by Vish Dhamija
‘Hi Jay.’
‘You look ravishing, Manavi,’ Jay murmured as she withdrew herself from his arms.
Despite having been counselled by none other than Mr Akbar Ali, Jay hadn’t coloured his hair, though he had toyed with the idea. Now, looking at her the panic, that he might appear to be her dad, hit him in the gut.
What would people who saw them together, think?
Who the fuck cared?
‘Should we have a drink first?’ he asked.
‘Yes, thanks. I love their bar.’
He turned towards the bar. She put her arm through his. Arms linked like a couple in love, the two walked towards Aura. Thankfully it was softly lit and sparsely populated.
It was essentially a vodka bar and when she ordered her drink, he realised why Manavi liked the place. The server took their orders and retreated.
For Jay, and maybe Manavi, too, it was the moment of truth.
What would they talk about all evening?
‘Do you come here often?’ Jay asked.
How’s that for an icebreaker?
‘No. Not because I don’t want to, but because I can’t.’
Jay narrowed his eyes to ask why, but the server had arrived with their drinks.
‘Because… I cannot afford to come here as often as I would like to on my meagre salary. Cheers, Jay.’ She raised her glass to toast.
‘Cheers.’ He clinked his glass against hers.
‘Why did you ask me out?’
‘Because you’re a hottie.’ The truth had already left his lips before he realised that his choice of words might not have been the most elegant.
‘Thanks. I know you said it in the right spirit, but it isn’t a great choice of word to compliment a lady,’ she said.
‘I’m sorry, I know...’
‘It’s okay.’
She was being nice to him. Did she see him struggling?
‘But—’
‘You wondering why would someone mind being called a hottie?’ she intervened.
‘Kind of… yes.’
For God’s sake shut up, Jay. This acceptance of your foolishness might not go down well either.
‘I guess you have a point, but while a subtle appreciation is desirable, hottie takes it to another level. No one likes being treated as an object.’
‘I said I’m sorry, I meant to be appreciative, not offensive.’
‘No offense taken, My Lord.’ She smiled disarmingly. ‘I’m glad you noticed.’
Just when her smile eased Jay, Bhīma entered the bar. Thankfully, Manavi was seated with her back towards the entrance or missing an oak tree walking in a closed space would have been near impossible.
Another of Bhīma’s virtues was he did not drink alcohol. The joke he always shared with Jay was that the latter more than consumed his share too.
What would he order in a bar? Milk?
Jay brought his wandering thoughts back lest he reckoned he’d offend his date twice on the first date if she thought he was interested elsewhere. In another man? He saw she was pensive, preoccupied. He wanted to ask her if something was bothering her, but decided he didn’t want to get involved in any problems.
‘What’s bothering you?’ he heard himself say.
‘How old are you?’
She surprised him. He hadn’t expected this question.
Was he supposed to lie? Evade the subject? What was the point? If his age bothered her it was best they had dinner and forgot about this meeting.
‘Forty-three. Too old?’
‘For?’
‘Dining with you?’
‘How old do you think I am?’
‘I shouldn’t be guessing.’
Liar.
He had made a part-timer in his office do the research, not Bhīma. He knew where she lived, that she had broken up with her long-term boyfriend a year ago, and hadn’t dated anyone since then.
‘Somewhere between twenty-seven and twenty-nine years old?’
‘Wow, that’s too wide a range.’
‘Good guess?’
‘On the dot.’
They sipped their drinks for a few silent seconds.
‘So how come you are single…’ she started.
‘At my age?’
She nodded, sipping her drink.
Jay walked her through his uninteresting life, carefully avoiding the murky past. The way his life had run its course, with him being the spectator at times, with no time to interpose, no time for a woman, for anything, really. Life had been work, work, work. And now, he had a son — adopted — who was in a hostel. ‘So that’s it. You could say I never had time to find someone suitable.’
‘You’re a great man, to have adopted a kid, to have taken responsibility of someone without being forewarned. Most men I know would shy away from that.’
