by Pankaj Dubey
Shankar is shocked but he cools down when told about the love angle. Then he continues, ‘Food you’ll have to manage . . . lodging your employer will arrange.’
‘What job? He’s chucking all he’s got here to go searching for his girl.’
Some guest creates a racket over his half-baked roti and the dhaba owner is summoned to pacify the customer. He returns to Babloo’s table right after he sorts out the issue, curious to hear more of this love angle. And when they tell him the whole story, he becomes emotional.
‘Yaar, I’ll ask Ravi if you can stay with him for a few days,’ he offers.
Overwhelmed by his generosity, Babloo hugs him. ‘You speak to your Ravi . . . and I’ll get his documents done.’
* * *
‘I love you, Chaddhaji . . . ’ Babloo sings in his sleep.
‘Chaddhaji?’
His wife, who has no ear for his songs, jolts awake.
Babloo curses himself. Chaddhaji has to stay a secret from wifey. He can’t tell her that the first international assignment he has is being harvested to fund his friend’s passport, ticket and visa. She would explode.
‘Songs . . . I like his songs . . . he’s the new singer on the block . . . Chaddhaji.’
She falls for that line. Her husband goes gaga over one singer or the other all the time. An impending marital war is thus nipped in the bud. Babloo snores until sunrise, content with all he has managed the past week.
Dawn brings another problem with it. The problem of more funds and this time the solution is complicated. Babloo lies in bed chewing on it. This is not an easy decision for him. But by noon, Shivam and he reach the goldsmith.
‘This is a pure gold set, a good design too,’ he says after his discussion with the jeweller. The jeweller picks up one bangle and eyes it closely, not taking Babloo at his word. He scratches its surface on a stone, pours a drop of something on the yellow metal and then blows on it. His face gives no clue about his finding. Then, he takes it the set inside to his assistants for an evaluation. Babloo and Shivam wait patiently until one of them returns with the details and whispers in his master’s ears.
‘Seventy-seven thousand for the set,’ he announces after his assistant leaves.
‘It’s worth at least eighty-five, I can guarantee you that.’
‘Life has no guarantee, you are talking of this . . . ’
Shivam does not like this smooth-talking jeweller at all.
‘Eighty-three?’ Babloo bargains.
The jeweller keeps the set gently on the table.
Shivam nudges Babloo. ‘He’s looting you. Let’s go . . . we’ll do something else.’
‘Give your last price,’ tries Babloo, one final time. ‘If it suits me, I’ll sell.’
‘Eighty is the last price, take or leave it.’
‘Done,’ exclaims Babloo, at once. ‘But I want all cash, and now.’
As the jeweller walks to his safe to get the cash, Babloo turns to his friend, ‘Remember, Bhaiya, you laugh when I would say, I can sell my family jewellery for you. See, I’ve done it.’
Shivam, who is already feeling guilty, feels even more so and his face falls.
‘Find and marry your Aaina now, Bhaiya,’ says his friend, his face shining.
‘Forget Aaina! Right now, I want to marry you instead,’ replies Shivam, hugging him.
Laughing, both leave the shop. Babloo is singing, for he has solved the problem that was gnawing at his mind since morning—dirhams! Foreign currency is what they had forgotten to buy. The ticket, passport and visa fees have gobbled up all of the advance money. Shivam too is broke after selling his shop and paying the house rent. He can’t send his friend to Dubai with empty pockets, so the jewels. Babloo is sure he won’t love his wife more if she adorns all her jewellery. It is useless then and he decides to put it to good use.
28
Babloo and his whole family have come to see off Shivam. Shivam is both excited and nervous. He is flying off to a foreign land to look for someone he doesn’t know the address of . . . leaving behind the one person he still has in this world. Babloo busies himself in fetching a trolley and loading it with the one suitcase Shivam is carrying. Rekha stands close to Shivam.
‘The whole colony knows about your love story now,’ she tells him with stars in her eyes. ‘Everyone’s now waiting for you to get her here.’ She’s sad that he’s going away, to another girl. In her heart she knows she never had a chance. A part of her is thrilled too to learn what a hero he was, totally filmy.
