by Chatura Rao
Prakash drew his rickshaw up outside Retreat, a small hotel in the Municipal Market area. ‘This will be comfortable, I think,’ he said, motioning towards the pleasant white and grey facade. ‘But please see the room, Saab, and make your own decision.’
The hotel was in a quiet, leafy lane off C. G. Market, a shopping area. There was a supermarket and some clothes shops close by. Suveer and Reva (if she stayed) would have to buy clothes. The clothes he’d brought to Gandhinagar were in the small rucksack still at Chimmanbhai’s. All Reva and he had were the soiled clothes they were wearing.
Zahyan called just as Suveer was easing his injured frame out of the rickshaw.
‘We’re grateful for your help yesterday; we don’t wish to appear ungrateful,’ Zahyan began stiffly. ‘You can record Mahnoor’s interview at our rented house in Puneet Nagar. Come after 11:30 pm tonight. Be very careful. No one should spot you at our door.’
‘Is it safe for you to go back there?’ Suveer asked, concerned.
Zahyan gave a short ironic laugh. ‘My wife still thinks of it as her home! Anyway we’re going back at night to pack and will move out with our belongings before dawn. Fit the interview in. Around 1 or 2 am I’ll take you to the bungalow. I have to lock up properly before leaving Puneet Nagar.’
Suveer agreed to Zahyan’s plan. They ended the call without saying goodbye, both uneasy about the night to come.
Reva went up to take a look at the rooms while Suveer waited with Prakash who knew the people at the front desk. He was aware that Prakash might have a “setting” here, meaning that he got a small commission for every customer he netted. Still, in a strange city, this seemed like a homely enough place to pause.
15
T
he room was wallpapered in beige, its maroon paisley patterns faded so they were barely visible. The curtains were cream and green. There was a large window that looked out on a neem tree. The window was not sealed shut as was wont to be in more expensive, fully air-conditioned hotels, so the first thing Reva did once she’d let Suveer into the room, was to open it.
She feasted her eyes on the young green leaves that swayed nimbly in the slightest gust. The sight of the tree outside this window eased her heart reminding her of childhood games in the old Pune home where she had collected leaves of just that colour to make doll-house chutney. She was caught between worry and relief at what had just happened: Suveer had signed up for a double room for them, not asking her if she wanted a separate one. If he’d asked, she’d have opted for a separate room, and yet she knew this made her happier.
The room had a double bed, its sheets and pillowcases spotless, and a toilet-bath attached. It had the tree outside and it had Suveer, though scarred and saddened, more or less in one piece. She sent up a small prayer of thanks.
Once she’d called on the house phone for some food and juice for them, Reva asked Suveer if he wanted to use the shower first. He pointed at his knee and damaged wrist and with a wry smile, said, ‘I’ll take time. You go first.’
Reva washed her sodden clothes and hung them to dry as best as she could. After a shower, she drew on one of the two thick white bathrobes the hotel had provided, fastening it about her waist. She towelled her hair till she was sure it wouldn’t drip water, and then untangled the knots with her fingers. The bathroom was full of trapped steam and she smelt, now, of the tiny floral soapcake that the hotel had provided.
She stepped out to find Suveer sitting by the window eating a sandwich and sipping orange juice. He’d drawn open the curtains so the room was littered with shadow leaves. It was as if they were on a half-open terrace that the neem tree also shared. He motioned her over to join him, biting hungrily into his sandwich. He seemed not at all surprised by her attire. It would have had to be the bathrobe or nothing.
When they’d eaten, Suveer went into the shower but emerged minutes later to stand at the door. He’d unbuttoned his shirt, but could not get it off. He looked ruefully at her. ‘At your service,’ Reva got up, playfully dusting the bread crumbs off her hands.
She peeled Suveer’s shirt off, moving it around so his right wrist would not be pulled at or jogged. She asked if he needed help with his trousers. Pushing her away from the bathroom doorway with his left hand at the base of her neck, Suveer mumbled, ‘too shy for that.’ She stepped back and folded her arms, inadvertently shifting her breasts higher. Suveer’s eyes darted to the swell of her breast at the open V of the bathrobe, and she couldn’t breathe too well when their eyes met again.