Jay smiled. He sneaked a glance behind her to see Bhīma sitting with a glass of water; also kept on the big man’s table was a tankard of lager that he was nursing to keep prying eyes, if any, think he was a part.
‘So you live alone?’
Should he tell her about Bhīma and Sheeba?
‘You could say that,’ he heard himself say. As an advocate he often surprised himself. Some of the responses left his mouth faster than his mind could process. Or occasionally, as if the tongue disconnected from the brain, he responded with something else rather than what was on his mind, and it hadn’t got him into any trouble professionally as yet. ‘What about you? You are so gorgeous, how come you are single?’
‘Thanks. I wasn’t single till a year back.’
‘What happened? I mean I don’t want to be intrusive…’
‘Nah.’ She took a large sip.
Jay saw that she was almost finished with her drink, while he had a large portion left. He took a generous sip to catch up. The waiter, also eyeing her glass, came right on time and they ordered a repeat.
‘I broke off with a guy a year back.’
‘I got that part.’
‘We were together for four years.’
Jay kept listening. His couldn’t help but appreciate how beautiful she was. Perfect set of teeth, lovely dark shoulder-length hair surrounding the youthful face, enthralling chocolate-coloured eyes, painted nails, dressed impeccably. Had all his lucky stars finally aligned?
‘We had a great time. I have some good memories. We even travelled to Goa once.’
He flashbacked to his college days when even if the girlfriend let you kiss her, it was a big deal in the eighties. How times had changed. Here, he sat with Manavi telling him she had travelled and lived with her ex. He had stayed in a time warp. His memories and understanding of the dating game still stuck in the time when he was actually single and should have been dating.
‘Are you listening to me?’
‘Oh yes. I love Goa. What happened? I mean, you seemed to have had a great relationship going.’
‘He wanted to go abroad to study.’
‘And you didn’t?’
‘I wanted to, but couldn’t afford it, and he couldn’t pay for both of us, so... we split up. Nothing acrimonious. It couldn’t work long-distance, and I don’t suppose he’ll come back.’
‘What about you joining him?’
‘In my dreams. Jay, I work as a receptionist. On a salary that allows me to live comfortably, not luxuriously. How can I ever afford to study in the US?’ She rolled her eyes.
‘But if you had a choice?’
‘Choice of what?’
‘Hypothetically speaking, if you had the money to go abroad, what would you study?’
‘Interior designing. I have done up a few of my friends’ homes, and they look great. Or so I’m told.’
‘Wow. I’ve never had a designer look at my house.’
‘Now you can.’ She giggled coyly.
‘Of course. My pleasure.’
***
Dhaba in Claridges supposedly serves highway cuisine, hence the name. The décor is complete with a truck mural and c
ountryside interiors resembling a typical North Indian roadside eatery. The furniture is rustic, the walls rough, all done to replicate that ambience. The food is exceptional and exceptionally expensive. Jay courted Manavi into the restaurant. They discussed food most of the time while they ordered and ate. The bill was served — chauvinistically — to Jay, which he accepted till Manavi reminded him of the promise.
‘What if it’s a date?’ he quizzed.
‘Is it?’
‘Okay, let me ask you, what will make it a date?’
‘Take me for a drive after this?’
And what do I do with Bhīma?
‘My pleasure.’ He knew he’d have to go to the Men’s, explain the situation to Mr Kong and agree on a win-win situation. Bhīma could call a cab and follow them at a distance.
After dinner and visiting respective wash rooms, they walked to the door. She came close and slipped her hand into his. Love birds from diverse eras. They drove around Connaught Place, stopped for a coffee.
‘Where do you live?’
‘I am a country boy, I live at a farmhouse in Chhatarpur, away from the city.’
‘Probably plush.’
‘You should visit sometime to tell me what we could do with the interiors.’
‘How about we plan for some weekend?’ She looked at him. ‘It takes time to look into such things.’
‘How about this weekend? We could listen to music, barbeque something for dinner, have a drink, have a swim, after you finish—’
‘You’ve got a swimming pool?’
