by Aabid Surti
Iqbal was happy. Firoze too had obtained seventy per cent marks in the final year of high school and joined a college that year. A dream had come true. He had thanked the God almighty many a time during namaaz for bestowing such a boon.
He felt extreme gratitude towards Allah especially on the first day of the month when Razzak placed his salary in Gul Banu’s hand. This was Razzak's hard-earned money. He used to get six hundred rupees a month after working like a mule with all sincerity. Iqbal had arranged to deposit the entire money in his bank account so that whenever he decided to launch his own business in the future, he had the required capital earned with his own labour.
That day too, he placed his salary in his mother's hand. Iqbal was reciting the holy names with every bead of the mala after offering namaaz. His face radiated with love.
After completing the prayer, he extended his hand, caught Razzak by the wrist and made him sit beside him. “If you continue to put in hard work, one day you will become a big boss and ten employees will be working for you.” He declared proudly.
“Really, bhaijaan?”
“That's why we aren’t taking a single paisa from your salary for domestic use.”
“That’s nonsense. Sheer and utter nonsense.”
“Don’t you believe me?”
“If you aren’t using my salary, then how are you managing the kitchen?”
Iqbal was taken aback.
“You are in college,” he added, getting no response from Iqbal. “This year, Firoze too has joined a commerce institute. I’m the only earning member of the family. And if my entire salary is being deposited in the bank, from where do the household expenses come?”
Iqbal realized that his two younger brothers were no more kids. He did not want his secrets to be public. He came up with an explanation, “I do a part-time job.”
“What?”
“I know driving.”
Razzak remembered how Iqbal had brought home a car (Bhesadia's) one fine morning a few years ago and taken him and Firoze for a drive. He presumed that the car must have belonged to his elder brother's employer. Convinced, he left quietly. However, that night, Iqbal could not sleep soundly. Like the monsoon clouds, several disturbing thoughts rolled through his mind, casting shadows on his face.
Both his younger brothers used to affectionately call him Bhaijaan. What would they think if they found out that the person they worshipped was a weak-kneed man? If the secret leaked out, would they not hate him?
The next morning, he left for the new apartment. He had not yet seen it. He read the address on a slip of paper as he boarded a taxi. The name of the building was 'Usha Sadan.' It was near the Colaba post office.
One of the reasons why he had decided not to get his family here was that this locality was known for its notoriety. Its name used to glint on the pages of newspapers from time to time. At times, the police would raid an apartment in the by lanes and detect a liquor den or find that a dance school or a massage parlour was in fact a brothel. It was impossible for a stranger to know which building was inhabited by families and which one by racketeers.
The taxi stopped near the post office. After paying the meter, Iqbal started looking out for the building. Usha Sadan was close by. He entered the building and came to apartment number seven on the third floor. He inserted the key in the lock and turned it. The door did not open.
Once again, he glanced at the address on the slip of paper and then at the apartment number embossed on the top of the door. Everything was correct. He again tried to force the key inside the keyhole and as if by magic the door opened from inside.
Kiran stood before him in a see-through camisole. Iqbal stared at her. There was surprise in Kiran's eyes too. “Come,” she said with a smile after the initial fluster and stood aside. “Welcome...”
As he stepped inside, it struck him that this apartment appeared poor compared to the one in the Sagar Darshan building. However, all the essential things were kept there in an orderly manner. There was a golden cage hanging in the balcony. A bird with a multi-coloured tail was perched inside sadly. The same melancholy reflected from the faded walls.
“I didn’t know that I would get a surprise gift along with the apartment,” Iqbal commented, sitting down on the sofa. Kiran did not hear a word. She was intoxicated with joy on seeing Iqbal. All the strings of her heart were vibrating. God had listened to her silent prayer. Iqbal, the man she loved from afar had come close today.
“What will you have – tea or coffee?” she asked in a state of euphoria and then realized her error, “Oh no, I know, you don't really care for tea or coffee. You also don’t touch beer. I’ll make some lime juice if there is a lemon in the fridge; else, you will have to go for a milk-shake.”
She dashed into the bedroom without waiting for Iqbal's response. Kiran's suggestion about limejuice made Iqbal wonder. He had once had a limejuice with DK at the Taj poolside. That time, Kiran was waiting for DK in one of the rooms of the same hotel. DK must have mentioned the limejuice.
When she returned to the drawing room, she had put on a white sheet with green stripes like a shawl over her transparent nightdress. The tray in her hands held a glass of limejuice. She placed the tray on the centre-table and sat on the sofa across him. Both stole glances at each other from time to time.
After a while, he asked picking up the glass, “Didn’t you know?”
“What?”
“That this apartment belongs to me?”
Kiran naughtily asked, “And who do I belong to?”
“I thought you knew that.”
“Suppose I don't.”
“Then, note it down, all that is there in this apartment is mine...”
