One String Attached

by Pankaj Dubey

  ‘Aaina,’ she sighs. ‘I don’t know any Aaina . . . But . . . I can tell you from where that kurti came.’

  Shivam’s face falls and lights up again.

  ‘Aligarh,’ she says. ‘It came from Aligarh.’

  ‘Aligarh?’ Babloo echoes, surprised.

  ‘Yes. From my mother-in-law’s trunk. She died last year. I found it there.’

  ‘How can that be,’ Shivam cries out. ‘It was Aaina’s . . . ’

  ‘Easy . . . easy . . . ’ as Babloo tries to calm his friend, Mrs Gupta continues, ‘Ma had a caretaker. Could be hers. Ma wore sarees only, not . . . ’

  ‘Did you know her?’ asks Shivam interrupting her and pushing away his mask. ‘Caretaker, I mean?’ His voice gets edgy.

  Mrs Gupta shakes her head. ‘Not really, but all I know is that she was a young Muslim girl.’

  Shivam begins to cry. What his Aaina must’ve gone through . . . all these years . . . without him.

  The doctor on duty stands next to Mr Gupta the entire time, listening in. Not stopping these visitors. Not asking them to leave. Mr Gupta speaks now. ‘Enough,’ he tells his wife, motioning her out.

  Babloo manages to get the Aligarh address out of Mrs Gupta before she walks out of the ward and their lives.

  ‘Vaishno Society on Ramghat Road,’ he tells Shivam.

  There is a tiny bird of hope still fluttering in their chests.

  25

  Shivam is fortunate that he hasn’t lost his memory. However, the headaches have also stayed. He has grown used to the constant throbbing in his skull. It has been there for a week. The doctors were sceptical about his recovery after the head injury and kept checking if he could remember things. He can. Clearly. Aaina. No way could he forget her, ever. And Babloo. His friend is always around and does not give Shivam a chance to forget him. As for the rest, they don’t matter.

  Finally, they discharge him. And he takes an auto right away.

  ‘I’ve got to check my shop once at least,’ he tells Babloo. Instead, he heads straight to the interstate bus terminus.

  ‘Aligarh. One ticket,’ he says, with quiet confidence. A little after four hours, he is standing outside a sprawling housing complex on the Ramghat Road. The sun is scorching overhead, so the place is desolate except for a guard who sits slouched at the gate in a vest and lungi. As soon as Shivam approaches him, he becomes alert.

  ‘Where do you want to go?’ The guard’s eyebrows rise in sync with his question.

  Shivam takes out a pad and pen from his pocket. ‘Population survey,’ he says. The guard is not convinced. Shivam offers to call his senior in the government department and make the guard speak to him. But the guard is still sceptical. Just then, a few monkeys descend upon them and take off with the guard’s tiffin box, which is lying beside him on the ground. As the guard goes chasing after them, Shivam sneaks in.

  Once inside, Shivam looks around for someone who can guide him to the flat the diplomat’s mother used to occupy. He can’t see anyone. Before him loom old, discoloured four-storey structures, with water tanks and TV antennae on the roofs. They seem silent and empty of life from afar. Up close, he finds balconies bursting with flowerpots and kurtis, sarees, shirts and underwear hung out to dry. Wait, he can spot someone . . . A woman, two balconies above him.

  ‘Hello Madam!’ he tries to catch her attention.

  Plop! Something lands on his head. It is a garment that the woman is trying to spread to dry. Before it can slip and get dirty, he catches it. He suddenly feels embarrassed because it’s a piece of lingerie. He looks up. The woman has gone back inside. Like a fool, he stands there with the mauve strappy bit in his hand.

  ‘It’s my Ammi’s.’ A boy runs up to him and announces.

  Relieved, Shivam pulls a sheet out of his note pad, wraps the fallen bra in it and hands it over to the boy, who takes off with it.

  ‘Hold on!’ Shivam runs after the kid and catches up with him as he is about to scoot up the stairs.

  ‘Do you know where C wing, flat number 103 is?’

  The kid in a Mickey Mouse T-shirt and matching shorts stares pointedly at the pen in Shivam’s hand. ‘Is that a gel pen?’

  ‘Do you like it? . . . Here, take.’ Shivam hands it over to him. ‘But help me with the directions, please?’