Jay nodded. ‘A small one.’
‘Wow! I am impressed. And how do I get back from your place after you get me drunk?’
‘I’ll get you dropped, that should the least of your worries. Or I have a guest room if you want.’
That was brave, mentioning guest room to stay over, Mr Gopher.
‘Could I confirm later, sometime during the week?’ She gave him a peck on his cheek before she got down outside her DDA flat in Munirka.
Jay must have driven a hundred metres before a white cab overtook and stopped him. Bhīma got down, paid the driver and opened Jay’s door. Gently, and with all respect, Bhīma told Jay that this was a one-off. There was no way Bhīma was allowing him to drive out on his own in the night, especially with Manavi with him. Jay was in a great mood, and he didn’t want to think how he would handle Bhīma or explain Bhīma to Manavi.
He stepped into his farmhouse, after eleven, exultant like a kid who had eventually spotted Santa Claus. He could have hung up the socks tonight. It had been a long day, but he wasn’t tired. Manavi had given him enough hope that a relationship between them could be cultivated. She had been lively, entertaining and hung around regardless of his blathering at times. Bahadur had crashed out and Bhīma came inside only briefly for a few seconds to inspect if everything was in order. Once he left, Jay fixed himself a drink, put on a Gilberto CD, kicked off his shoes and put his feet on the table. Within moments the music came to life with his feelings about some tall and tan and lovely girl from Ipanema who went walking…”
Manavi had looked young and so pretty; so sexy and so oomph. It was like spring had sprung. Some clichés were so wrong: one swallow could make it a spring. He had a juvenile smile on his lips as he drifted off to sleep.
FIFTEEN
I woke up with a start at three. The only thing I remembered was that I was having a beautiful dream, but in those waking moments the poor dream had got pushed down like a castle into a quagmire, so far deep and so out of my reach that I couldn’t even fucking remember what it was. Mere strobe lighting flashed in my sleepy brain. Nevertheless, the leftover smile of the happy dream still adorned my dry lips. Sheeba lay there on the carpet next to me on her back, her feet twitching in the air, as if she was having a happy dream too. As always she hadn’t left my side. Bless her!
My subconscious told me that the music around me had somehow changed. And it, in fact, had. The music had changed to Zakir Hussain drumming away “Rhythm Sonata in E Major”. His fingers on the tabla sounded like pure bliss in the silence of the night and I realised I had dozed off on the comfortable sofas in the living room on the ground floor itself. I looked around to find that someone had even refilled my drink, kept the bottle of whisky next to it on the side stool: all tell-tale signs of someone having visited me while I was asleep. In the past, in very early years, I didn’t realise that or maybe my visitor was a little more discreet, never leaving any illuminating signs. But with years of experience I knew it had to be Cooper who would have called on me and now gone. He must have wanted to have a drink and made me a fresh one too, and also changed the music. I looked carefully. The Gilberto CD, that I had been listening to, was now back in its jewel case and rearranged alphabetically like I kept them.
I finished the drink my friend had so kindly dispensed in my glass, but decided against pouring another one, as I had work in the morning. For a fleeting moment I felt miserable that I didn’t wake up to speak to Cooper, to update him on the case and seek his advice; although, if I were to be honest, I wanted to talk to him about Manavi more than the case. I had no misapprehension that given the way he so fascinatingly conducted his business — with a million eyes and ears — he’d already have known about my meeting with her last evening. Perhaps that was why he had come tonight, to raise a toast?
I elected not to go up to my bedroom to change for I had, in the past, made the mistake of walking up the stairs and changing into nightwear but, by the time I was finished doing all that, sleep had given me a wide berth. I switched off the table lamp, covered myself with a throw and settled in for the balance of the night. My brain was exhausted and drowsy and tipsy, what with the mishmash of events happening around: visions of my mother splashed in front my eyes as moments marched on. Thoughts of Swamijee, then of my mum’s letter segued to Manavi, which were alleviating. The moonlight showering on the swimming pool was visible from the French doors, the wind gently whispered something into the oak tree’s ears outside; it hissed a smile in spurts. It sounded like the crickets were in mating season. Was it their version of howling at the moon? The pool looked all blue and beautiful. All was serene. I didn’t want peace to leave and my mind engage in unbidden thoughts, and so before the ghosts of yesteryears could pop up or my mind actively engrossed itself in the current case, I vehemently shut my eyes and forced myself back to sleep.