He’d unwound the bandage that had encircled his forehead some time ago, but there was a gauze pad taped to the left, above his eye, which would have to be kept dry. It needed to be left on and its dressing changed everyday. Under it was a gash which had needed six stitches.
‘Will you help me bathe?’ he asked.
‘If you sit on the stool,’ she said, stepping into the bathroom after him.
The shower would have drenched her and soaked his bandages, so they filled the bucket with water. While he soaped his chest using his left hand, Reva soaped his back. She moved her palms and fingers over his lower back first, and then made her way across his upper back and as she stroked the back of his neck, she felt his muscles relax. She made her touch firmer but slower, pressing along his spine, seeing that he enjoyed it. Her hands were gentle over the dark bruises that beatings had caused.
She came around to face him, her hands over his shoulders and upper arms, dampening the places where the soap was drying too quickly. They began to wash off the soap, their hands sometimes meeting accidentally and, sometimes not, stroking each other.
‘Now your head?’ she asked. He nodded, looking at her. She was perspiring slightly, tiny droplets of sweat on her upper lip from the effort and the steam in the closed space. The robe had loosened at her neck and he could not clearly see, but imagined the valley between her breasts, imagined soaping her.
As she began to pour water over his hair, Suveer raised his face to hers and met her lips with his, open and wet. Reva kissed him back, nudging his heavier lower lip with her tongue. The water continued to fill the bucket till it overflowed and they did not notice.
They made their way out, kissing, nuzzling, tripping and finally stumbling together onto the bed. His hand and leg inoperable, their caressing was accompanied by whispered ouches and sorries and chuckles. Her giggles would be followed by the heightening of his passion.
Reva got on top of him and took her pleasure slow and deep. Suveer was tender in more ways than one: her movements gave him both pain and pleasure. They were friends from so long ago, they intuitively attuned themselves to each other’s silence and sighs, and shifts, from tentativeness to heat . . . and were born anew to each other as lovers.
Later when she huddled into him Suveer’s eyes spilt tears of pent-up stress and relief. Reva was facing the other way, curled into his side, mindful all of a sudden of his soreness. If his knee had been right, he would have turned her way, lain spooning her: part-cat, part-woman, his saviour.
***
When they woke up Suveer and she began to make love again, more sensual and slow this time. Her phone rang.
‘Is everything okay?’ Tarun was asking. ‘You haven’t called me since yesterday.’
‘Sorry, I’ve been busy,’ she said, trying to keep the guilt she felt out of her voice. ‘Suveer was in hospital. Then the police came to talk with him–’
‘Reva, honestly, it doesn’t add up,’ Tarun burst out. ‘I’m trying to understand this story–you’ve left home and gone to another city to take care of your long-dead relative’s fiancé . . .’
‘Her name was Aboli. She was my sister,’ Reva flashed back. ‘And for me home is still where we lived together.’ She knew even before they were out that the words would hurt him.
‘And where you and I live . . . ?’ his voice dipped. ‘Where are you now?’
‘In a hotel,’ she mumbled.
‘With that man.’
‘Tarun,�
�� she appealed, ‘not over the phone . . .’ He cut the call.
Reva and Suveer lay next to each other, each thinking his or her own thoughts until, setting the alarm for 7 pm, they fell asleep. In the room darkened by drawn curtains and dusk he found her again and they made love, tuned in, in half-sleep, only to the smell and taste of each other, the demands and demons of the wider world forgotten.
16
A
t 11 pm the night that followed the day after Mahnoor was attacked, Zahyan and Mahnoor prepared to leave the lodge and return to Puneet Nagar. At the door of their room Zahyan turned to her.
‘Don’t be afraid,’ he said. ‘I will protect you with my life.’ Mahnoor took his hand in both of hers and kissed it gently. He looked at her with a mix of sorrow and despair.
