop her. She has to go without him. She’s about to disappear . . . no, she can’t . . . he won’t let her, not this time . . . no . . .

  A loud screeching of brakes near him hurtles him back into the present.

  It’s that Honda City. It’s back, braking abruptly at the speed breaker before the apartment complex. In a flash, Shivam is up and sprinting across. He reaches the car, running past the guard room, right as the passenger door opens. Memsahib steps out. Orange, the same orange flashes before his eyes as Madam swings first one foot out, then another, to stand before him, in the kurti he sewed.

  ‘You!’ both shout out at once, recognizing each other. It’s not the memsahib but the maid—the curly-haired woman who had handed him the money. Neither can figure out why their paths have crossed again.

  ‘How dare you!’ Shivam suddenly becomes angry. ‘That’s Madam’s kurti. How dare you put it on!’

  Shocked to see that tailor here again, screaming at her, the maid gets angry and cries out, ‘Guard!’

  The guard is already running up to them.

  ‘You are here again?’ he scolds Shivam, ‘I’ll have to dial the police now.’

  ‘Yes, call them,’ Shivam responds angrily. ‘This woman,’ he points to the maid, ‘she’s a thief, she is . . . look! This is memsahib’s kurti she’s wearing, even now. How dare she!’

  The guard looks from one to the other, puzzled by the kurti business.

  ‘Ask her . . . ask her, whose kurti it is,’ prods Shivam, still not in control of himself.

  ‘Yes, it’s Memsahib’s,’ admits the maid. ‘So? So what? She gave it to me.’

  Irritated, she now turns to the guard, ‘He’s a nut case, remove him from here. If memsahib knows of this, she’ll . . . ’

  ‘Memsahib knows me,’ interrupts Shivam. ‘Call her, she’ll tell you. I . . . I had sewn this kurti for her. I swear, the minute she sees me, she’ll tell you who I am. Just once . . . just once call her. ‘He is pleading now.

  The maid gives him such a look that even the guard concludes that this tailor is crazy and something needs to be done about him.

  ‘You don’t bother memsahib, I’ll see to him,’ he assures her and pulls Shivam towards his room.

  Shivam follows the guard outside but refuses to leave. Like a statue, he stands under the sun on the pavement opposite the complex, his gaze stuck on the B wing entrance. Even the guard’s heart melts seeing him. He walks up to Shivam again, wanting to knock some sense into his head. ‘She’s Gupta sir’s madam,’ he warns. ‘He is a very senior officer. Sometimes, London . . . sometimes, America. One snap of his fingers and you’ll go flying . . . so don’t loiter here. Listen to me, leave before he gets wind of it.’

  ‘Just once, call her. She knows me,’ he repeats himself.

  The security man gives up. It no longer bothers him that Shivam is standing there. He deserves it.

  Another hour goes by. He sees the fellow gaze on, unblinking. Something has to be done. Two drivers in the building are discussing it too. If the building secretary gets to know about him, he will fire the guard. Scared, the guard picks up the intercom and punches some numbers.

  ‘He’s still here,’ says the guard to the person on the other end. ‘You’ll have to tell her, I guess.’

  Ten minutes later, Shivam sees the maid march out of the B wing, followed by someone. That someone is tall and stately, with hair that even when tied-up goes way down the shoulders, flowing alongside her chiffon dupatta. She has a glowing complexion and is a vision in scarlet is. His heart skips a beat as he strides up to the entrance one more time. As she walks closer, he stares at her, his gaze fixed on her eyes.

  ‘What do you want?’ she shouts when her maid points him out. ‘What’s your problem?’

  ‘Your eyes . . . ’ he begins walking up to her for a closer look, ‘they aren’t blue . . . why?’

  She slaps him hard then. And barks at the guard to throw him away.

  21

  Loud film music overwhelms the senses of those who visit Shankar da Punjabi Dhaba, as does the aroma of spicy north Indian food, onions, green chillies and fresh coriander. This roadside eatery, with its metal tables and creaky wooden chairs, is where Babloo meets his friend after he returns depressed from his day-long vigil.

  His head swaying to the number that is playing, Babloo considers his friend’s forlorn face and thinks about the time that has passed and his friend’s die-hard attempts to turn back the clock. The waiter puts two glasses on the table—one with whisky and another, a steel glass topped with lassi.

  ‘Bhaiya,’ says Babloo, once the waiter has left their table. ‘You got back that kurti like a blast from the past . . . I too am happy about it. But . . . but Bhaiya, that was just a flash from the past. Do you really want to catch up with her again?’

  ‘Abey, what sort of question is this,’ retorts Shivam. ‘You know what I want.’

  ‘I mean, so many years it’s been now, who knows, she might have got married . . . even got kids . . . ’

  ‘That kurti, Babloo, you know when it came back to me? Sixth December! Ten years later, but on the same date. You know what that means?’

  Babloo whistles, fate has its own twisted sense of humour. ‘Bhaiya,’ he tries to explain this, still sceptic, ‘I want things work out just the way you want, but . . . ten years is a very long time.’

