One day at a schoolmate’s house, she saw a movie featuring Shekhar Rai. That night, neither the clouds nor the flowers could give her any plausible answer to why inside their house her father was like everybody else’s father, perhaps better, but outside he was a loser.
When she queried it to Hema, her grandmother, the latter made sure Nishani never visited any of her friends’ houses again. The same night, there was a tumultuous verbal duel between Ashlesha and Hema. The former wanted Nishani to grow in a natural atmosphere since the poor soul had already been subjected to hell since birth and the latter demanded her schooling be done either privately or from abroad henceforth. Hema’s attitude toward Nishani was like a birthday girl’s attitude toward someone who’d gifted the worst gift to her. She had a new rule every month for Nishani which irked Ashlesha. But that night, her anger simply plunged out of her emotional lap like a curious cat and turned into a lioness.
‘I don’t like all these rules for my daughter,’ she said.
‘Nishani is my granddaughter. And she’ll live the way I want her to. Don’t forget you are nothing beyond these Rai bungalow walls.’
Without caring to respond, Ashlesha walked straight to her father-in-law’s room. Bharat Mohan, unlike his wife, always wanted Ashlesha and Nishani to have a life. After discussing the issue with him, Ashlesha decided to rent a flat in Andheri. Bharat Mohan, as a responsible father-in-law, suggested a free spirited Ashlesha save her earnings as a journalist for Nishani while he would take care of the their living and other expenses. Initially, Ashlesha’s ego acted as a predicament. But when one has a child, she understood, one can’t always be rigid.
A few winters later, when Nishani turned thirteen, Ashlesha gifted a computer with a dial-up internet connection to her. And the first word she typed was: Shekhar Rai. By now she knew her father was not a loser. He was a superstar before and now an invalid. Perusing one website after another, she finally learnt that Shekhar Rai was involved in an accident on a film set with a newcomer. The incident had not only paralyzed Shekhar’s legs, Nishani concluded, but also the relationship that she could have shared with him. A beatific and pure father-daughter relationship like the ones she saw during the annual functions or the parent-teacher meetings in school. Oh, what a feeling it would be, Nishani’s heart full of hope used to wonder.
Then there were those mornings when she used to quietly stand by the main gate of her school and gape at students who were dropped by their respective fathers before the school’s entrance. Her eyes used to be fixed on the grasping of hands, the intermingling of their fingers, the way a father helped her daughter with the school bag, the way he waved his hand to her with a smile. Well, it wasn’t a smile, Nishani concluded, it was a shade of security. It was a promise that her friend’s world was beautiful. It was a sense of protection which could easily numb any fear one ever had. It was a reflection of solidity which prophesied that one’s life would never fall apart. It was a concoction of all this that came out as a smile when a father waved at his daughter standing by the school gate. And then one day, she saw Shekhar doing the same. But instead of smiling at her, he was crying. She too started crying. In between the sugar-coated illusion and the stringent reality stood a thorny, wry realization. In all these years, ‘papa’ had only been a word for her to which she had associated a billion meanings, desires, and wishes. But no magic or conspiracy in the world could get the man behind the word kiss her cheeks, give her birthday gifts, or tell her a story of a charming prince whenever she cried.
Sitting in front of her computer, Nishani started crying compulsively. What could she do to get her father back? More tears welled up. And finally an answer punched her: nothing! What’s gone is gone. And what’s gone was her childhood. She was thirteen now; a teenager. Nishani kept her head down. Then after a few minutes, her head was up again. If she couldn’t get her childhood or her father back, at least she could get to the person who did this to her father, to her, to their relationship. She didn’t waste a minute to reread the incident that happened in the film set as documented in one of the archives of a website. It said people did suspect foul play, mainly because the director went on to make the film, which now has a legendary status in Indian cinema, with the newcomer who was directly involved in the accident. The article stated it was precisely because of the carelessness on the newcomer’s part that Shekhar Rai lost out on his golden career. And that the incident will always be interpreted as an accident didn’t change what the truth was.