Kiran skipped a heartbeat in disbelief. Iqbal had never before expressed himself in such a direct and simple words to her. Never before, had he looked straight into her eyes either.
“Except for that bird with the coloured tail,” Iqbal added cautiously.
Kiran's eyes froze. She said, “If you consider this apartment and its interior to be yours then why not the bird?”
“Because it’s caged.”
The subtle touch behind Iqbal's comment was not lost on Kiran. Her eyes lost their glitter. He had compared her with the bird in the cage. The bird entertained guests; men played with it, caressed it for a while and then left. She stared at him intently, arms folded over her chest, as if he had dealt her a heavy blow.
“Iqbal!” She said after a long pause, “Are you a man?”
“Do you doubt it?”
She replied in affirmative, “Every man who came into my life considered himself a man.”
“Whom do you consider a real man?”
“The one who can open the cage and offer the sky to the bird.”
“What’s the guarantee that the bird won’t return?”
“And may I know why you suspect that it would?”
“Because the cage is golden.”
“After all, a cage is a cage, be it of gold or silver. And if the man who dares to open the cage is Midas, the bird won’t long for the cage,” she said, getting up to sit beside Iqbal. “And you are Midas. DK was telling me that you are destined to live in a palace. You will roll in billions. But all that is trivial compared to your love. I want neither a palace nor a luxurious lifestyle. If you ask, I’m prepared to live with you in a hovel. You won't believe it, but Kiran, who frequents five-star hotels, was born on the pavement.”
Iqbal just stared at the bird fluttering inside the golden cage. His dilemma was that he wanted to leave home and stay here alone, but he was not alone.
Suddenly a thought struck him. If the apartment gifted to him belonged to DK then who was Kiran? Had DK also bought her along with this house? At last, he asked her, “What is your relationship with DK?”
“What do you want to know?”
“DK knows that I’ve no interest in women. Does he want to test my integrity?”
“I don’t get you,” Kiran said, perplexed.
“I can understand someone presenting me with an apartment. I can also understand that a furnished house can contain a sofa set, double bed, fridge and radio; but I can’t believe that you too can be a part of the furnishing.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Then, what are you doing here?”
“You are asking a strange question. What am I doing in my own house?” she laughed. “I’m entertaining you!”
Now it was Iqbal's turn to be bemused. “Is this really your apartment?”
“Should I present my ration card? My passport? Or do you want to see the rent receipt?”
“Then... did DK play a prank on me?”
“DK knows how to laugh at a joke, not to crack one.”
Before getting more confused, Iqbal took out the slip of paper on which the address was written and glanced at it once again. “The name of the area is Colaba,” he said. “The building is called Usha Sadan. The house number is seven and it’s on the third floor.”
“It can’t be. That’s exactly my address,” she said, snatching the slip of paper from Iqbal's hand.
While she read the address, she could not help giggling. Gradually, her giggle turned into a belly laugh. Then stopping suddenly, she held his hand and congratulated him, “Iqbal! From today, you’re my neighbour. Come, let me show you your apartment.” She was beaming from ear to ear.
She had not yet released the hand she was holding. Iqbal followed as though he was being dragged behind her and stopped near a closed door after crossing a few apartments. “Where is the key?”
He took out the key from his pocket and looked at the number embossed on top of the door. It was number one. Now, Iqbal realized the mistake. He had mistaken the number one scribbled in haste as seven in the address. Apartment number seven belonged to Kiran.
Iqbal looked on in amazement as the door opened. He had entered a luxurious flat that could rival the homes of industrialists like the Tatas and the Birlas. Kiran was standing besides him attired in a transparent nightdress covered with a white sheet with green stripes. The door behind their back closed automatically.
Kiran came and stood before him and put both her arms around his waist. She locked her eyes with his and said, “I’ve read somewhere… love thy neighbour.”
“It’s in the Bible, and that too in a different context.”
“What can I do? When a person doesn’t understand the language of signs, one is compelled to use words. But, why are you silent?”
“Sometimes, silence speaks more than words.”
This was enough consolation for Kiran. She rested her head on Iqbal's chest. She felt as if she had received a new lease of life today. As if Iqbal’s sacred love had washed away all her sins. Iqbal patted her head and gently nudged her away. He saw that her face was wet.
“Don't cry, Kiran!”
Wiping off her tears with the border of the sheet spread across her body, she said, “These are tears of joy, they just overflowed.”
“So much that your entire face got washed clean!”
“So much joy has never seeped into my life...” Overcoming her emotions, she smiled, “And that I can prove.” Iqbal did not get it. So, she added, “I’ll cook the best Chinese meal especially for you.”
After a while, he was standing in Kiran's balcony while the food was being prepared in the kitchen. Iqbal looked at the open sky. It being a cloudy day, a shade of gray had stretched over the city.
