Baaz

by Anuja Chauhan

  Presently the game gets over and the crowd rises to its feet to line up for the buffet lunch that has been laid out. On the stage, Nikka puts away the numbers drum and downs a glass of water.

  ‘Do you think he’ll talk to us?’ Leo’s chubby face looks doubtful. ‘He’s not mingling with the guests, and he has all those gun-toting guards. Not to mention that massive-impassive ADC – the fellow looks seven feet tall.’

  ‘We’ll talk to him,’ Tinka says firmly. ‘C’mon!’

  The others look at her uncertainly.

  ‘What?’ she demands.

  ‘Are you counting on flooring him with your charm?’ Julian asks diffidently. ‘Because, unchivalrous as it is to point this out, you’re not exactly looking your best.’

  This is putting it politely. Tinka, since the afore-mentioned phone call from her aunt, has turned into a bit of a slob. She has been wearing the same baggy food-stained shirt for the last three days, her hair looks greasy, her eyes wild and bloodshot. They are pretty sure she hasn’t bathed in a while.

  Tinka snorts.

  ‘I can handle generals. My dad’s a general. C’mon.’

  She strides up to Nikka as he descends the podium and calls out in a cheery, impossible-to-ignore voice from behind her camera, ‘General, surely not a good time to be playing Tumbola?’

  Nikka stops, looking cornered, but the presence of the two white men behind her has its usual edifying effect. He smoothens down his hair and smiles for the cameras.

  Sshviccck!

  ‘I don’t see why I should disrupt my regular schedule because of a few fractious Indians,’ he says smoothly, even as he checks out Tinka from chest to toe, then looks away dismissively.

  ‘You were sort of rushing through the number-calling today,’ Julian remarks in the plummy, uber-brit voice he adopts during interviews. ‘Any particular reason?’

  ‘I never rush,’ Nikka replies superbly.

  Leo tries a different tack.

  ‘Looking a bit black for Pakistan, though, isn’t it, sir?’ he says sympathetically.

  Nikka draws himself up.

  ‘Not at all.’

  This is met with a stumped, incredulous silence. The general licks his lips again and continues smoothly, ‘It’s pretty much even-stevens at the moment, I would say.’

  Tinka almost snorts aloud but manages to control herself.

  ‘Could you please elaborate?’ Julian asks politely.

  ‘Kindly do me the courtesy of not interrupting,’ says the general, rather unfairly, because Julian has not been interrupting. ‘Fatalities on both sides are equal. You must be aware that our ally America is pushing for ceasefire resolutions in the UN Security Council. When that happens, India will have to immediately stop its forces from advancing and capturing Dacca. International pressure will force them to sit at a negotiating table, vacate all captured territories and,’ he licks his lips again, ‘pay us millions of dollars in war damages.’

  ‘The Soviets will never let that go through,’ Leo says immediately. ‘They’ll veto it for sure.’

  ‘But why?’ Nikka’s eyes bulge. ‘India poked its nose into our private business, they attacked our country without any provocation whatsoever!’

  ‘General, refugees have been streaming into India right through the years—’ Julian starts to say when Tinka interrupts him.

  ‘But won’t there be less loss of life if you just surrender now?’

  He has more or less ignored her so far, talking only to the blond and blue-eyed ‘foreigners’, but now he deigns to make eye contact with her.

  ‘We will never surrender, madam,’ he says disdainfully. ‘Pathans do not know the meaning of surrender.’

  She shakes her head impatiently, dismissing this for the hyperbole it clearly is.

  ‘But sir,’ she leans in, her voice soft, her bloodshot eyes sympathetic. ‘Your mother and sisters suffered so much during the Partition. Surely they wouldn’t wish that sort of horror on other women and children?’

  Nikka’s jaw drops.

  His face goes white, then very red.

  Behind him his guards tighten their holds on their guns.

  ‘Bluddy hell,’ Julian mutters, putting up his hands and pulling Tinka back. ‘You have no concept of personal space, wench.’

  ‘We were just leaving,’ Leo chimes in cheerily. ‘Nice meeting you – goodbye.’

  The two of them turn around, tugging at Tinka to come too.

  But she stands her ground, refusing to look away from the general.

