by Pankaj Dubey
‘Aaina!’ He pleads at the closed door.
‘Not here,’ she replies from within. ‘She doesn’t stay here.’
Shivam cannot let go. He bangs on the door, begging her to open it and talk. She does not respond. He then rings the doorbell. There is no answer. He rings it again and again. He knows she’s there, standing by the door, on the other side . . . he can hear her.
‘Aaina! It’s me . . . Shivam,’ he says. ‘Just open the door and see my face. You’ll know.’
Still, she doesn’t say a word. The door doesn’t open even an inch. He cannot stand at the door indefinitely. So he turns to go. He makes it past the iron gate to the footpath opposite. But his feet refuse to step further. He drops down at the spot, beneath a tree, and sits waiting. Just like he waited for her years ago. She will be watching him. He knows that. And yes, soon he spies a figure peeking from behind one of the curtained windows. He waves to her. Lets her know he’s there for her. Waiting till she is ready.
That flusters her. She picks up the phone and dials a number. This is the one thing she wanted to avoid but can’t now.
‘Someone’s at my door,’ she says.
‘Who’s he? What does he want?’
‘Aaina,’ she whispers.
‘I’m coming,’ he barks and disconnects.
She shivers as she hangs up. She did not want to make the call but this boy . . .
Under the tree, Shivam sits lost in his thoughts. He should’ve seen her eyes . . . somehow, should’ve managed this. He made it to her door, yet he didn’t . . .
He shakes his head. He tries shaking it again, but can’t. Someone has grabbed it from behind.
Shivam sits up straighter and tries to yank his head back from the unseen person’s grip. But he is pulled back. Shivam swings around and punches the face he is yet to see. Caught off-guard, the person topples and falls on the pavement.
Shivam looks at the man his Aaina has chosen. A sullen visage, marred by a scar. He is half-lying on the footpath beside him. Shivam is disgusted by his behaviour. How could she? He looks so harsh. And older, in his forties, perhaps. Dark and thin-lipped.
As he gets to his feet, Shivam gets up too.‘Get lost . . . you!’ This does not scare Shivam. The lean supplier has not half the muscle as him.
‘I want to meet Aaina,’ he says, trying to placate him.
The man goes berserk. ‘Meet her in hell!’ he screams and charges at Shivam, pulling a knife out of his jeans pocket. Shivam falters, not having expected this, but escapes the knife. As the two slug it out on the street, a crowd gathers around them. Suddenly, the door of the house opens and a woman rushes out.
‘Let him go,’ she pleads with the man, trying to break the fight. ‘We don’t want another police case.’
Shivam lets go of his attacker and turns to look at her. He sees a flash of mauve because, in the next instant, she is dragged away from the scene by the man. But not before he has seen her eyes.
They are blue! The same blue eyes he worshipped.
‘Aaina!’ He cries out and runs after them.
This time he gets a gash across his arm. Pushing Aaina inside the door, the man attacks Shivam viciously. Someone from the crowd rushes in to save him. When he sees five-six more people walk towards him, the man pockets his knife. Filthy language follows as Shivam trundles out, his arm bleeding, past the iron gate.
‘You need to bandage it,’ says the stranger who jumped in to save him. ‘Come, I live next door.’
As the neighbour’s mother dips her scarf in a bowl of ice water and cleans his wound, she scolds him. ‘Why did you pick a fight with him? Don’t you know what a butcher he is!’
Shivam keeps quiet. He’s hurting. Not from the knife gash but because he can’t imagine how she was with this man. She was so aloof with him but how she came running for Abdul! It kills him to see them together. Why . . . why is she doing this to him?
‘Are you related to Aaina?’ The old woman’s question rescues him from his depressing thoughts.
He nods.
‘Then where were you when she was in trouble and had to run away.’
‘Run away?’ Shivam is stunned to hear this.
Done cleaning his wound, she nods and gets up. ‘Yes, to Dubai . . . didn’t you know?’
Shivam looks blank.
‘No choice she had . . . This butcher tortured her every night . . . and his wife took revenge during the day.’
This knife cut into him again . . . this time through the heart . . . He is bleeding badly and none can see the wound that will never ever heal . . . never!