He wondered – At last, love had entered his life, stamping his principles, his faith and his belief. It had entered his heart and was now flowing through his veins. How did it happen? More surprising was the object of his love. A gold digger he knew well, a call girl that traded her body over the phone. Any rich man could buy her for a night by throwing some bank notes.
He had seen Kiran in Singh's room on many occasions. DK too had spent some hours with her in the Taj Hotel. Countless men would have entered her life one after the other and gone like the waves of the sea. And yet, she had entered the recess of Iqbal's heart. And - who has ever understood the mysteries of the heart?
He could say this much with confidence, he had not been attracted to Kiran's body, but to her pure heart. One could buy a body in this city with two bucks. However, the heart is priceless. No power on earth can buy it. Iqbal had won a precious heart without asking for it and he had accepted it too.
Had he committed a blunder by acknowledging it?
Iqbal had not opted for the path of crime, yet he was marching on it round the clock. He had made every effort to tread on a virtuous path since childhood but had quietly accepted as his destiny the place where he stood today.
Kiran's life too had drifted somewhat parallel to his. She was the daughter of a gypsy. Where did her ancestors come from? Who were they? She did not know. Sitting on the kitchen stool, her eyes seemed to glaze over as she recalled her childhood. She faintly remembered that her house was a bedecked bullock cart.
One year, this cart would camp under the chinar trees of Kashmir while the next year it would sojourn on the coast of Kanyakumari. Sometimes, they would camp in a city for weeks and at times, they would halt in a village for months at a stretch. Her mother used to sell all types of sunglasses on the road outside the cart. Her father did a blacksmith’s job.
These memories gone into the mist of time only came up to the age of six. She tried vainly to recollect – what had happened after that? Did someone lure her away? Was she kidnapped? Nothing was clear. A man had picked her up from one end of the country and brought her to another end.
The costume had changed. People had changed. The colours of people had changed. Flora and fauna had changed. The weather had changed. The train journey was too long. Kiran had no doubt about that. (She had cried a lot all through the journey.)
However, the end was on a happy note. She was on the outskirts of Delhi, in a palatial bungalow overlooking railway tracks passing through the fields. She had a lot of toys to play with. There was a doting mother and a father to love her. She had been sold to a childless Dutt family. She was the adopted daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Dutt.
Mrs. Dutt showered so much love that she forgot her own mother and father in a year or two. What remained was just a clouded memory, which too vanished into smoke if she ever tried to step into it. She had also forgotten her own name.
Mrs. Dutt's first problem was to think of an appropriate name for her adopted daughter. Mr. Dutt had no interest in the daughter, nor in her name. He was an entrepreneur. He owned a toy factory. He used to leave Delhi for Shahdara at nine in the morning. When he returned in the late evening, he would invariably enter the house swaying.
He was so acutely addicted to alcohol that he would start drinking in his cabin before sunset. He would polish off the remaining two to three pegs in the bottle on the way back home.
He would not have agreed to adopting a child had his lonely wife not become the victim of depression. After five years of craving for marital bliss, she finally lost patience. The bickering started. It’s all part of being married, the husband thought, not the end of the world. There is always another day. Finally, he was compelled to place a living doll on his wife's lap. He had paid five thousand rupees to a thug to buy this most expensive toy.
At times, in a bout of affection, Mrs. Dutt would whisper to the adopted daughter: “You have come like a golden ray (Kiran) into my barren life.” One day, the word 'Kiran' struck a chord in her heart. The gypsy's daughter came to be known as Kiran.
Kiran was good in studies. On entering the school, she astonished both the students and teachers with her knowledge. She did not have to make any extra efforts to learn. She did not have to memorise books. Nature had placed everything before her during her vagabond life. The earth was her school, college and university. She was its insatiably inquisitive student.
As the cart passed through a forest, she would sit by the side of her father holding the reins of the bullocks and watch new trees, flowers, leafs, animals and birds
. On seeing a new animal, she would ask, “Papa, what’s that?”
“That’s called a mongoose. The mongoose and snake fight fiercely.”
“Who wins in the end?”
“Whoever is strong. A large snake like the python devours the mongoose.”
When the cart passed through the valley of flowers, colourful flowers and butterflies would trigger off a rainbow before Kiran's eyes. Water lilies, mirabilis, marigold, narcissus and a variety of other flowers, whose names were not even known to the children in the city, were etched in Kiran's heart.
As the bright and bouncy little girl grew up, she started to understand the private life of her new mother and father. There was a wide gulf between Mr and Mrs Dutt. She knew this secret by the time she turned ten. The husband and wife were no more sharing the same bed. Mrs Dutt slept with Kiran in a separate room.
The time at which the husband returned home had also changed. The husband, who used to return home by nine in the evening, now sometimes returned drunk after midnight and that too not alone. Some woman would accompany him. He would now spend the night with the hired woman under the same roof and on the same bed he used to sleep with his wife two years ago.