  The boy nods and motions for Shivam to follow him as he races ahead. Shivam tries to keep pace. Two buildings away, on the ground floor, they pause outside a flat. Most of the letters and digits have fallen off from the nameplate and only one digit and letter remain. A heavy metal padlock hangs outside the door. ‘This is the one you were looking for,’ says the boy. Shivam nods and he rushes off. So this was where Aaina lived and worked!

  Shivam leans against the locked door, wishing to go back in time so that he can just ring the bell and meet her. In front of him there is another flat and its nameplate says: # 102, VERMA’s. Shivam rings the bell. ‘Phenyl, acid, soap . . . whatever you are selling, I don’t want it!’ comes a sharp response. Shivam presses the doorbell again.

  A chubby lady in a maroon kurta flings open the door and looks at him curiously. ‘What you want?’ she asks matter-of-factly.

  ‘Population survey,’ repeats Shivam and pulls out his pad.

  ‘No gents are at home right now, come later,’ she says as she tries to close the door.

  ‘That’s okay . . . ’ begins Shivam.

  ‘That’s not okay!’ she says and bangs the door shut.

  Shivam is left staring at the locked door. He takes the stairs up to the first floor and climbs down hurriedly the next minute as ferocious barking follows him down. Exasperated, he wanders around the compound till he comes upon a Sardarji washing an old Maruti.

  ‘Me, Surinder Ahuja . . . hello ji,’ Sardarji introduces himself with a smile.

  Shivam smiles tentatively, trying to frame a question.

  ‘This file . . . pad . . . are you a sarkari afsar, a government official?’

  Stumped by the Sardarji’s acute observation, Shivam nods eagerly. ‘I’m here for the population survey,’ he reveals.

  ‘Counting people . . . bloody that’s an impossible job in India, hain na?’ he asks laughing.

  ‘Sardarji, I needed info . . . ’ begins Shivam, only to be cut by Sardarji, who now leaves the wipers of his car to come close and whisper.

  ‘This colony . . . I tell you, every family is busy making an army! Every flat you see . . . four or more kids . . . every flat.’

  Shivam has no answer. He turns around restlessly looking for another person who will talk less and answer more.

  The Sardarji stops him as he sees his attention waver. ‘Water . . . Has anyone offered you water?’ he asks eagerly.

  ‘Not water. I need data,’ Shivam tells him.

  ‘Accha, come. Let’s go to my flat,’ Sardarji invites him. ‘My car cleaning is over. You can start your survey with me.’

  Shivam follows him.

  He notes that the man lives in wing A of the apartment complex. When they reach his house, he pulls out his key to unlock the door and Shivam does a double take. What the hell is this! A flat or a garage?

  For he can see piston rods, flashy wheel-caps and spanners adorn the walls. In one corner, stands a jack. In the centre of the hall lies a huge tyre, topped with glass. A painting of Guru Nanak Dev, lit up with colourful bulbs that blink constantly.

  Shivam looks on, dazed.

  His host guides him to one of the Rexine sofas. He picks the deodorant kept by the window and sprays it all over the room ‘to freshen it up’. Next, he fetches a pitcher of rose sherbet and pours out two glasses—one for Shivam and another for himself.

  ‘Do you like chicken?’ he asks, as Shivam sits sipping the drink.

  ‘No sir, I’m a vegetarian.’

  ‘Oh! I’m a chicken lover.’

  Shivam smiles.

  ‘Just three or four Hindu families we’ve got in the C wing . . . rest are all Muslims.’

  ‘And how many
are there in your family, Ahujaji?’ asks Shivam, slipping into his role of a population officer.

  ‘One-man army, sirji,’ declares the Sardarji. Winking, he adds, ‘All this exploding population . . . yaar . . . someone has to show control na.’ He looks lost. ‘It’s not easy to manage alone . . . just that in time, you get used to it.’ They sit quietly for a minute, before he perks up again and asks Shivam, ‘You tell me . . . you look married, family-wallah types . . . ’

  Shivam nods.

  This sets off the Sardarji again. ‘I too got engaged . . . almost.’ He pauses to take a sip. ‘But then an NRI match came for her . . . Canada wallah . . . and she dumped me. Aligarh can never compete with Canada, right?’ He gulps downs the sherbet and his grief. ‘Forget all this,’ he declares, in his normal tone, ‘In your list, put one . . . one member for this flat.’

  ‘And for C wing, 103?’ Shivam asks, tentatively. ‘It was locked, but I need the information for every flat.’