Shivam shut his eyes . . . The pain is getting unbearable.
‘Are you okay?’ The man who saved him from Abdul comes forward, wondering what has suddenly come over Shivam.
Opening his eyes, Shivam begins to put two and two together . . . The first thing that hits him is a realization that is soothing. ‘So, this woman here is not Aaina?’
‘Aaina? No, she’s Rukhsana . . . Abdul’s wife,’ replies the mother before her son can open his mouth.
‘But her eyes—’
‘Why you asking all this?’ cuts in the neighbour. Shivam’s questions are making him apprehensive.
‘Am looking for Aaina . . . went to Auntyji’s place where she worked. They sent me here.’
‘Beta, she’s gone. Forget her,’ says the mother. The old woman can see the grief in his eyes and his shaky voice. She understands where this is coming from.
‘But why Dubai?’
‘For work. But also because Abdul can’t catch her there.’ This time, the son answers.
That makes sense. Shivam nods. ‘And you would have her Dubai address?’
That is too much to hope for but he gives it a shot.
‘Afim bhai, who got her passport, etc., done said she’d got some job there.’
‘Afim bhai . . . can I meet him?’ asks Shivam, pushing his luck.
‘Yes, you can. For this, you’ll have to die first and pray you land in the same place as him.’
The neighbour, tired of Shivam and his questions, shows him the door.
With the Afim bhai lead too reaching a dead-end, Shivam does not know which route to take now. The auto wallah deposits him to the guest house. He enters it with a heavy heart. A sad number from the yesteryears is playing on the radio and the receptionist sits humming, his eyes closed.
‘Key.’
His eyes snapping open, the receptionist regards Shivam curiously.
‘Did you come here to wrestle?’ he asks, eyeing the bandages around his head and arm. This is the second time he’s seen him beaten up in the past two days.
‘Key,’ repeats Shivam, not interested in small talk.
‘Your brother took it.’
‘My brother?’ Shivam looks clueless as the receptionist puts up his hands in surrender.
Shivam is sure it is Sardarji, who has come to check how the story went with Abdul. But he is in no mood to talk with anyone. He will simply pick up his bag and leave. When he reaches his room, he finds the door shut. He knocks but no one answers. He knocks harder. Still, no response. That makes him angry. He is tired and in a foul mood. This is the second time in the day that he has stood knocking and people have refused to open the door for him and, damn it, this one is to his own room. He starts kicking at it, raising a racket.
It opens suddenly and he almost falls in as he is leaning against it. Someone supports him as he stumbles and the touch feels oddly familiar. He raises his head.
‘Babloo!’
Babloo bends over to pick up his headphones, which have fallen to the floor.
‘What Bhaiya! Two songs I was mixing in my head . . . and you ****ed it all!
Shivam does not react. This is too much. Babloo has always known Shivam to rant, rage or rile at him. Never has he gone silent on him. He looks at his friend closely.
He looks defeated. There are new bandages on his arm.
‘Bhaiya, why are you looking like this? One
day I’m not there and you go to pieces.’
This familiar banter snaps something inside Shivam. He chucks the bag he is packing on the bed and sits morosely, with his head in his hands.
Babloo sees tears welling in his eyes.
‘I’m starving,’ he says to distract his friend. ‘Bhaiya, let’s go eat something first.’
‘You are always starving,’ Shivam says and smiles. He knows that his friend and his growling tummy can be ignored only at his peril.
It is almost evening by the time they board the UP Roadways bus to Delhi. By then, not only are their stomachs satiated, Babloo’s mad talk and reassuring ways have calmed Shivam’s mind too.
‘You didn’t see her? No problem,’ says Babloo. ‘A new place you saw na. Now you can tell people you’ve been to Aligarh too.’
Shivam keeps looking out of the window, not adding to the insane chatter.
‘And Bhaiya, if this continues, this search, I mean, and you keep getting clues . . . not her . . . just clues to her . . . think Bhaiya, full world you’ll get to see!’
One punch from Shivam and Babloo gets even more excited.
‘At least Dubai-returned you’ll become now . . . 100 per cent . . . that I guarantee.’