She was concerned about the emotions that threatened to overcome him. Acts far worse than what she had been subjected to went unredressed every day. With little faith in the police and justice system to stand up to a powerful political party, Zahyan had refrained from filing a police complaint. He was on a mission to deliver justice through the interviews that Suveer would record and put out on the Internet. He hoped that Suveer’s news story would stir the conscience of larger society and bring the perpetrators to book.
But could this heal them? Mahnoor did not know. She instinctively shrank from his zeal that was rooted in grief, in helplessness. Then again she did not know how to help him except by doing what he willed. He had resigned from his job already and said she must phone her employer and do the same. He’d said they would go stay at Juhapura. She had agreed. It was a relief that they were to spend a few hours with Suveer and his wife. Mahnoor felt that this would somehow be a good thing.
They got out of the rickshaw and made their way through the streets of Puneet Nagar on foot. She gripped his hand tightly and kept her head down. He was as alert as a fox, scanning the length and breadth of the dark back lane. His senses were trained on the houses of their neighbours, straining to catch movement at a window, spot an eye at a door. He unlocked their small rented house soundlessly and slipped her in.
They covered the windows with cardboard he’d purchased earlier, so the lights they put on would not be visible from the road. Then they packed their clothes and personal belongings into suitcases. Zahyan would return at a later, safer time for bulky things like their furniture, linen, appliances and kitchen utensils.
Mahnoor tidied their bed, and cried as she swept and swabbed the floor clean in a ritual of farewell that she did not need to explain to him. She had loved this place–their first home together.
She took a bath, put on a black salwar kameez, plaited her hair neatly and covered it with a dupatta, as if preparing to go on a long journey. Zahyan and she would lock this place and move to Juhapura before dawn. In a couple more days they would return to his parents’ home in Baroda. They’d never live here again. The blueprint for their exile from the life they’d led had been put into effect.
A low knock announced Suveer and Reva’s arrival at ten past twelve. Suveer was on crutches, his forehead freshly bandaged. Reva was carrying Suveer’s rucksack on her shoulders. She had no possessions save a handbag, and she was in the same crumpled yellow kurta and jeans as the previous night when they’d met in the general ward of the Civil Hospital.
‘Have you had dinner, Bhabhi?’ Mahnoor asked Reva, who blinked at being addressed as Suveer’s wife.
‘We haven’t eaten much,’ she replied, recovering.
‘I’ll make some parathas,’ Mahnoor offered and Suveer and Reva gratefully accepted.
‘Meanwhile, the bungalow?’ Suveer asked. Zahyan picked a bundle of keys from a drawer in his desk. Suveer looked at Reva who indicated that she’d go with them.
Zahyan switched the living room light off and opened the front door. A stray dog, sensing movement, barked sudden and fierce. Zahyan closed the door and they waited a few seconds for it to stop. When he opened the door again and the three stepped into the street the dog came over to greet them, its tail wagging. Reva and Suveer exchanged a tense grin. Zahyan, however, stayed grim and vigilant.
They crossed the road and walked the few paces to the back gate of Ishq bungalow. They opened the gate and the door and slipped noiselessly in. Inside it was pitch dark. They used the torches in their phones to make their way to the outer rooms where light from the main street that flanked the front of the house penetrated the spaces between the window blinds. It was dim, but their eyes soon adjusted. All was quiet.
‘I’ll need some light to shoot pics,’ Suveer said.
‘We cannot switch on any,’ Zahyan shook his head.
‘Wait,’ Reva said. ‘The dining room is almost completely enclosed–no windows–and the doors leading from it face other walls. We could risk keeping a low light on here.’
Zahyan saw she was correct and agreed. So a light was switched on in the room at the centre of the house. Zahyan spread an old architectural plan across the dining table. Reva pored over it. As he began explaining about the house and its features, Suveer tagged a lapel mike to his t-shirt and began recording. He wanted a description of Ishq, the scene of so much controversy, as just a house that could have beena home to anyone.