  ‘103? That’s Guptaji’s flat . . . Arvind Gupta . . . he’s an IFS who stays in Delhi. His mother used to stay here. Auntyji couldn’t stand Delhi . . . all that noise . . . the showbazi . . . all the hypocrisy of a big town.’

  ‘She lived alone?’ Shivam asks casually but his heart thumps with expectation.

  ‘No, no. She had a caretaker . . . a young Muslim girl.’

  Shivam is almost delirious with excitement now. ‘How . . . how old was she . . . what did she look like?’

  ‘Auntyji?’ Sardarji is incredulous at this question.

  ‘N . . . No,’ Shivam gives out an embarrassed laugh. ‘This caretaker girl that you talked about? It will help in my survey.’

  ‘She wore a hijab. I never saw her face.’

  ‘Her eyes . . . her eyes? Would’ve been open. Were they blue?’

  Ahujaji’s fist comes down on the Rexine sofa. ‘Arrey I wouldn’t know if my girlfriend’s eyes were black or brown . . . and you want me tell you if I have peeped into the eyes of a girl who was wearing a hijab and working for an old lady? What kind of a survey is that, haan?’ He gets up.

  Shivam stands up, shaking and disappointed. But he doesn’t explain himself.

  ‘Okay, sirji. Got to go now . . . work,’ says his host.

  As Shivam leaves the flat and makes his way down the stairs, his mind is in on overdrive.

  Aaina did stay here. That is almost confirmed. But where was she now . . . where in Aligarh? Did someone here know? Will they tell?

  He lingers near the C wing again, his heart unwilling to leave without an answer. He’s not sure if he will be able to come back here. He sees three girls, of varying age and height, come down the steps of the Wing. His hopes rise.

  ‘I’m looking for Aaina,’ he tells them. ‘C-103.’

  ‘C 103 wallahs all are dead,’ says one girl curtly. ‘It is a gh . . . h . . . h . . . host house now,’ she says trying to scare Shivam. The others laugh wickedly.

  ‘No!’ Shivam almost screams in irritation. ‘Not the old woman, I’m looking for the young girl with her’.

  ‘Young girl?’ repeats another girl. ‘Ask Bhaijaan then . . . he knows every young girl here,’ she says pointing to the two boys who were coming towards them. Then, without a warning, she calls out, ‘Bhaijaan, he’s asking for a young girl.’

  Shivam instantly regrets having spoken to the girls. Before he can open his mouth to explain, a hand lands on his collar. The boys stand in front of him, poised for a confrontation.

  ‘Don’t do this,’ Shivam tries to jerk himself free. He shields his head with his arms. He can’t risk another head injury.

  The boys don’t listen to him. They grab him and tackle him to the ground. ‘Young girl, you want . . . young girl na,’ cries the taller of the two boys. ‘Young boy, I give you. Take!’ He kicks him. Shivam turns quickly and rolls off to avoid the blow.

  ‘Arrey, stop. He is a government officer!’ says the guard, rushing in. Deaf to the watchman, the boys jump on Shivam, not letting him get up. Bunching up his lungi, the gateman readies to enter the battle. By then, Shivam has regained control and is up on his feet. Those years of body-building and swinging the club in the park . . . these skinny boys are no match for him.

  ‘You guys have got it all wrong,’ he says, as he wards off the taller one while holding the other boy with an arm and half his body. ‘Aaina, I was looking for . . . only Aaina,’ he shouts into their ears.

  The words are wasted on them because the lanky boy is in no mood to give up. The watchman sees him land a kick from the back, forcing Shivam to swerve and push him off. The boy stumbles but Shivam catches him before he hits the ground, not wanting the youngster to get hurt.

  Drawn by the ruckus, more people descend on them. They start attacking the outsider to save their colony boys. The watchman dances about in his lungi, trying to clear the air. Everyone is spoiling for a fight and no one listens to his pleas.

  Shivam is on his knees and six-seven of them rain blows on him. Arms crossed over his head, he sways back and forth, shielding himself unsuccessfully.

  ‘Stop!’ screams the guard finally, running into the middle as things threaten to get out of hand. ‘He did nothing. Hafiz and Imran started it . . . yes, Hafiz and Imran!’

  By the time the throng lets go of him, Shivam is limping. His left arm and lip are bleeding into his shirt. Not sparing another glance at the C wing or its occupants, he hobbles out of the compound, helped by the guard.

  ‘Aaina?’ The watchman can’t help but ask as he leads the population survey officer to the gate.

