Khata-khat, khata-khat, go the wheels of the Howrah Mail briskly. Phata-phat, phata-phat.
The children go ballistic as the track curves, and for about a minute the whole train is visible from their window, a black-headed, bright red wriggly caterpillar in a bed of green. The engine chugs harder, the whistle blows and smoke blows past their ecstatic faces. As the train shoots past several level crossings, they lurch to the bathroom with mugs filled with toothpaste, toothbrush, Lifebuoy soap and cold cream. When they stagger back, all wet hair and flushed cheeks, Sneha rubs coconut oil into their hair and combs it out ruthlessly. Bright frocks and shiny shoes are pulled on. Rubber bands are produced, braids are tied, kajal is reapplied. Finally, one black dot is carefully placed on Jaideep Singh’s left cheek.
‘Shaanu Bhaisaab, Shaanu Bhaisaab!’ Sulochana jumps up and down as the train pulls into the station.
Sarita, older and more dignified, just wriggles delightedly in the window seat.
Sneha, composed but bright-eyed, puts on her bindi in the mirror.
Tinka feels strangely forlorn in the face of this familial excitement. Swallowing the stupid lump in her throat, she stands up to get a book out of her rucksack.
The train comes to a halt. Sulochana utters a piercing scream, presumably at sighting Shaanu Bhaisaab. Footsteps tread quickly up the stairs and then a smiling, vibrant voice rings out cheerfully:
‘Bacchhccha paaaarty?’
On her knees, wrestling with her rucksack, Tinka hears one loud thud and then another as the two girls hurl themselves upon the new entrant, shrieking joyfully. Feeling decidedly unwanted, she stays where she is, pushing the rucksack back slower than she needs to.
By the time she straightens up and turns around, the aisle is empty. Oddly deflated, Tinka finger-combs her mop of hair and stretches out on the vacated berth, using her rucksack like a pillow.
Through the large train windows, she can see the Faujdaars bunched together in a noisy, colourful huddle. They have been joined by a thin-shanked, crusty old gent in a dirty-white dhoti and pagdi. Pitaji, presumably. Famous Shaanu Bhaisaab has his back to Tinka. He has lifted up Sulochana and is swinging her about like an aeroplane, making whooping noises. He presents a rather good rear view, Tinka has to admit. Or maybe it’s those Oxford blue Air Force dungarees that can make even saggy-paunched unclejis look hot.
Then he turns around, laughing, and Tinka is immediately transported to another train station, and to a feeling she’d last felt four years ago.
The cadet from Jodhpur Flying College.
With the smiling grey eyes that are exactly the same colour as the Kota stone floors of her darling Kung fui’s ancestral kothi in Kathiawar.
Now with longer hair, leaner, more tan and much more polished-looking.
He sees her staring at him through the bars and raises a questioning eyebrow.
‘That’s Tinka didi,’ Sulo supplies, her arms around his neck. ‘She’s our friend. We played Donkey on the train. She got Do and Don and Donk.’
The cadet – an officer now, her eyes flicker to his stripes, a Flying Officer, no less – steps up to the window, still holding his little sister, his face creasing automatically into a polite smile.
‘Hullo, ma—’
One hand rising self-consciously to adjust her hair, Tinka smiles back.
He checks himself abruptly.
Tinka’s eyes twinkle, her smile widens, scrunching up her face, turning her into an implet with dimplets.
He scans her face, his gaze growing keener as he takes in her hair, the camera around her neck. An answering grin spreads across his face.
A genuinely welcoming grin. Like he’s thought about her over the years too, the way she has of him, at odd hours, on odd days and even on even days sometimes.
‘Tell-me-na Dadyseth,’ he drawls deliberately, the Kota-grey eyes sparkling with pleasure as he extends one sinewy hand at her through the bars. ‘How have you been?’
• • •
‘Arrey bhai, can we go?’ the Choudhary demands testily, shaking his stick about. ‘All this standing around, chatting can happen at home also. I am so tired!’
Tinka’s head immediately snaps away from Shaanu to Sneha, indignant that the old man is complaining about being exhausted when he’s snored peacefully in first-class comfort the whole way, leaving Sneha to handle the children in the second-class bogey.
Sneha’s eyes gleam in acknowledgement, but all she says, looking with interest from Shaanu to Tinka, is,
‘You two know each other.’