Then Zahyan took them around, speaking banally about its four bedrooms, two living rooms, dining room and bathrooms. At first Reva asked questions and commented on the structure and design of the house as an architect might. Then a change came over her and she drew into herself.
Even while he listened to Zahyan’s narration through his headphones, Suveer was aware of something akin to extreme unease emanating from Reva. Her attention was on the window seats in the hall across which shadows moved when a vehicle passed outside.
When Zahyan went off to lock the upstairs rooms, Suveer raised his eyebrows in inquiry at Reva. He attempted a smile. She shook her head, looking disturbed and miserable. He wanted to hold her in his arms and understand why . . . had he unsettled her life so?
She sat tiredly down on the small sofa placed against the dining room wall.
‘It’s not your fault,’ she said, seeing the regret in his eyes. ‘Those shadows reminded me of Aboli. I saw her and me playing with our dolls again, in our old home. It had window seats like this house has . . . and deep cupboards. So many memories that I keep deliberately closed away here,’ she touched her forefingers to her heart. ‘So many more that sneak up on me when I least expect. Suveer, you were her lover once,’ she said in despair. ‘I am her sister. How can we be together?’
‘She was my dearest friend,’ Suveer said, his head bowed, ‘but she’s no longer alive.’
When Reva started at his words, he eased down beside her. ‘Not in the way you are,’ he said gently.
She turned away. She wanted him, and he wanted to be with her. But perhaps all they were meant for was the annual ritual of celebrating Aboli’s birthday together; there could be little potential for a relationship built on the grave of another. Reva was pierced by these thoughts that encircled her heart like barbed wire. The joy she felt being with him was choked off by guilt. What would Aboli have made of her going to bed with Suveer? How would she face Tarun when she got home?
‘Suveer, you and I are as star-crossed as Aboli and you had been. I’m lost within, unmoored, and I don’t want you to wait around . . .’
‘You wanted to take pictures,’ Zahyan cut in, standing stiffly in the doorway. ‘We don’t have all night.’ He had heard the last part of their conversation but was unwilling to allow their personal issues room at this time.
‘Sure,’ Suveer rose with difficulty from the sofa and picked up his camera. Reva looked at Zahyan assessingly. He looked like he hadn’t slept in nights. His cheeks were sunken and the circles under his eyes darker than ever. He carried a sense of suppressed rage, almost as if he might attack them if provoked.
Reva pushed the thought aside. This was . . . had to be . . . a time of peace. All of them, especially Mahnoor, needed it. As for Suveer and
she, their story had to be put aside. She was becoming more and more sure of this.
The sound of footsteps and low voices somewhere in front of the bungalow made Zahyan raise a finger to his lips. Reva switched off the light they had on in the dining room. She knew from the layout of the house that it could not be spotted from ground level outside, still, best to be careful. At Suveer’s signal she sat back down on the sofa.
Zahyan and Suveer moved silently to the large living room at the front of the house. Through gaps in the closed window shades, they saw the shapes of four men who’d entered the front yard. They watched them for a while and realized these were not vigilantes. They carried plastic bags with what seemed to be liquor bottles and pouches. They’d come here looking for a place to drink.
The men walked about trying the locked door and windows. Zahyan slipped away to make sure the windows of the rooms at the back and the back door were properly locked. Suveer heard the sound of someone urinating on the wall adjoining the window he was positioned at. He caught the pungent odour of piss, although he couldn’t have smelt it through the locked window. Rage rose up, making his head pound. Images of his attackers, clothed in a haze of fiery red like the lashes of paint on the gates of this bungalow, red as blood that had flowed freely from his forehead not 36 hours ago appeared before him. He wanted to kill them. He held the wall and propped his head against it, took ragged breaths till the images subsided.
I am safe. Mahnoor is safe, he told himself. For now.
After ten minutes of scouting the men gave up and left the way they’d come, one of them getting snagged up on the wall and then falling down the other side with a shout.
‘Let’s go,’ Zahyan said. ‘Mahnoor is alone.’ He was worried the intruders would go around to the back lane.