  ‘I came for her.’

  ‘Not to count people?’

  ‘No, she’s my life,’ he tells the guard, hoping the man will understand and forgive him the lie. ‘I came here looking for her.’

  The guard doesn’t say a word. He flags an auto for him and walks back to his perch.

  ‘Navrang Guest House,’ Shivam tells the auto wallah, grateful for this help. ‘Take it quickly please. I’ve got to catch my bus.’

  His belongings are at the guest house. Only after checking-out from there can he take the bus out of Aligarh.

  26

  As the auto starts, someone slips in beside Shivam. ‘Sardarji!’

  ‘Just accompanying the injured party,’ he replies with a smile.

  ‘I’ll manage,’ protests Shivam.

  Sardarji does not budge.

  The auto wallah gets confused . . . to go or not to go?

  ‘Please, I want to be alone . . . please, Sardarji . . . there’s no need of anyone.’

  ‘Aaina?’ His eyes twinkling, Sardarji utters the one word that holds a world of promise. That one word shuts him up.

  As the auto turns towards the guest house, Shivam looks at Sardarji but holds back himself from asking what brought the man to him until they reach the guest house. Once they are in his room, Shivam, who has momentarily forgotten that he has to leave urgently, brings it up again. ‘You knew her?’ he asks cautiously and in anticipation.

  ‘Not as much as you,’ replies Sardarji, with a smile. ‘Yaar, you should’ve told me before it’s a matter of love-shuv . . . all this fight scene would have been cut.’

  ‘Sardarji . . . ’ Shivam is impatient but Sardarji has his own leisurely style of speaking and refuses to be rushed. ‘I told you na, only three-four Hindu families here . . . in this compound . . . and Auntyji lived alone. So, she called me . . . sometimes to service the AC, sometimes the car. Sometimes, just to talk.’

  Shivam nods, realizing he will have to let Sardarji tell the story in his own way.

  ‘And Aaina, your Aaina, would be there all the time . . . fetching something . . . feeding her . . . filling some form for her . . . or dialling the numbers she wanted. Auntyji was a strict lady, kept the girl on her toes.’

  ‘And after her?’

  ‘After her, she went with Abdul. Abdul, our supplier. Everything here, he supplies . . . milk to bread to eggs, even meat. Any electrical problem, we call Abdul. For flat s
ale also, he . . . ’

  ‘Went with him means?’ cuts in Shivam, now sick with anticipation.

  ‘Married him, I guess . . . she had nowhere to go after Auntyji.’

  ‘Why Abdul?’ Shivam refuses to believe it.

  ‘He came to our colony every day, so she knew him in a way,’ says Sardarji. ‘She did not know anyone else here, I think. No family also. Where is a girl to go!’

  But Aaina was not the sort to tag along with just about anyone . . .

  ‘Are you sure, Sardarji?’

  ‘Wait, I’ll get you Abdul’s address. You can go and check yourself.’

  Fifteen minutes later, Sardarji is gone, having left a piece of paper in Shivam’s hand.

  Muazzamil Manzil, 23-A, Kabir colony

  Shivam takes another auto-rickshaw.

  * * *

  It is dark by the time he reaches Kabir colony. Once again, he stands in front of a gate. However, this time it is different. The gate is broken and leads up an uneven path to a ramshackle structure that has a door and a few windows—all shut and heavily curtained, the only light is around the edges of the curtains.

  He stands there staring at the scene. For an hour. Two hours. Staring, but not a soul leaves or goes into the building. And then, the lights go out too—the lit edges of the curtains become dark. He leaves then, feeling his way back through unknown, unlit lanes, in what is a dark, moonless night. It is too dark, and he thinks he could be misunderstood.

  He is back again the next day. This time, he finds the main door of the house partly open. Again, no one exits or enters. He ventures closer and peeks in.

  Someone is flitting about in a mauve salwar kameez. He sees her . . . carrying something . . . keeping it and returning . . . leaving again for something else. He tries to get a glimpse of her face but can’t see. It’s just the whisk of her dupatta flying about her as she moves to and fro briskly. Shivam grows eager. What if she is indeed his Aaina?

  It looks like no one else is inside. Gathering his courage, Shivam walks up to the unlatched door and calls out to her in a loud whisper, ‘Aaina?’

  Startled, she drops what she is carrying. Before he can say another word, she slams the door on his face and locks herself in.