Nishani stared at the computer screen like a tigress whose cubs have just been snatched away.
‘Shahraan Ali Bakshi,’ she told herself, ‘Nishani Rai will destroy you.’ It sounded like a promise. But for Nishani, it was a premonition.
At fifteen, she had devoured all the English classics. To her English teacher’s surprise, she’d come out with a thirty page casual criticism on Ayn Rand’s The Fountainhead, presented her views on why Madame Bovary should be in every high school syllabus, had a crush on Henry Miller, propagated how listening to soulful music since kindergarten can humanize the mind, and held the belief that euthanasia and surrogate motherhood—like prostitution and politics—should be an individual’s choice. Morality, she considered, was society’s shit. Boys were scared of her because when she opened her mouth, all their grey cells turned to coal, while the girls thought she was too haughty to even approach and discuss anything which they considered normal and fashionable. The teachers gave her a ‘keep it up’ smile trying to look busy during classes, hoping her knowledge about the subject didn’t surpass theirs. Not that Nishani didn’t know it. She could tell from the slight twitch in a person’s face if he was putting forward a false face, farting secretly, or was about to act smart. But she changed for nobody for she realized early on that one’s own happiness, and life, is not someone else’s perception. For her it was more personal than one’s religious practice or sexual orientation.
Coming home early one day, Nishani was happy she would have to spend the next seven hours alone till Ashlesha came home from work. Of late, she had noticed her presence turned on a particular radio station within her mother who kept repeating the same thing again and again: Nishani, make some friends. Nishani, why don’t you join an art class or a dance class or perhaps some sport or even swimming would do. Nishani, I am tired of you being locked in your room. I fought for you with your grandmother. Not because I would allow you to stay indoors always!
It was when Nishani kept her shoes in the shoe rack by the main door that she heard certain slurping sounds coming from her mother’s bedroom. She tiptoed towards the bedroom and peeped in, only to find her mother and Gaurav—her mother’s colleague—smooching passionately cuddled on the bed. The squeaky sound of the door stopper made them pause and stare at the intruder. By then Sonnet, Nishani’s pet cat, had popped in its head from in between her legs and was alternating its sight from its mistress to Ashlesha as if expecting either of them to do something.
‘Next time, try the door latch, mom.’
Nishani picked Sonnet up and went to her room.
Over the years, things had changed between them. Though Ashlesha kept a track, or so she thought, of every development of Nishani in her school and personal life, at times looking at her she felt she didn’t know her girl at all. She was too unresponsive on some subjects considering her age and too smart at some others. She was like a calm lake inspiring life on the face of it but under, Ashlesha had a slight inkling, there were strong currents of confusion driving the quietude.
‘How about having a father, Nishani?’ Ashlesha asked during dinner one night.
Nishani glared at her icily and said, ‘I have a father.’
Shekhar and she had finally undergone a divorce the previous year. Considering the negligible interactions that Nishani had with Shekhar, it was as good as not having a father.
‘With Gaurav, you will be able to talk literature, films, theatre all the time.’
Nishani had just placed a pi
ece of the butter paneer—her favourite—wrapped in a small crumb of roti in her mouth and for the first time that night, it tasted sour.
The following weekend, Gaurav dropped in. It was Nishani who opened the door.
‘Hey Nishani! Don’t you have school today?’
‘Saturdays are off.’
Gaurav closed the door with a hint of disappointment. Nishani was always an untamed fire for him.
‘Where is your mother?
‘Bathing.’
‘Okay. Beta, could you please give me a glass of water.’ He was skeptical if she would agree.
‘Okay.’
Gaurav’s hope got the necessary air to flutter. An instant later, he saw Nishani come out with a glass of water and a plate.
‘Mom asked me to give you this eggroll.’
Something about Nishani’s endeavor told him that soon he would have a family. He took a joyous bite from the eggroll.
Few minutes later when Ashlesha came into the room, an ugly shriek escaped her. Gaurav was on the floor carpet with white froth oozing out of his mouth while Nishani was helping Sonnet with her milk.