‘If only others could learn to love and go after their woman like you!’ That is Rashmi, Babloo’s wife. And she looks pointedly at her husband when saying this to Shivam. The sarcasm is not lost on Babloo.
‘This is an airport. At least don’t suck my blood here!’ he hits back. Thank God, she has not found out about the gold set he sold. The day she does, will be his last.
Soon it’s time for Shivam to leave. Rekha sidles close to him and whispers in his ear,
‘Wear your purple T-shirt when you go to meet her. You look totally like Fardeen Khan. Anyone will flip for you.’
Too many emotions are welling up his throat now. Shivam is unable to speak.
He pats her on the shoulder.
Rekha is in tears. ‘I wish my eyes were blue too,’ she blurts out, unable to hold back.
He hugs her then.
He looks around for Babloo. But the bugger has been avoiding him since the time they reached the airport. Even now he is walking away from them, towards the cab. Shivam runs after him leaving his baggage trolley, only to be summoned back by a cop who blasts him for leaving his luggage unattended.
Babloo watches him from afar . . . he does not want to break down. Not before Shivam. There will be time for this later. Shivam leaves then. Pushing his trolley towards a whole new world. Seeking a face from the past. It takes him a while to reach his seat on board the aircraft after completing his visa and customs formalities.
‘Excuse me . . . 16 A,’ he says to a woman as he reaches his seat. The woman in seat 16 B squashes her legs to the side to allow him more space for passage. Shivam squeezes in, careful to avoid touching her knee that is still jutting out a bit. But he is happy it is a window seat.
He looks out the window at the massive wing before him and the airport personnel below on the tarmac. Take-off is exciting for it’s his first time on an aeroplane. Soon they are airborne and the buildings below disappear quickly from view. Feeling bereft, he sinks back in his seat and shuts his eyes.
It has not been a month since her kurti found its way back to him. And look where it is taking him now . . . away from all . . . his boutique . . . and Babloo . . . and life, as he knows it. So much beating he has taken . . . not once . . . not twice . . . thrice in three weeks. And he, a body-builder. What more will you make me do . . .
‘Aaina!’ he sighs out loud, his eyes still shut.
‘It’s been ages since someone called me by my name.’
Shivam’s eyes fly open the second he hears this.
It’s the passenger in the next seat.
She turns to him with a smile that reaches her eyes.
‘Hi! You know my name,’ she says. ‘Yours, I don’t know.’
‘Shivam,’ he says while still trying to understand the irony of the situation. She says she is Aaina and he has found her right after boarding the airplane. Is . . . God fooling around with him again?
He stares at her in disbelief. She has a classical face, with prominent, arched brows and a sharp nose. Her hair cascades in bouncy waves to just past the shoulders. She looks very attractive in an azure short-sleeved top with a playful tie-me-up bow. Her eyes . . . black.
They are not blue. Again, he checks. Not blue. Intense and beautiful . . . but not blue. Puzzled, he withdraws into silence.
When the welcome drinks come, he declines it, not wanting to shell out on the inconsequential. She takes a glass and sips on orange juice. But she doesn’t pay. He’s wondering why.
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She finds him watching her drink surreptitiously.
‘Is it free?’ he asks, finally.
She bursts out laughing at this, spurting some juice on her pants. A sprinkling on his too.
For some reason, he doesn’t mind it.
‘It this your first time?’ she asks, grabbing some tissues to wipe her clothes. He nods as she hands over one to him too, along with an apology.
‘I wasn’t laughing at you . . . I’m sorry’
He smiles weakly.
‘I saw you sneakily eyeing my juice and I thought . . . you want to pop something in it and sedate me.’
‘Ya . . . you should be careful, I am a beast.’
Laughing, she rings the call bell above to order a drink for him.
‘Here . . . orange and pineapple . . . two glasses for you,’ she says when the tray arrives.
‘Do I look starved?’ he asks.
‘For attention, maybe,’ she replies, with a twinkle in her eye.
Two glasses of juice later, he is more in the mood to talk.
‘So why does no one call you by your name?’