‘And I guarantee,’ Shivam says, ‘if you were a girl and I married you . . . I wouldn’t have to go anywhere. Except for the bathroom.’
‘Bhaiya, you don’t like me tagging along right . . . I won’t once you get her . . . pucca,’ his voice is low now.
Shivam first hugs and then hits him. ‘Dramebaaz! I’m used to you now . . . if you go . . . I’ll have to go searching for you also.’
This warms Babloo’s heart like nothing else can. This is the first compliment he has gotten out of Shivam in all these years.
‘Babloo, this kurti is making me dance so much . . . I wish it hadn’t come to me only.’
‘You say this one more time and I’ll get you hitched to my wife’s sister . . . pucca I’ll do that!’ Babloo threatens him.
The idea is abhorrent . . . and both roll their eyes in disgust.
‘Let’s book her for next life,’ laughs Shivam.
‘Yes,’ agrees Babloo, adding ‘For someone we don’t like.’
He is so tickled by this thought that the passenger behind has to poke his head and yell at him to stop shaking so. Shivam goes back to gazing out of his window, staring blankly as another place linked to her fades into nothing.
27
The bus jerks to a stop in the middle of the road and jolts everyone awake.
‘Dacoits!’ screams someone.
Ten minutes and much chatter later, a plump man boards the bus. In denims and a T-shirt that announces him World’s Best Lover, he’s coming towards them looking like anyone but a dacoit. Three seats ahead of them, he kneels before a girl and confesses his love to much whistling and clapping all around.
As the bus revs back to life and races ahead with the additional passenger, Shivam grips Babloo’s shoulder. ‘Yaar, I was the one who came seeking a girl . . . and this muffin got one!’
‘Bhaiya, we’re in UP now . . . You just say . . . in minutes, I’ll get his encounter done.’
‘Abey, fool! I don’t want his girl. My girl, I want only mine.’
‘That’s the problem. Else I would have lined up six for you. Mine too is on offer . . . only no one takes.’
Shivam turns away. He’s not in the mood to banter. He is trying to figure all the roadblocks to Dubai. He needs to clear them one by one. Fast. And leave.
Babloo quits goofing around and sets his sights on the Arab nation too. Hundreds of things will need to be in place. Passport, visa, cash, contacts . . . He starts scrolling his phone contacts, one by one. And hits jackpot!
‘Got it, Bhaiya . . . Dubai-wallah contact!’ His excitement bubbles over. ‘Our Shankar na . . . his brother is there . . . now, no issue. Everything he will tell us.’
‘Shankar, who?’ Shivam asks, curious.
‘Arrey, our dhabe-wallah Shankar, the one who was giving us free booze the other night.’
‘Okay. The one whose forms you filled.’
‘Those were his brother’s. He’s the chap living in Dubai.’
‘Ask him how he sent his brother there.’
‘That’s the idea. Bhaiya. Let’s dine at his dhaba tonight.’
Shivam is smiling now. But in the next second, he gets tense again.
‘Babloo, this Khannaji . . . you think he will refund our payment?’
‘Now, where will we go looking for him? . . . One more detective you’ll need to track this one.’
‘Lot of money it was . . . ’
‘Forget it, Bhaiya . . . it’s gone. We will get a personal loan.’
‘Personal loan! Which bank will grant us a loan, you idiot!
‘Arrey, you don’t worry . . . I’ll do something.’
‘Will you sing for them? Ten paisa you’ll get then . . . not loan.’
‘Bhaiya, if you want to go to Dubai, stitch your mouth and sit quietly.’
And that’s exactly what Shivam does. Not because of Babloo but because he needs to be with himself and sort things out. The past three-four days have seen more action than the whole damn decade. And more is yet to come.
Before the bus reaches Delhi, a phone call changes all plans for dinner at the dhaba.
Mr Chaddha wants to take Babloo with him to London, and he wants to meet him immediately about this. The NRI client will pay big money and wants to meet and discuss the details.
‘My ears are rotting with this virgin . . . like a virgin all the time. Any party in London I go to, it’s the same . . . Madonna–Prince, Madonna–Prince. Indians there all turning angrez, saale!’