‘Slightly.’
‘Very well.’
Their answers come simultaneously, as their hands grasp each other.
His grip is cool and firm and somehow familiar. Hers, she is sure, is all warm and clammy from the train.
Silence. Well, if one doesn’t count the Choudhary haggling loudly with the coolies in the background.
‘Can I get you anything?’ Shaanu enquires finally, still holding her hand fast. ‘Water? Biscuits?’
‘I’m fine, thanks,’ Tinka assures him. ‘Calcutta is just two stations away.’
Shaanu nods and lets go of her hand. As he steps back, Tinka notices that the tips of his ears have gone slightly red. Or perhaps it is only the sun behind him.
‘What are you doing in Calcutta?’ he asks.
‘She’s volunteering at the Missionaries of Charity!’ Sulochana provides the answer, her sweet voice hoarse with exhaustion. ‘She’s come to work in the refugee camps and take photos with that special camera. Isn’t that great?’
Tinka goes red and endeavours to look great.
Shaanu’s eyebrow shoots up.
‘They have Indian-style WCs there,’ he says, looking her up and down quizzically. ‘And string beds and erratic electricity. Tough going for a lady. Can you handle it?’
‘Yes,’ Tinka replies loftily.
He looks sceptical but also impressed.
Feeling a bit of a hypocrite, she quickly admits, ‘I’m, uh, staying at Sarhind Club, actually.’
‘Aha.’ The grey eyes sparkle. Then he adds briskly, ‘I’ll come to meet you there. Tomorrow night, seven o’clock at the Anchor Bar. It’s in the club itself. Does that work?’
She looks at him, taken aback.
‘Huh?’
‘Does that work?’ he repeats suavely. She doesn’t remember him being suave before. It’s something he’s picked up recently.
She hesitates. Why does he want to meet her? They’ve already said their how-nice-it-was-to-see-you-again piece. What more is there to talk about?
‘Can we go?’ calls a cantankerous voice from behind them. ‘I have to do peshaab.’
Tinka’s eyes widen.
‘Is that Chimman?’ she whispers. ‘Chimman Singh?’
Shaanu’s eyes light up in surprise that she remembers.
‘Yeah.’ He gives her a wry grin.
Well, maybe there is more to talk about.
‘C’mon, Dadyseth,’ he presses, just as the Howrah Mail blows its whistle and lurches back to life. ‘Let’s meet someplace that isn’t a railway station.’
Tinka laughs, but shakes her head.
‘It’ll be very proper,’ he assures her, walking along with the train, holding the window bars. ‘I’ll bring my friends. One of them is married and very boring, and the other is just very boring. Say yes!’
He’s joking, of course, but his eyes are not. There’s something compelling about that direct grey gaze – a potent mixture of genuine concern, you-owe-me and something more intimate. She’s not sure what, but whatever it is, it’s making her heart beat faster.
Right in tempo with the train.
Shaanu is running lightly now, still holding onto the bar of her window. He is tremendously fit and looks like he could run for miles, but he is in dire danger of running out of platform.
‘The name’s Ishaan,’ he calls. ‘Ishaan Faujdaar!’
She hears him this time. She smiles through the bars and no
ds.
‘Okay!’
• • •
Sarhind Club is exactly as Tinka expected it to be. Sprawling, opulent, deliciously colonial. Thanks to the Freesia ad money, she has been able to splurge on a suite. As she smiles at the bearer who’s carrying her rucksack to her room, she notices that he is looking at her a little oddly. Oh God, please let him not recognize her!
The bearer comes to a halt outside a door labelled MAPLE SUITE and opens it with a welcoming flourish.
‘There you are.’
The husky matter-of-fact voice causes Tinka to shriek, slam to a dead halt and swear colourfully. The bearer, entering the room at her heels, bumps right into her. She stumbles and so does he, apologizing profusely. They detangle themselves, even as a tall, haggard lady with jewel-like hooded eyes and a fabulous purple dahlia in her greying upswept bun, watches them serenely from her seat at the three-mirrored dressing table.
‘What vulgar language, bachche,’ she says, flicking back the pallu of her floral chiffon sari. ‘Why must you always be so dramatic?’