  ‘Till two days back, I was living life like a zombie. I could feel nothing,’ says Shivam. ‘I would sit alone. I slept alone. And every morning, I would ask myself, are you alive, or just breathing? I felt I was just filling my stomach uselessly.’ He pauses, staring out at the road, lost. Then he gathers himself and turns to his friend again. ‘But since the time I saw the kurti again, I haven’t questioned myself.’

  Babloo understands. His friend’s love may be the stuff of movies, defying time and the practicalities of life, but it is real. He looks in amazement at Shivam, who has always been his hero, and heroes, well, they do things differently. Shivam’s words touch something raw within him; the singer picks up his glass and guzzles down the amber liquid. Shivam turns to his lassi and sips on.

  ‘Okay, decided . . . we go find her. Wherever she is . . . no choice . . . we got to find her,’ declares th
e friend.

  Shivam does not react.

  Shankar, the pot-bellied dhaba owner is at their table with another bottle of whisky. He tries to pour some into Babloo’s glass.

  ‘Arrey stop! You want to empty my pocket, Shankar,’ cries Babloo, raising a hand to stop him.

  ‘This one’s from me,’ the dhaba chief says.

  The musician’s brows rise to question the free peg.

  ‘You filled Ravi’s application form na,’ he reminds Babloo. ‘Because of you, my brother got that job in Dubai.’

  ‘Wah! International bhai you got now.’

  ‘What, Bhaiya,’ the dhaba owner waves off Babloo’s description. ‘He is a desi halwai only, there too. Cooking same things as he did in this dhaba. He’s got the foreign tag, that’s all.’

  ‘Arrey, he must also be getting foreign wages,’ teases Babloo, ‘he is now a bada aadmi.’

  ‘They call him assistant chef.’ There is pride in Shankar’s voice. ‘Pay is good too.’

  Babloo slaps the chef on the back to congratulate him and raises the glass to the assistant chef. Grinning, Shankar moves on to attend to another table.

  A sombre mood descends on the table once again. Shivam’s crestfallen face deflates the high whisky gives his friend. Babloo leans, searching his friend’s face for a glimmer of hope, some happiness. But he doesn’t find anything. He recalls another face . . . that could bring a smile to his friend’s face and, at the thought, himself smiles.

  ‘You sit smiling. My sorry state is funny now?’ Shivam is annoyed.

  ‘Arrey, Bhaiya, you’ll smile too when I tell you. I’ve got an idea to get to Aaina.’

  Shivam’s face perks up. He sits straighter, waiting to find out more.

  ‘No. I won’t tell you now,’ Babloo goes all secretive. ‘I’ll take you to him.’

  22

  It is like the 1990s all over again. That’s how Shivam feels when he steps into a cubicle of an office in Paharganj. A large desk and a man seated behind it—he keeps—half-revolving in his high-backed chair—fills almost the entire space inside. Why the hell is he wearing a hat in here? This is the first thing Shivam thinks as he slides into one of the two wobbly chairs facing the desk, but he keeps his mouth shut. He needs to be on the right side of this man, who could turn his fate around, or so Babloo promises. And no, he is not an astrologer. Or a tantric skilled in devious arts.

  ‘I am Khanna,’ announces the middle-aged, surprisingly fit man, extending a hand to his visitors.

  ‘Me, Babloo. He, Shivam,’ beams Babloo, discarding his namaste to accept the handshake.

  Target Detective Agency reads the board pinned on the wall behind the man heading the agency.

  ‘Saxenaji must’ve called you . . . ’ says Babloo, after the introduction.

  ‘Yes . . . yes,’ says Khanna with a nod. ‘Tea or Coca-Cola?’

  ‘Nothing, Khannaji. We need to discuss a delicate task.’

  ‘I’ve handled 186 cases till date,’ proclaims Mr Khanna. ‘Success rate 100 per cent.’

  ‘That’s why we’re here.’

  Khanna smiles and fixes them with a ‘tell me all’ look.

  ‘Matter is that Shivam Bhaiya here—’

  ‘— wants a spy on his wife, 24x7?’

  Before Shivam can open his mouth, Babloo shakes his head furiously.

  ‘Affair, then? Any background check you are looking for?’

  ‘No . . . no,’ says Babloo. ‘We want to know about a kurti . . . a girl’s kurti.’

  ‘Na . . . na.’ It’s Khanna shaking his head vigorously this time. ‘You want me to put my hands inside womenswear . . . na . . . na . . . that’s risky.’ His eyes are twinkling though.

  ‘Khannaji, this case is different . . . very different from what you handle.’

  The detective sits straighter, adjusts his hat back, and tries to read Shivam’s mind while the tailor sits mute beside his friend.

  ‘You see, we got a kurti,’ continues Babloo. ‘All we want to know is whose it is.’

  Khanna looks puzzled. He cannot make head or tail of this case.

  ‘Bhaiya,’ Babloo elbows Shivam, ‘you tell him the full story.’

  Shifting in his rickety seat, Shivam slowly gathers himself, looks at the detective in the eye and spills out his love story, a story that ended just when it began.