St. Jones Senior Secondary School was the most ‘happening’ school in Mumbai. Whatever new teenage fashion initiated in Mumbai, it already was a trend in St. Jones. The kids studying there were the offsprings of deserving, hyped, and overhyped achievers. And thus, the annual sports event of St. Jones was always a well-publicized event.
Nishani’s classmates and teachers were surprised when she enrolled for all the athletic events for the first time. Little did they know that from the time she learnt Shahraan Ali Bakshi was supposed to be the Chief Guest of Honour and would award the Sport Girl of the Year award personally, she had been jogging a good nine and a half kilometers to her school every morning.
‘Mom.’
A tensed Mrs Sehgal turned to see her son standing beside her. Looking at his one hundred and twenty kilo self, it seemed someone had twisted the number eight in such a manner that the lower portion formed his hips while the upper one formed the stomach.
‘Kaash? Isn’t your event going to start now?’ Mrs Sehgal was up on her legs.
‘Yes, but my teacher told me that I am not ready for it.’
‘Didn’t you challenge him?’
‘No.’
Mrs Sehgal held her son’s hand like a soldier holds his gun and walked with such pugnacity that people on their own moved away from her line of gait. Finally she reached his teacher.
‘Did you say—’
Kaash heard the announcement instead. The Gold medal for the one hundred meter girls’ race goes to Nishani Rai. Kaash’s eyes rested on the girl on the fifth track who was taking a breather with her hands on her hips. Nishani Rai. Bathed in sweat, she looked all the more attractive to him. She had already won four Gold medals and five Silver medals out of the nine events she took part in. This was her tenth and last event.
‘Kaash, Mr Ingle is ready to give you a chance.’ He heard his mother shout his eardrums out.
The whistle was blown for the race and every one sprinted ahead. So did Kaash and tripped a quarter of his way to the destination. There was an instantaneous roar of laughter among the spectators. This had happened so many times with him in the past that even a sense of embarrassment wasn’t unnatural for him. He limped up to his mother by the track.
‘Go, clean yourself up,’ she told him.
While making his way to the boy’s toilet, Nishani stopped him.
‘Hey Balloo, just stand still.’
‘Why Nish?’
Nishani suddenly took out a toy gun from her pocket, aimed it on Kaash’s face, and fired a streak of water.
‘Hell, what are you doing?’ He wiped his face taken aback.
‘Testing.’
‘It’s not Holi yet.’
‘I know.’ She kept the toy gun back in her pocket.
‘Then?’
‘You promise not to tell anyone?’
For a moment Kaash didn’t know how to react.
‘Promise.’
‘I’m going to gift this to someone.’
‘Who?’
Instead of answering, she pulled his cheeks as wide as she could. It irked him, but he was forever lenient with Nishani.
After all events were done with, Nishani was declared the Sports Girl of the year, triggering jealousy in all fellow students except Kaash who kept clapping non stop. Right after, there was another announcement.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, bring your hands together for a resounding round of applause for our Chief Guest of Honour this year—Mr Shahraan Ali Bakshi.’
A charismatic man was seen in the central podium waving at the spectators. Nishani’s jaw tightened. She could see him, like other awardees, from a close distance. He was wearing big brown shoes, a torn-at-the-knees blue jeans, and an untucked chalk-white full-sleeved shirt rolled up to his elbows. His Ray Ban aviators were clasped in his left hand. He was requested to say a few words.
‘Hello everyone.’
Someone from the crowd screamed, ‘I love you, Shahraan’. There was roaring laughter.
‘I love you too, darling,’ he said and continued, ‘Kids, I feel, are the only reason why the world is still beautiful.’ Applause. ‘Thanks for inviting me here. Lastly, to the kids—don’t give up if you didn’t win today and certainly don’t give up if you did because someone somewhere is working hard as you are celebrating. Cheers!’
There was another round of applause as Shahraan took his seat.
‘And now we start with the first award. The Sports Girl of the year is Nishani Rai of Standard Nine, section D.’
