If Mom was alive, she’d have been disappointed. Actually, if Mom was alive, things would not have been this way. She’d have objected to my quitting the bank, objected to my moving out, objected to sharing autos.
This—sitting outside the airport at four in the morning with two hundred rupees in my bag—would have caused a panic attack. Three cups of coffee down, no sign of the flight. I could go inside and wait in the lounge, I guess. I have the Annie Z aidi // 127 permit letters and everything and the customs guys know me well already. But the coffee inside is twice as expensive. And the customs people always ask too many personal questions: Why animals? Why not banking? In that case, why not an NGO? Don’t NGOs pay well nowadays? But how will you get home at this time of the night? Pet transportation is all very good, but who will take care of you? Hahaha! Who is your boss? But who is responsible for you then? Where does your father live? He must be worried. Unmarried daughters …
I think I can do without all that. It is so much simpler meeting the animals. If you say hello, they just say hello back or ignore you. And that’s fine with me. Thank god it is a dog this time. It is supposed to be a black cocker spaniel with one white ear. In a rectangular basket, painted white and sprayed with Lyla’s linen perfume. Apparently, Lyla douses her sheets and curtains with perfume before using them. Santa Barbara lifestyle, I guess. The dog has his own deodorant too.
I should have charged more for this. I can still tell Lyla there will be extra expenses for the night I spent waiting at the airport. Plus taxi fare. I’m hoping the flight will be delayed another half hour, then the night rate won’t apply.
Daddy is getting so difficult. He’s stopped asking if I need anything. I’d usually decline, but he’d offer me five or ten thousand anyway. He’d say, “House-warming present,” or, “Overdue birthday present.” But he can be nasty about it.
Once, I dropped in when his old colleagues were visiting. Later that afternoon, I had an appointment at the Karjat dog farm, so I got up to go. Daddy told me to wait and handed over some money. He winked at his friends as he held out the cash, and said, “You better find another man to mooch off. I’m just a pensioner now.”
Daddy must have thought Mira Road would straighten me out, that I’d come running back in a month, suitably chastened about harsh realities and rational choices. But now that I’ve stuck it out five months, he’s stopped giving me money. He doesn’t even ask Anwar, the driver, to drop me home. I have to ask.
It killed me to ask last time but it was forty degrees outside and I didn’t have money for a cab. Daddy finally sent the car but he made a big production out of it. He first asked if he could call a car service instead. Then he shook his head despairingly and finally he rang Anwar, but insisted I wait until the driver had eaten his lunch.
I said I’d wait. But Daddy didn’t ask if I wanted any lunch. So instead I asked him if he was hungry. He sneered at me and said I could go ahead without him.
I went to the fridge and stood with my face against the open freezer. My face felt hot and my eyes brutally dry. I fixed myself two parathas from the ready dough, which I spiced up with coriander and chilies. Finally I crushed a pill into the chutney. I spread the chutney on two slices of toast and told Daddy he should eat it or he’d get acidity again.
Daddy just doesn’t leave me a choice. I keep wanting to make him eat better, and I visit regularly, but he doesn’t understand my need for space. I too have some rights. I’ve always had to fight for everything. Even to choose my work. He was the one who gave me Montu. He should understand why I want to work with animals. But no, he will never understand. I will have to fight him forever.
It is easier to fight with pills though. He doesn’t know we’re fighting and it doesn’t hurt either of us. He just falls asleep for a while. I prefer to leave our Juhu house while he is asleep. Anyway, it doesn’t hurt to sleep a little extra at his age.
* * *
I finally found out where she goes when she stays out late at night. I kept wondering what she does and then I decided to follow her. She heads to the airport to deliver goods, or to wait for some delivery. I don’t know what is inside the packages yet, but sometimes she waits for hours.
It was really distressing to think that she often doesn’t return to Mira Road until after midnight. It was painful just to think of where I might find her, and how I’d explain to her that it was not right. I was worried that she would be like the Bandra-Versova girls, standing on the road in knickers, or like that one who had grown up in Mira Road and still would not listen to me, though I tried for so long to explain that it was not right to hang around in the market after dark. For some women, there is no cure except to keep them locked up. But this one is different. I have always known it in my heart. She only stays out late because of her work.