  Khanna sits listening, his hat masking his reactions as he hears the tale.

  ‘Okay, so the kurti is yours but the woman who’s got it now is not your woman, right?’ Khanna asks Shivam after the story.

  ‘But she can lead me to my girl . . . ’

  ‘Ah! That’s where I come in,’ Khanna finally gets a grip on his role.

  ‘Those people are big, Khannaji,’ Babloo points out. ‘Too big. We don’t have any access.’

  ‘So you want me to be your ladder.’

  The man is sharp. Babloo is now sure he is the man for this job.

  ‘You got to save my friend, Khannaji,’ Babloo pleads. ‘This guy’s been a zombie for years.’

  This ego-massage helps. Babloo had learned this in his trade. He has wrangled many performance opportunities from people in authority in this way. Right now, this private investigator, with his expertise and contacts, is the power centre.

  ‘Twenty thousand.’

  Two words, but how they make the two visitors jump.

  ‘Tww . . . twenty thousand,’ stammers Shivam, and turns to look at Babloo. His friend has brought him to the wrong place.

  Babloo stiffens. The quote for the detective’s fee has taken the air out of him.

  Khannaji of Target Detective Company dismisses his not-so-rich clients with a polite ‘Come back when you’re ready’, and turns to attend to his ringing phone.

  * * *

  ‘Why were you calling my office so many times?’

  Startled, Mrs Gupta spills a blob of nail paint on her toe.

  Her husband has walked into the room suddenly and raised his voice, when her whole mind and both hands are preoccupied with painting each toenail evenly.

  ‘Scare me,’ she cries. ‘Ya! Come, you too scare me.’

  Mr Gupta takes off his coat and tie and goes into the washroom to freshen up. He is not in the mood to be drawn into a dramatic argument right after returning from work. It has been a particularly busy day for him, with two foreign delegations in town. Added to the mix were his wife’s umpteen phone calls. It was embarrassing to have her calling him again and again even though his secretary had informed her he was busy.

  The frazzled diplomat heads for the shower. Years of service in the IFS have earned him silver wisps that fall on his forehead every time he bends his head. A small paunch is the only eyesore on an otherwise broad and muscular frame that he maintains with walks and workouts, whenever he is not travelling for work.

  Cool and refreshed after the shower, he reaches for his nightshirt and suddenly recalled something his wife said earlier. Scared? What had scared her? Was that why she had been calling him continuously? Concerned, he gets ready in a rush.

  ‘Tell me now, what’s riling you?’ he asks her, buttoning up even as he speaks.

  She sits unresponsive on the bed, watching her nails dry.

  ‘Arrey, Mrs Gupta,’ exclaims the diplomat, cuddling up to her on the bed. He draws on his professional expertise to soothe and sweet-talk her till she spills what is bothering her. She tells him about the tailor hanging around the apartment complex and asking about ‘madam’, following her car and wanting to meet her, and fighting with the maid and the guard for it.

  This is too much for the officer husband to digest. He is especially tickled by the part where the fan checks out her eye colour and then complains that it isn’t blue. Holding back a chuckle is proving difficult.

  ‘Let me also check,’ he says, flirtatiously and mischievously, pushing back the curly hair to gaze into her brown orbs. ‘I too got the colour wrong, I think. I need to look carefully.’

  She whacks his hand off
. He chides her for looking sixteen. ‘You look so young, Romeos will come buzzing. It’s not their fault.’

  ‘I’m serious,’ she says, not in a mood to be mocked.

  ‘I’m serious too,’ asserts her husband and picks up his magazine.

  But she can clearly see that he is not. His head, buried in the magazine, is shaking with mirth.

  Irritated, she gets off the bed, walks up to the switchboard and switches off the fan. She knows her husband can’t bear the heat.

  ‘Now you’re overacting.’

  ‘I’m feeling cold,’ she claims.

  ‘You are not coming down with something na?’

  ‘What do you care!’ she retorts.

  This is going too far. So Mr Gupta walks up to the couch where his wife has perched herself in a huff and gathers her in a warm hug.

  ‘Why is this bothering you so much, tell me,’ he coaxes her, all soft, wanting to dissipate her anger.

  ‘You’re, right. I shouldn’t be bothered,’ she says, looking angrily at him. ‘I stay here alone most times with the kids. You are always out on your trips and if anyone . . . anyone from the road . . . comes hounding, it shouldn’t be such a big problem. He could’ve attacked me. But why am I even bothered, you say.’

  Mr Gupta gets the message. This is serious. Not to be taken lightly.

  ‘He was bloody stalking me!’ cries out his wife.

  Mr Gupta thinks about it and realizes that his wife is right. Assaults and kidnappings are so common now. Delhi is getting more and more unsafe by the day.

  He holds her tighter.

  ‘I’ll look into it right away,’ he reassures her. ‘Now smile,’ he coaxes her.

  And she does.

  The mood in the room lifts immediately.

  * * *

  An abrupt change in the tone of his voice and behaviour becomes obvious as the detective puts down the phone receiver and addresses his visitors.

 

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