As her name was announced, Nishani took a step into the central podium and Shahraan got up from his seat taking the giant cup in his hands. Nishani slipped her hand inside her skirt’s pocket and gripped the toy gun. Instead of water, it now had acid.
Shahraan was waiting for Nishani with a giant cup and a smile which had won all the hearts it came across.
As Nishani took her steps, time seemed to have gone for a vacation. As if the entire world had leaped ahead and she was left behind. His eyes, which she had been so passionately sketching all her life, were locked with her own now. But there was something beyond them that she couldn’t ever bring forth in her sketches. They didn’t look evil. They were rather apologetic. And forgiving too. She couldn’t grip the toy gun inside her pocket. Perhaps she did but didn’t realize. Her hands were too numb to notice. As if his eyes had injected some tranquilizer in her blood stream.
One more step and she would be near him. She had to decide now. She had to destroy him. She felt the toy gun this time and was just about to pull it out and shoot all the acid on Shahraan when she heard him speak, ‘Congratulations. Your eyes tell me you will go a long way in life. Keep it up, kid,’ he said handing her the giant cup as she impulsively pulled out her lifeless hand from her skirt’s pocket and accepted it. Kid…Only her father used to call her that.
‘God bless,’ he touched her head in a manner of blessing her. She only kept looking at him with dry, shivering lips as people burst out applauding. But her ears, much like her other senses, failed her.
Sitting in her room, she was staring at her shining achievement—the cup—as Shahraan’s words ricocheted within her, colliding with the clouds of excitement, interest, arousal, hatred, obsession, passion, and love for the man whom she wanted to destroy. Hitherto.
She scribbled the sketches of Shahraan’s eyes she made at different points in time beyond recognition. She no longer needed to sketch them. They had now been imprinted on her soul. Was she defeated in her purpose? Will her father be ashamed if he gets to know this? Next time, she won’t commit the sin of looking into his eyes. Next time!
The aftermath of her self-claimed defeat made her skip school for five days straight, claiming sickness. In reality, she was down with emotional and moral confusion. Shahraan was an out and out enemy till then whom she wanted to kill at first sight. Now there was an in
domitable urge in her to know her prey before the kill. Am I wrong? Am I being unfaithful to my father and my own wounds by desiring it? But he was my prey after all. And it’s up to me how I killed him. By knowing what he is or imagining what he could be or fantasizing about him. The last thought shocked her. She had never, but for this moment, realized there were hormones within her which suddenly seem to manifest a sudden insatiable physical need. The door bell rang.
When she opened the door, Kaash handed her a yellow and a white rose with an I-know-you-know-I-am-stupid smile.
‘I had called last night. Aunty said you were not well. And my mother says whoever remains sick for at least five days should be visited and given flowers. How are you, Nish?’
‘Come in, Balloo,’ she said accepting the roses. Though he’d followed her often to her place, this was the only time he came inside. They went to her room. He made himself comfortable on her bed. ‘What happened to you?’
‘I am in…’ Nishani took Sonnet on her lap and sat on her study chair.
‘In love?’ Kaash blurted.
‘No stupid.’
Kaash relaxed. A ‘yes’ would have made him the youngest to die of a coronary thrombosis.
I don’t know. I am in hate.’
‘In hate? What’s that?’
‘People fall in love. Similarly, people fall in hate as well, right?’
‘Right.’ Kaash had no clue what she was talking about. ‘What happens when someone falls in hate?’
‘The same thing that happens in love, I guess. You become obsessed about a person. He doesn’t leave you in peace at all. Infuses weird thoughts in you and you unknowingly fall sick.’
‘For five days?’ Kaash had to prove he was getting her.
‘But what’s the difference between falling in love and falling in hate?’ Nishani was looking intently at Sonnet’s eyes.
‘I… I don’t know,’ Kaash wished she asked something easier.
‘Yes, you are right Sonnet. The heart gets ransacked in case of love and with hate, it’s the mind… where sex resides as well.’ She shifted her eyes to Kaash. He swallowed a lump.
How About a Sin Tonight? Page 12