I was just a few steps behind her when she hailed a taxi. I heard the driver ask her, “Domestic or international?” and she said, “International.” So I knew she was going to the airport.
I followed in a bus. She could have taken the bus too. A bit of a wastrel, but she will learn. Once we have kids, she will definitely learn to save. I am pleased to see that she isn’t irresponsible. Look at the way she goes to visit her father once a week at least, even twice a week sometimes. It is a sign of character.
She takes good care of her old father too. She makes the auto wait while she picks up a bottle at the wine shop, and something at the medical store, each time she goes to visit him. Every day I grow more convinced that she is the right one. A good, responsible girl.
I think her father is very understanding also. He does a lot for her. The driver drops her home. And the last few times she walked out of his house, her handbag was so full that her shoulder was weighed down by it.
Yesterday I followed her all the way up to her building. She lives on the first floor. I found a ladder and climbed up until I could look into her window. She was pulling things out of her bag. A carton of milk. A bag of basmati rice. Her father is so thoughtful. It is a good family. A solid family.
She is a proud type though. A little too stuck on independence. A lot of girls are. But she knows her limits. She buys alcohol for her father but never drinks herself. I have been watching her trash can and the grills on her windows. There are no empty bottles. She is a really good find. Once I have explained to her about not taking so many taxis, she will learn to save. Together, we will manage.
I glanced at the photo again. Mini’s beautiful. She’s bitten someone only once, but that was because Juneja had been shouting at her. Dogs take cues easily. When I was given Montu, I was just two and a half. I couldn’t talk properly, much less give orders. But Montu mostly knew what I wanted from him. He obeyed my gurgling, my pointing, my screaming.
That’s the amazing thing: dogs just know. They do whatever you want; they almost kill themselves trying. In comparison, what rubbish human relationships we drag around. Mom was supposed to love me. Daddy says it even now, after he’s had his nightly ration: “I love you, sweetie-pie.” Sometimes, it makes me snarl on the inside.
Daddy used to say that Montu spoiled me. I think he did. Loved me so much, nobody measures up. Some nights I lie awake wondering what Montu felt. Him sitting at home, waiting for me to return from school, me petting him for ten minutes, then rushing off to play with other kids. It makes my heart ache to remember Montu.
I’m glad I have to go to Karjat. Being at the farm will be good for me. Juneja won’t be there until later and I will have plenty of time to get to know Mini.
I watch her waiting at the airport. She drinks a lot of coffee. I must teach her to switch to tea. Made from fresh cow milk. I still don’t know what she is carrying in those big baskets. I have tried standing close to her but she never sits near a crowd. She moves to a corner and sits alone with a cup of coffee from the Nescafé booth.
I stand with the taxi drivers and hotel boys, and hold a placard so I can blend in better. Once or twice, she has looked up in my direction, but she never r
ecognizes me. I even choose a name that I take from the envelopes I find in her trash. Lyla from Santa Barbara. Katie from Sydney. But she never notices.
Some of the drivers who wait with placards at the airport have begun to know my face. They have started asking which hotel I work for. I always name a company in Pune. I say I wait for company officials. Up and down, once a week. That satisfies them. I say Pune because I know the place a little. When I worked in Versova, I was with one Pandit who had a big farmhouse outside Pune which he sometimes rented for film shoots.
Once he took me there. There was a special kind of party and he needed a trustworthy guard. I was supposed to warn him if I saw a police vehicle. I did too, but most of them were so far gone, they didn’t run or hide. So they were rounded up and some tested positive for drugs.
The police wanted me to become a witness, identify whose party it was, who came, who left. Pandit found out. He was on bail when he called me to the office. I just kept saying, “What will I do now? Where will I get another job?” He would take care of me, he said. He went on and on about how I should leave Mumbai. He would give me a gold chain and one lakh.