Babloo does not interrupt to ask Mr Chaddha why he lives in England if he hates the English so much.
‘Not on my birthday. No pop-shopp! I’ve told my wife that I want only desi stuff in my party. Dhawan saheb recommended you then. Dhamaka, he called your bhajans . . . total filmy touch wallah singing! Exactly my taste! So, I’m booking you for next month . . . quote your fee. I’ll give fifty per cent advance now. Plus for tickets . . . visa, etc.’
Is this a prank? Only Shivam Bhaiya tries such stunts on him. It can’t be Shivam. He’s sitting right next to him. He’s gazing out of the bus window while Mr Chaddha calls for an appointment. Insisting for tonight only. At Taj Hotel. It isn’t a prank!
Babloo rubs his eyes to make sure Mr Chaddha is real.
Three quarters of the next day disappears in listing the Bollywood numbers Chaddhaji especially likes. Babloo will prepare his remixed bhajans accordingly. He is made to sign a proper contract for the show.
‘No advance can come without a contract . . . business is business,’ booms the NRI as his secretary readies the necessary papers.
Cheque in pocket, Babloo came down the hotel lift, whistling. He feels rich. Shivam does not believe what Babloo narrates till he flashes the cheque.
‘Life is insane yaar,’ Shivam remarks, as they leave the hotel. ‘First, muffin gets girl . . . now, you get paid for shrieking.’
‘Bhaiya, I’m telling you . . . , once, I’m gone, you’ll miss my voice.’
‘You are right. I’ll keep your . . . recording, I’ll keep . . . to scare my kids. Now, quiet.’
They go to the bank to deposit the cheque in complete silence. In their excitement, they forget that it was way past banking hours. Both are busy thinking. Planning. I will sell my shop . . . everything here . . . except . . . except the sewing machine. Not Ammi’s machine. Everything else . . . This should take care of the ticket and travel . . .
Babloo is smiling as he rides pillion. Seventy-five thousand rupees is big money. And this is only half the advance. Best part is that his wife knows nothing of it. He could blow it all up as he chooses! And he will, right away!
Shivam brakes suddenly.
‘Yes, kill us,’ screams Babloo, ‘kill us just when things start looking up.’
‘K
ishore Kumar, control! This high volume . . . and you won’t make it to London. Your throat will go on strike.’
Babloo calms down. Shivam knows his buttons and also knows when to press them. The bank is closed, so they travel in a daze onward to the dhaba. Both of them are not hungry, even though neither has eaten anything since a while. It seems a happy turn in life fills not just their minds but their stomachs too. Once at the table though, they devour all the freshly cut onion rings the waiter places before them in a metal plate, dipping them greedily in the bowl of green mint chutney served alongside.
‘You are both famished!’ laughs Shankar, noting that they had not waited for the meal to be served before polishing off the onions.
‘Yes, for you.’ And catching the dhaba owner by his billowing shirt sleeve, Babloo pulls him over to the empty chair at their table.
‘Arrey, it’s business time,’ protests Shankar. ‘I can’t sit.’
‘Sit for two minutes. I need a favour today,’ Babloo says softly. ‘A big one.’
‘No stress, bhai . . . pay next time.’
‘It’s not that . . . this favour is bigger.’
Shankar eyes him warily. ‘See, I can’t give a loan. Sending Bunty to a foreign country you know ate up whatever little I’d saved.’
‘Relax, Shankar bhai. No one’s asking for a loan.’
The man breathes easier.
‘Like you sent Ravi, send my brother too,’ he say pointing to Shivam. ‘He also wants to go. Same place.’
‘Dubai?’
Shivam nods.
‘I told him Shankar bhai’s the expert on Dubai.’
Pumped by this praise, the dhaba owner readily spends over fifteen minutes with the two, guiding them on how to get the passport done quickly under the Tatkal scheme, which Karol Bagh agent to go to for the cheapest ticket, and details on other documents required for travel.
‘Once there . . . eat, work, enjoy . . . do all . . . but keep one thing in mind, keep far away from girls. The Arabs have got very tough laws. So, no staring, no talking . . . have absolutely nothing to do with them.’
‘Arrey he’s going after a girl only.’
‘What!’