‘Cause no one remembers it . . . my original name, I mean.’
‘Parents?’
‘It’s different when you’re adopted,’ she says.
That silences him. He can feel her pain in her words. And, yes, pain is something he knows . . . and well understands.
After a minute, she picks up the thread of the conversation again.
‘They were a British couple living in Hyderabad. I was barely five when they got me. And the Indian maid they had, she kept calling me Arzoo . . . not Aaina.’
Shivam does not know how to comfort her.
‘Aaina, I am, I told her . . . but no one was listening. Cause my new dad . . . he died too . . . after just a month of having adopted me.’
Shivam stares open-mouthed.
‘Accident,’ she explains. ‘This hit my new mom so bad, she left India for good, taking Arzoo with her.’
There’s an onboard announcement that lunch is being served.
‘So I became Arzoo,’ she says, ‘forgetting in time . . . that I was ever Aaina.’
‘Till I reminded . . . and pained you again.’
‘You gave me a chance to be Aaina again,’ she returns with a smile.
As the meal trays arrive, both of them get down to the business of eating.
‘Tell me your story,’ she orders when digging into a spoonful of dessert.
‘There’s nothing to tell.’
‘Aaina . . . where does that fit?’
Shivam puts down his spoon and looks at her.
‘What she is to me, I don’t know . . . where she is today, don’t know . . . all I know is, it’s Aaina that I live for,’ he says in one breath.
The power of his words silences her.
She doesn’t need to hear his full story. Pain, she gathers, is at the heart of it. The pain of separation. And it is this that connects both of them. Making them one in that air journey of a few hours.
‘Wow, we’re in the same line,’ exclaims Arzoo, when he tells her how he entered the tailoring business, following his passion.
‘I source ethnic wear for South Asians in London,’ she says. ‘That’s what got me to India . . . and Dubai now.’
The airhostess, there to serve coffee, finds them deep in a discussion about textiles and layered clothing styles.
‘Expats there are caught between being Asian and doing the English thing. All the time they feel they’re being judged, especially for their clothing,’ laments Arzoo. ‘So tough it gets at times to choose for them.’
‘Layering might work,’ suggests Shivam.
‘Layering is mostly about temperature control,’ she points out.
‘Why,’ contradicts Shivam. ‘It’s our choice how we layer.’
Her face says she does not get it.
‘How about something modern and trendy . . . and layering it with something more traditional?’ he elaborates. ‘Like your two-piece nighties.’
She is bowled over by the simplicity of his idea.
Soon they announce descent. They have chatted for the entire three and a half hours but their journey together is far from over.
She gives him her card. ‘We could be a team, I think,’ she tells him as they collect their baggage and move towards immigration. ‘You supplying me clothes, I mean,’ she adds, seeing his face frown in question.
‘Yes . . . if I get back okay . . . and my designing works for your clients.’
‘So . . . ’ she holds out her hand . . . in friendship and goodbye.
‘Take care, Arzoo,’ he says, taking her hand firmly in his.
‘Aaina . . . Say it . . . take care, Aaina.’
‘Arzoo,’ he repeats the name, unable to call another person by that name.
She gulps with the hope that he will. But the words slip out nonetheless. ‘I’ll pray you get your Aaina, and I know you will. But, if God wills otherwise, this Aaina could be there . . . waiting for you. Look her up.’
He gathers her in a hug. Only to be pushed away.
‘Don’t. It’s Dubai, not Delhi.’
Yes, he realizes as he takes in the Arab stamp all around him. It’s a whole new world and culture, one that he will have to negotiate with care, alone. Even Arzoo is gone, breezing out of Immigration and his life. Standing in queue, he waits for what life will bring next.
29
Shankar’s brother accosts the new arrival from behind him as Shivam turns his trolley first left, then right, hunting for the Rolex signboard Shankar said Ravi would be standing under.
‘I’ve been waiting for nearly an hour,’ grumbles the cook’s brother.
Shivam had not expected this. Ravi, in Delhi, had been polite and thankful. This Dubai version would not be easy to put up with.
‘I kept one cab waiting and then it finally left.’