A lakh was nothing. There was nothing even in Mira Road for a lakh. But I didn’t want to argue. I promised to leave the city and asked Pandit to give me his blessings. But before I left, I took the keys to his office. There wasn’t much kept there but even small things add up to a lot. There was a petty-cash drawer. There was a silver idol of Ganesha. There were names and addresses in a diary. It was enough at first.
I called a few people who were at the party, found addresses. I learned to wait, and to follow. Over six months, I asked for only a little bit. One should not crush people with greed. Like Bapu has said, the world has enough for human need, but not greed. All my small earnings added up to a onebedroom flat near Petrol Pump. Just six months’ work and everybody was happy at the end.
The trouble with people like Pandit is that they don’t understand the worth of small things. Small jobs, small savings, small deals, small shops. That is what life is about: Small things. Small connections. Small appetites. It keeps the world healthy.
Juneja turned out to be such a bastard. First, he wanted me to sort out his hound within three days. I asked for a week because Mini was taking longer to respond to the trainers. She took to me like a magnet though. I even called her Montu once or twice, instead of Mini. The farm people asked me to help train her, so I did.
She’s got such a gentle heart; I really like her personality. Such a pity Juneja wanted her trained to attack. But then he was paying a lot—me, as well as the Karjat farm. So we were training her to attack strangers whenever we let out a low whistle. In another day or two, she would have been ready to be handed back to Juneja.
But now he’s just abandoned Mini. I tried to convince him but he’s refusing to take her back. He’s got a new Doberman apparently. The farm is feeding Mini at my expense.
I’ve been calling my clients but it doesn’t seem like anyone has room for a hound in this city. My last resort was Daddy. The house is biggish and there’s Juhu beach for exercise. I told him I would take care of the grooming and so on. Everything could work out. But he is refusing to take in a dog, saying Anwar will object.
I’m glad Mom isn’t around to watch this. Daddy’s priorities are so warped. He’s more bothered about the driver’s religious beliefs than my happiness. And Anwar doesn’t really mind. I talked to him about Montu and my work and he even helped me fetch a dog in a basket last week, while Daddy was asleep.
But Daddy’s decided to be difficult right now. The mess in the house makes everything worse since he cannot think straight when things aren’t in order. He’s fired the maid, accusing her of stealing rice and milk cartons. I tried to tell him he was mistaken, that he’s never known how much rice there was in the kitchen at any point. But he insists there’s some hanky-panky going on. The latest thing is that there’s a dangerous man hanging around. Daddy thinks someone’s planning a burglary and the maid is in on it. He’s afraid she is poisoning the food as well.
When he told me, I just rolled my eyes and called Anwar. I asked, “Do you feel ill when you eat lunch here?”
Anwar said, “Of course not.”
Then I shook my head at Daddy. He seemed sort of frightened. But that doesn’t stop him from being bull-headed, does it? He still won’t agree to take in Mini.
She wasn’t at the airport, arrivals or departures. She doesn’t take the train back home these days. I waited last evening at the station from six, right up to half past two when the last train arrived. I even went to her father’s place. I put on my old watchman’s uniform and stood outside the building. But there was no sign of her.
She could have gone out of town for work. I don’t know where though. This is a disturbing thought—I don’t know where she goes, who she meets. It isn’t right.
I even thought of going up to her father’s flat, but in my watchman’s uniform it was not a good idea. Nobody would tell me anything.
I spotted the man myself. Daddy took me to the window and pointed him out. I was exasperated. I said, “He’s a watchman, Daddy! Of course he hangs around; that’s what he is paid to do.”
But my father wasn’t convinced. He kept muttering that the fellow is always looking at the house. “Directly here. He knows an old man lives alone.”
Daddy was still suspicious about the food. He was hardly eating. It’s like he had an extra sense, though nothing changed except that he was sleeping two hours in the afternoon and another hour at night. He felt more tired, that’s all. No other side effects.