SIXTEEN
‘So, do you want to tell me anything?’ Anita asked Manavi when she saw her in office the next day. ‘What about, Anita?’ Manavi was stunned.
‘Jay and you?’
Why would Anita be interested in knowing the intimacy she shared with Jay? Hadn’t Anita made it clear that she could do as she pleased?
‘Forgive me for being dumb, but I’m still not sure I understand what you mean, Anita.’
‘Ah, it’s not what you think; it’s not that at all, silly girl. I have no interest in your personal life. I was only worried if anything untoward happened, which you might want to discuss with me.’
‘Oh...’ Manavi let out a sharp breath. ’I wondered what your interest was in Jay and me.’
‘I only have a clinical interest. Unless, of course, you want to share some other stuff with me.’
‘There’s nothing like that, I promise.’ She was aware that she was blushing. Would Anita catch her fib? The memories of the previous night’s dinner and drive and the weekend plan to swim together started playing in her brain. They were so surreal that she almost cried out “awesome”, but stopped herself in time. God, that was close!
Was there any point in letting Anita know if she went over to Jay’s place?
No.
Anita looked embarrassed. ‘Coffee?’
‘That’ll be great. Thanks.’
‘Take a seat. Let’s have a chat. I don’t have any appointments this morning.’
***
‘I called up Mr Saxena and fixed an appointment for you for tomorrow afternoon at two, hukum. I�
��ve also informed Julie that you will not be in the office after lunchtime tomorrow, so she will reschedule all your appointments. There is only one court hearing tomorrow, which isn›t important enough that you, personally, need to attend. She will ask someone else to represent on your behalf.’
That was Bhīma: loyal and dependable, caring and insistent.
Jay did ponder what new information, if anything, a meeting with a man responsible for an investigation over two decades prior could bring. For him, it was the murder of his father — for a police officer the case would have been just another criminal investigation. What could the old man even remember? But curiosity was biting into whatever little patience he had left and it was best to check, to turn this last stone too.
Bhīma had checked with the retired SP if he was okay to see them regarding the case. So, maybe… just maybe the old man remembered something.
Didn’t everyone live on wisps of hope?
***
Vasant Kunj is a colossal complex. Located in southwest Delhi, the area was originally farmland across four villages. Post-Independence, with a young India waking up to its population demands, the villages were acquired by Delhi Development Authority, under the leadership of the then Prime Minister Nehru, to build apartments for Delhi residents. However, the construction only started in the eighties. It now housed over a hundred thousand people, most of them affluent, as expected anywhere in South Delhi: retired cricketers, golfers, bureaucrats, intellectuals, prominent businessmen.
Retired SP Amrit Saxena lived in the oldest sector: Sector A, in Pocket C. It was like he was waiting for his guests. When Jay rang the doorbell he was immediately at the door with a smile wider than the Suez Canal, a universal sign of loneliness — you crave for company to such an extent that you feel excited when you see anyone at the door. His small apartment was spartanly furnished: an old two-seater sofa, a matching single one, a few chairs pulled from the dining table and a round glass coffee table with more scratches than the old man’s age in months. The curtains didn’t appear to have been taken down for a wash since his wife had passed away in the nineties. There was an old television, a CRT, in one corner and a collection of VHS tapes. Modest and time warped existence… waiting for the eventuality every mortal is aware of, but doesn’t look forward to. The policeman was now a shadow of the powerful man Jay remembered him as. Bent, slim, hair — whatever was left — unkempt and white and hence the only dandruff Jay could see was on his crumpled powder-blue shirt. Despite his age and waning health the SP had bathed and shaved to meet his guests.