‘I’m being dramatic?’ Tinka demands. ‘You’re the one who’s lurking in my room like a James Bond villain! What are you doing here, Kung fui?’
Kainaz Dadyseth tries a tinkling little laugh.
‘Aren’t you thrilled to see me?’
‘No,’ says Tinka, still confused and rapidly getting upset. ‘I’m working. You’re old. You have high-blood pressure. What’s the deal?’
Her aunt kicks off her high-heeled sandals and sighs.
‘I want to work with the refugees too.’
Tinka’s jaw sags.
‘You do not!’
‘Oh, I do,’ Kainaz assures her earnestly. ‘I lie awake at night, my heart aching for all of them! And when I fall asleep, they haunt my dreams, endless, emaciated lines of bhookha Bengalis…’
‘Don’t call them bhookha Bengalis!’
‘… straggling into the country through the border from Mysore.’
‘Jessore.’
Kainaz’s lips form a moue.
‘Don’t quibble, darling. Besides, it’s very fashionable, you know. Everybody at Altamont Road is into it. But so far they’ve only held charity shows or collection drives. I’ve just raised the game to a whole new level!’ Her face brightens. ‘Achcha, you have that very expensive camera – take some nice pictures of me holding some thin but photogenic children, hmmm? I want to make a nice album. I bought lots of blue-and-white saris.’
Tinka tries to make sense of all this.
‘Why blue-and-white saris?’
Kung fui stares at her like she’s mentally deficient.
‘Because Mother Teresa’s nuns wear blue-and-white saris! I only packed silks – some peacock, some aqua, some Feroza, some navy. And my most discreet jewellery – nothing thopa-thopu or vulgar like gold – just diamonds, so subtle and khandaani.’
‘Stop talking about clothes!’
Kainaz’s hooded, glittering eyes grow even huger.
‘Who’s talking about clothes? I’ve come to do my bit for the liberation of Bangladesh!’
Tinka throws up her hands. ‘When did you start caring about the liberation of Bangladesh?’
‘Ever since I read the reports on the Muktis,’ says her aggravating aunt. ‘They’re a rebel guerrilla army, fighting the West Pakistani oppressors—’
‘I know what the Mukti Bahini is!’
‘And they sound so dashing and romantic, like the VietCong or Che Guevara, only more intellectual, because they’re Bengali, na.’
Tinka stares at her, not wholly convinced. Kainaz Dadyseth, now fifty, had been only thirty years old when her husband, a brilliant young Indian Foreign Service Officer, dropped dead of a heart attack at the Indian consulate in Cairo. Some (unkind) people blamed her for this, and it must be admitted that she had often got him into trouble because of her candid utterances. Her short, turbulent career as an IFS spouse had included confiding to the Russian attaché that she’d invited him over for lunch because she had ‘so many leftovers from the party we had for the American attaché last night!’, and asking wide-eyed in front of a room full of press people ‘But wasn’t he always?’ when her husband gravely announced that the East African President had just been blackballed.
After her husband died, she reverted to her maiden name and sought solace within the pages of Margaret Mitchell, Lucy Walker and Barbara Cartland. She also surprised everybody by doing a remarkably fine job of reviving her family’s many businesses (including a cloth mill, a dockyard and a canned foods factory).
‘Kainaz fui, why are you really here?’
The older woman squares her shoulders and looks deep into her niece’s eyes.
‘I’m worried about you.’
‘Uff!’ Tinka throws herself down on an armchair in disgust. ‘I knew it!’
There is silence in the opulent suite.
Finally, Tinka speaks again, her voice gentler. ‘Fui, go back to Altamont Road. I’m twenty-three years old. You can’t follow me around pretending to care about refugees. It doesn’t suit your image.’
Kainaz lifts her chin combatively.
‘Oho, and it suits yours? You’re only a brainless bimbo who dances nanga under waterfalls!’
‘Ouch. I deserved that, I guess.’
‘No, you didn’t,’ her aunt says with swift contrition. ‘You’re a very talented photographer and you genuinely want to help, but bachche, understand, you’re on TV eight times a day, your hoardings are up in all four metros, and the India Post has called you namkeen, as if you were a sort of cornflakes chevdo. You need a bodyguard.’
‘Ya well, you’re too frail to be it!’