  ‘Break that woman’s camera,’ Nikka says in a strangled voice.

  It is done in a moment. Nikka’s ADC, a seven-foot-tall, wooden-faced man-mountain, steps forward, plucks the Lecia out of Tinka’s hand and breaks it in one economical move.

  It makes a noise like a bone being crunched.

  ‘If you are so troubled by violence against women and children, madam,’ the general’s voice is all silky malevolence, ‘may I suggest you leave this country during the four-hour Red Cross-mandated ceasefire tomorrow night? Because after that, things will get, how should I put it, messier.’

  • • •

  Shaanu’s tempo rolls into the city of Dacca late in the evening. The other passengers have disembarked along the way, and he is now sprawled right across the back seat. As the tempo travels down the largely deserted streets, the driver turns around and addresses him, his voice faintly ironic, ‘Where now? Hospital?’

  ‘You could call it that,’ Ishaan says. He is tired, his body feels clammy, his shoulder is throbbing. The bumpy ride has confirmed what he already suspected – something jagged and sharp is lodged inside his wound. He sits up and rubs his knuckles into his grimy eyes. ‘You know, the kind of hospital where I can get girls, booze and a good time.’ He winks.

  ‘A red-light area?’ the driver says, puzzled. He jerks his head towards the bloody shoulder. ‘Shouldn’t you get that attended to first?’

  Shaanu shakes his head. ‘Too … many … questions … will be … asked.’

  There is a short silence. Then the driver gives a nod.

  ‘Okay. I’ll take you someplace.’

  They drive on in silence and turn into a crowded, noisy street some ten minutes later. Chaat and boiled-egg thelas jam the pavements, doing brisk business. Groups of men mill about in the small booze and beedi shops beyond, their eyes glued to the ladies lounging in the wooden balconies upstairs. Naked bulbs twinkle overhead gaily, adding a festive touch. Skinny yellow street dogs nose about busily in rubbish heaps. Music plays loudly. A decrepit yellow board declares the place to be English Road.

  ‘Is there a party?’ Ishaan asks, peering out of the tempo.

  ‘There’s a party every night.’ The driver chuckles. ‘You should be safe enough here, they don’t mind Indians.’

  Shaanu’s eyes widen

  ‘I’m not Indian.’

  ‘And I’m not a fool.’ The driver’s voice is dry. ‘Only an Indian infiltrator would stand at the road waving brand-new ten-rupee notes. Who carries so much money around in these hard times?’

  Shaanu chuckles and pushes his hair off his forehead. He is starting to feel rather feverish.

  ‘Th-thank you.’

  ‘Mention not,’ the driver replies. ‘I used to have a wife and sisters. Now, I don’t. I hate these bloody West Pakistanis.’

  Ishaan clasps his hand, his eyes glowing with gratitude.

  ‘Please … you’ve being so helpful … tell me where to go!’

  The driver pulls his hand away. ‘Go to the Dawakhana,’ he says hurriedly.

  ‘Dawakhana?’ Ishaan repeats. ‘For treatment, you mean? I don’t believe in all that quakery.’

  But the driver’s eyes have started skittering around nervously. He gives Ishaan a little push. ‘I’ve said enough. Now, go. Go!’

  ‘Shukriya.’ Shaanu gets out of the tempo.

  It feels both strange and commonplace to be walking along a crowded street in the enemy’s city. Everybody l
ooks so … Indian. The street dogs. Even the food. Shaanu still has some Pakistani currency left, so he heads for a food stall and places an order. Sitting on a low parapet around a peepal tree a little later, he chews on a bread pakoda, watches everybody have a good time around him and wonders what to do next.

  Should he try and get to the Indian High Commission? Or make for the border? Or stay put? Dacca is clearly tottering. If he can get the treatment he needs and lie low for even a week, the Indians will get here and take the city. Yeah, lying low and staying put is the best plan.

  Except that he is not very good at lying low. Should he look for this mysterious Dawakhana?

  What would be really good, he thinks restlessly as he strokes the edge of his wound gingerly through his overalls (it feels hot and wet and sore), is if he could help in some way, be a part of the final assault, strike a blow against the guys who got Maddy and Raka! Yes, that’s what he will do!

  But after he has sat here for a while and rested himself.