‘Bhai, Immigration guy had hundred questions . . . what to do! You shouldn’t have come.’ And Shivam moves ahead with his trolley, not waiting to be guided by this Dubai contact.
‘This way, Bhaiya,’ Ravi runs after him and apologizes. ‘My mood is not so good today,’ he says. He bends to take Shivam’s luggage from him, stops a taxi and puts it in its hold.
‘Have you got your currency for here, dirhams?’ he checks, once the two get into the cab.
‘A few, I’m carrying what we could manage but I have rupees too if we need more.’
‘Dost,’ he addresses the taxi driver then. ‘Wait for just five minutes I will get his money exchanged . . . super fast, like a rocket.’
‘Arrey, not now,’ protests Shivam. ‘Will exchange when needed.’
But Ravi has his way. He gets fifty thousand rupees converted at the airport money exchange counter.
‘Here,’ he counts the exchange and hands it over to Shivam, save for one note. ‘I’m taking a thousand,’ he informs Shivam. ‘Don’t mind, Bhaiya . . . I too am struggling right now.’
Shivam puts a hand on the chef’s shoulder to let him know it’s okay, he understands.
Once the note enters his pocket, Ravi turns more helpful. ‘I know many agents here. You will get a job immediately . . . don’t worry. I’ll take you to them . . . Permit, etc., they will manage everything.’
Shivam just nods. Ravi has been chattering all along but Shivam is listening with only half his mind. The city of gold whizzing past his window is so dazzling that he forgets to blink. Gleaming highways stretch in front of them endlessly. On their sides is skyscraper after skyscraper sticking out of an otherwise empty landscape. He is stunned to see each building designed uniquely. A Rolls-Royce zaps past them. A youngster in a Ferrari overtakes them next. It looks like luxury cars are the norm here. Cars and more cars, and buildings all around crowd the picture. Yet, the place looks dead. Almost a ghost town! For people, it strikes him, he barely sees any.
‘Because it’s afternoon . . . too hot for people to come out,’ explains Ravi.
‘Still, not a soul on the road, except in cars.’
‘That’s the culture here. It’s impossible to walk around in this heat.’
‘And those who don’t have—’
Ravi interrupts him. ‘Bhaiya, see, Burj Khalifa!’
Standing tall before them is a huge outlandish structure, jutting out to the skies, proclaiming supremacy over all that lies beneath. The taxi driver slows down to allow the new arrival a better look. It is mind-boggling.
‘Tallest in the world it is,’ claims Ravi, with pride. ‘It took five years to build. It will be opening next month. You’ll get to see from the inside.’
Where he will be next month? Shivam doesn’t know, so he keeps quiet.
‘Jumeirah and Marina . . . then Deira . . . remember,’ Ravi instructs the cab driver.
Down the Sheikh Zayed Road, they go past the downtown area, full of malls and office towers. As they cross the business area, the view changes abruptly. Low-rising structures line the road. Lavish residences sit grandly on large, open spaces.
‘Resorts and bungalows, mostly,’ comments Ravi.
As they turn a corner, they come upon the sea . . . It seems to appear out of nowhere, startling the newcomer. Shivam rubs his eyes in disbelief because he can see palm-shaped islands floating on it, beautiful and logic-defying . . . .
‘Palm Jumeirah,’ says Ravi. ‘World’s largest man-made island.’
‘Everything’s so excessive here, so showy and dramatic . . .’
‘It’s in your eyes . . . As you see it . . . it becomes,’ says the cab driver. ‘I see tourists go “wow–wow” over it . . . some even irritated by it.’
He was right. Shivam was in no frame of mind to appreciate the extravagant marvels of man in this desert country. Otherwise, maybe, he too would’ve oohed and aahed over it. As for Babloo, he would gape, mouth open . . . this he was sure of. Reminded of his friend, Shivam twists restlessly in his seat. He asks Ravi, ‘How far is your place? . . . Will it take long?’
‘Half hour . . . maybe, one, depends . . . ’ Ravi replies, gazing out of the window, enjoying the drive and the music on his headphones.
‘Do you still want me to take Marina?’ asks the driver, checking again.