‘Uff, you don’t need a mushtanda.’ Kainaz shudders delicately. ‘You need a person of foxy intelligence who can tell you what’s what. Also, Tinka, have you spoken to your father?’
‘Ardisher? No.’
Kainaz looks distressed.
‘Don’t call him Ardisher, Tehmina.’
‘Don’t call me Tehmina.’
‘You did the ad just to annoy him.’
Tinka rolls her eyes.
‘I did it to earn money, Kung fui!’
‘But I have money!’
‘Don’t show off,’ Tinka tells her severely. ‘My own money.’
‘Well, now that Jimmy’s dead, all my money will go to you.’ Kainaz’s voice wobbles. ‘Who else will I leave it to?’
Tinka sighs, her expression softening.
Even though Kung fui can’t abide her brother – ‘Such a wet sock, poor Ardisher, buried in Defence Colony, knee-deep in Punjabis’ – she has always loved his children and supported them in every way. She was totally broken when Jimmy died.
There’s not much point in arguing, Tinka realizes with a sigh. Her aunt has already settled in, commandeering the ‘better side of the bed’ (closer to the window, to flick ash out of) and eighty per cent of the dressing table. Tinka resigns herself to the inevitable. Kissing her aunt on the cheek, she enters the white marble bathroom, gets under the steaming hot shower and proceeds to wash the grime of the train off her body.
I’ll scout out the best developing studio tomorrow, she thinks as she soaps herself. Make friends with the technicians there. Maybe even drop into Mother House and check out the refugee camp. Basically, not let Kung fui throw me off my stride.
Resolutions made, she slips into the cosy white bed, shivering slightly, slathers her body with Afghan Snow and falls into a sound sleep.
But then, most aggravatingly, Fabulous Shaanu Bhaisaab shows up in her dreams.
Lightly browned, like the best crunchy cookies. Walking that prowly, tomcat walk, the kind Alistair MacLean novel heroes walk in movies, when they saunter away casually from mega explosions. Dressed in his Oxford-blue dungarees, sleeves rolled up to show off his sinewy forearms. His Kota-grey eyes sparkling and his lips twisted into that cocky but somehow sympathetic grin, like he knows what deep shit she’s got herself into and is here to help
her get out of it.
I don’t need your help, she tells this dangerous Dream Shaanu. I’ve managed to dig myself out of deep shit myself, thank you very much. And you only look good because the IAF uniform is so hot. If you weren’t wearing it, you’d look entirely ordinary.
But then the Dream Ishaan starts to pull off his overalls, and it turns out that it wasn’t his uniform that was making him look so hot, after all…
Tinka wakes up from the dream smiling and flushed and appalled.
It’s stupid and shallow to build up some man in your head like this, she tells herself sternly as she brushes her teeth. You don’t know him at all. Stop attributing qualities to him he may not possess and imagining a made-for-each-other vibe that doesn’t exist!
Which is why (she is now having a full-blown dialogue with herself, never a sign of an ordered mind) the sensible thing to do is to meet him again, so you can prove to yourself that he is not really what you think he is, and thus get him out of your system forever!
She rinses, dries her face and walks out to the attached balcony where her aunt is already sipping tea.
‘Good morning!’ says Kainaz Dadyseth brightly. ‘Isn’t this lovely?’
She gestures to the silver tea tray, the crunchy toast-butter-jam and the grounds of the club stretching out green and lush before them.
‘Yes,’ Tinka agrees. ‘Er, Kung fui, I have to go out.’
Tinka spends the day at Park Street, shopping for film rolls and taking in the sights. There is a larger-than-life hoarding of her at a major crossroad, clutching a Freesia soap and smiling as a deluge of water pours over her head. Though she sees several young men ogling it and a man on a scooter actually careening into a cow because he’s looking at it so raptly, nobody notices any likeness between it and her.
When she returns in the evening, Kainaz Dadyseth is settled in the armchair in their room, nursing a whiskey-paani. She is dressed in a grey Chantilly lace sari, and there is a fresh hot pink dahlia in her hair. She demands to be entertained.
‘But I don’t know anybody in Calcutta!’ Tinka protests.
‘I know some people. There are the Periwals – they’re maardus, you know, from Kutch, but they’ve lived here for years. And the Lodhas from Colaba. And the Khambata family—’
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