  It’s nice here under the peepal tree. His belly is pleasantly full with bread pakora as good as any he’s had at home, and his body seems to have untensed itself. If only the pain in his shoulder wasn’t so intense. It’s started to throb like a bastard. He can feel a pulse beating between his ears, a pulse so loud that it has drowned out all other sound.

  Sweat trickles down Shaanu’s brow.

  His eyes droop, he slumps against the peepal tree.

  Around him, English Road continues to party.

  • • •

  The three girls have the evening off. They are to entertain nobody but themselves tonight, their madam has decreed in a fit of uncharacteristic generosity, and that is exactly what they intend to do. Like a trio of buzzing hummingbirds, they descend upon English Road, in their net chunnis and bright nylon ribbons, and get down to milking its many pleasures with gusto. Nine plates of sweet-sour puchkas have been consumed, some pretty wool purchased to knit sweaters for their children, and now they’re sitting under the big peepal tree, leaning against its wide trunk, sucking on bright orange ice lollies and arguing about whether they should see a picture or take a walk down the sari-sellers’ street, which is looking so pretty tonight, all festooned with glowing gas hurricane lamps.

  ‘I want to buy a yellow silk sari, the colour of marigolds,’ declares one of the girls.

  ‘To get married in?’ asks another.

  This is met with gales of laughter. Marriage is an institution none of them believes in any more.

  ‘I want to see Shakuntala,’ says the third decisively. ‘It’s mythological, not like other pickchures. Watching it is like praying or going to the temple.’

  ‘You’ve never been to a temple in your whole life!’

  More laughter.

  ‘Cholo cholo, what should we do?’

  ‘Open the rum!’

  ‘Oh! And dip our orange bars in it!’

  ‘Good idea, here, take the bottle … arrey, where did it—ore baba re!’

  A shocked hush follows as they take in the young man lying unconscious against the other side of the peepal trunk, a big patch of blood staining the front of his shirt.

  ‘Is he dead?’

  ‘No, he’s breathing, look.’

  ‘But barely. He’s hot.’

  The other two giggle.

  ‘Horny girl! I mean he has fever.’ Her voice goes from concerned to doubtful. ‘Do you think he could be from … across the border?’

  The other two giggle again, unfazed by the suggestion.

  ‘Let’s pull down his pants and check.’

  But before they can act on this tempting suggestion, a rough voice calls out from behind them.

  ‘What’s all this? What’s going on here? Who’s that fellow? What are you girls up to?’

  Girl number one quickly throws her chunni over the bloodied chest of the unconscious man.

  ‘He’s had too much to drink,’ she calls out to the policeman saucily. ‘No capacity, you know. Don’t worry, officer!’

  The portly cop frowns at them for a moment, then nods and passes along. The girls breathe a sigh of relief.

  One of them sprinkles a few icy-cold drops of the melting orange bar on the unconscious man’s face.

  He winces. His lashes flutter open. They all suck in their breath admiringly.

  ‘Ki shundor chokh!’

  Ishaan coughs weakly. His gaze flits from one hard, bright face to the other, then he decides to take a calculated risk.

  ‘Joy … Bangla,’ he says hoarsely.

  The girls look at each other and nod.

  ‘Let’s take him to the Dawakhana.’

  • • •

  The decrepit two-floored old house stands in the middle of a small scraggy garden full of thorny grey rose bushes set around a broken birdbath. It is small and surly looking, with the flat roof typically found in north Indian kothis. There are ornate cement jaalis and exposed plumbing pipes with pigeons roosting in them. Yellow pigeon droppings streak the walls.

  The hand-painted sign at the gate reads HARRY ROSE KHANDAANI DAWAKHANA but somebody has scratched out the original writing to read HAVASKHANA instead. Indeed, there are signs of lust everywhere, or rather posters proclaiming the efficacy of Harry Rose’s remedies for:

  • small pennis

  • dry vageena

  • nightfall

  • penile limp

  • premature ejection

  The three good Samaritans hustle Shaanu into the house through a rickety door and sit him down on a bench in what seems to be a reception area. They give the metal bell placed there a vigorous shake, then turn around and hurry out as fast as they can.

  ‘If we rush we can still catch Shakuntala.’