I took him for a check-up anyway. Doc said it was just age and told him to eat better. Daddy began to complain to the doc about the maid and the planned burglary. Me and the doc exchanged a look. I rolled my eyes. Then I offered to cook and keep food stocked in the fridge whenever I visited. Doc turned to Daddy and asked, “Happy? That’s what you wanted, right?”
Since then I’ve been visiting every other day. When I cook, he eats better. But sometimes when I am watching TV or waiting for Anwar to return from some pointless errand, I glance up and find Daddy staring at me. He looks piteous, like a scared kitten.
I usually smile vaguely and leave soon after. Sometimes he calls at night, asks how I am doing. Then I ask if he is okay. He keeps asking what Mira Road is like. I keep telling him he could see for himself, but he refuses. With a great, pretend shudder, he says, “Never! It is on the other side of the world. It is night to Mumbai’s day.”
She came back to Mira Road last night. I knew because I saw her father’s car parked outside her building, and the driver waiting for her. She didn’t stay long though. She left with a big bag. Seemed to be in a big hurry.
It is time to move to the next level. Trust cannot be stretched this far. I let her go out at all times. I let her do whatever she does, without asking questions. But every girl has to understand that there are limits. She has to take some responsibility too.
I’m taking Mini. I talked Daddy into it, saying it was the only way to make the house secure. He kept refusing, but I told him it was settled. I made sure we talked in front of Anwar. Daddy said, “He will quit; you wait and see.”
I looked at Anwar, who kept staring at the wall. I asked for the car keys then. I said, “Anwar doesn’t have to drive the dog around. I can do it myself.”
* * *
I followed as quickly as I could. It was a good thing it was after five. The traffic was slowing down and it gave me time to catch an auto.
She was driving the car herself. It felt strange to see her drive. I don’t know how I feel about it. I must talk to her. The highway is not easy. Big trucks. Bad drivers. It is avoidable for a woman to drive a car.
Smooth, smooth, smooth. Life is smooth as the highway today.
Daddy’s resigned to the idea of a watchdog. He even asked what kind I’d get. Not a very furry one, I promised.
Once Mini settles in, things will get better. I’ll kee
p the Mira Road property. It’s useful to have a second place. Daddy will be glad to have me back. Rent from the Mira Road flat will help when business is down.
It has been too long since I traveled. I had no idea how fast things move outside Mira Road, or how slow. The auto trundled on our roads slower than a tonga, and her car soon moved out of sight. But by the time we hit Ghodbunder, I realized I knew where she was going. I’ve seen envelopes in her trash, addressed from some farmhouse in Karjat. So I got out of the auto and took a bus to Panvel.
She has to come back via Panvel. Better not to talk to her in Mira Road. Nor Juhu. A midway place where people stop only a few minutes. Yes, Panvel would be a good spot.
He just came up out of nowhere. I was at the Panvel plaza, getting fuel, taking a bathroom break. Then I decided to get a samosa-pav.
I stood outside eating, keeping an eye on the car. I’d left the windows open a crack for Mini’s sake. That’s when I saw him, prowling around. I wanted to call out a warning. Because Mini can be really quiet and she has been trained to attack suddenly. But just then, the man turned and looked straight at me.
“Is that your car?” he asked.
I called out from afar, “Yes, why?”
He began walking toward me, saying there was a flat tire. I kept looking at his face; there was something familiar about it.
I’d had the tires checked barely two minutes ago, as I drove through the petrol pump. But I waited for him to walk up. He was smiling a bit, almost like he was familiar with me. I didn’t want to say anything yet, not until I remembered where we’d met.
He asked if I wanted help with changing the tire. I shook my head. He shrugged and said, “I’ll do it if you want.”
I said, “There’s a petrol pump right here.”
He began to chuckle softly. It was unnerving. Then he said, “That’s where I’m coming from, Petrol Pump.”
I glanced over at the pump. The fellow who checked my tire pressure was not in his place. I was certain this man was not the man who had checked my tires just two minutes ago. But he could be working at the same pump. Maybe I remembered his face from previous drives.
Mumbai Noir Page 11