  ‘But I want to buy a bright yellow silk sari…’

  ‘To get married in?’

  As their giggles fade away, Ishaan opens his eyes and looks around the waiting room dazedly. It is lit with a harsh tubelight that casts an uncompromising light on its occupants – a thin, miserable-looking, gulping youth, a middle-aged merchant in a too-tight coat and a wiry old man sitting hand in hand with a burqa-clad girl. On the wall is a black-and-white portrait of a moustachioed gentleman who, Shaanu assumes, must be Harry Rose himself, standing next to Jawaharlal Nehru in front of Lahore Fort.

  A blue bulb lights up above the iron door at the end of the reception and, immediately, both the merchant and the old man spring to their feet.

  ‘We’re next. Come, begum!’ The old man pulls his young wife to her feet.

  ‘Rubbish! I’m next!’ huffs the portly merchant.

  The miserable boy sits there listlessly, clearly resigned to going last.

  The old man turns on the merchant.

  ‘Ei lala! I came earlier than you!’

  ‘Dadu, get some treatment, or you’ll be coming early your whole life,’ the lala says rudely.

  Shaanu, weaving in and out of consciousness, nevertheless manages to chuckle at this sally. This enrages the old man even more.

  He waggles his cane combatively.

  ‘Better early than never, fatso!’

  This causes a giggle to emerge from within the young begum’s burqa. Mortified, the lala throws out his chest, ready to explode when the door below the flashing blue bulb flies open. Framed inside it is the most beautiful woman Ishaan has ever had the good fortune of beholding.

  She has huge, doe-like eyes, full lips, a heaving bosom and a figure that swells and dips in alarmingly voluptuous curves under a jewel-toned silk kaftan. A lock of grey runs through her mane of glowing dark hair. She could be any age between thirty-five and fifty.

  ‘Quiet please, dearies.’ Her voice has the soft, husky-musky melody of small-town Bihar. ‘Let the compounder decide who the next patient is, hmmm?’

  She turns towards the front door and bellows in a voice as imperious as it is unexpected, ‘Abbe, compounderrrrr!’

  And vanishes back into her room.

  A moment later, the front doo
r opens with a slow, complaining wail and a sleepy-looking man in a monkey cap puts his head into the room.

  ‘Tea break,’ he explains apologetically to the room at large. He sounds like he has a cold. He also sounds very familiar. Shaanu whirls to look at him, forgetting his shoulder for a moment and regretting the sudden movement instantly.

  ‘Let’s do this one by one, in an orderly first-come-first-served basis, please!’ the compounder continues with the air of somebody who does this every day. ‘The doctor will see everybody, beginning with…’

  He pauses. He has just noticed the newest patient.

  Ishaan stumbles to his feet, a hesitant, painful question in his fevered eyes.

  The compounder stares at him for a moment, then slowly removes his monkey cap to reveal a dark, handsome face. A face that bears a remarkable resemblance to Pat Boone.

  Ishaan’s face lights up.

  Flying Officer Madan Subbiah sags against the wall, swallows hard and says simply, ‘Beginning with this very sick man here.’

  • • •

  ‘How bad are his injuries?’

  Ishaan sighs. ‘Bad, brother. Second-degree burns, two fractured ribs and severe oxygen deprivation. Also…’

  He pauses, shaking his head.

  Maddy leans forward.

  ‘What? Tell me, Baaz!’

  Shaanu looks up, his eyes tortured.

  ‘Also he told the hospital staff, just before passing out, that there is no sensation in his arms and legs.’

  ‘Jeezus.’

  Thoroughly depressed, Maddy slumps against the edge of Shaanu’s stretcher.

  They are in the makeshift operating room inside the inner office. Behind them, the beautiful lady doctor is busy preparing all the equipment she requires to dress Shaanu’s wound.

  ‘How’s Juhi taking it?’ Maddy asks. ‘Is she okay?’

  ‘Stop badgering him.’ The doctor’s voice is severe (but still sexy). She pushes him aside and moves closer to Shaanu, unbuttoning his overalls and easing them off his upper body. ‘Can’t you see he’s in pain? Just hold the tray and stop worrying – worrying is an absolute waste of time. As for you – oh my, you’re a handsome one.’