The Homing Pigeons...

by Sid Bahri

  I wonder where I have gone wrong. I have practically tried everything in search for that one job - from the mother-in- law’s astrologer to the latest networking website. Nothing is working out.

  I quicken my pace; these thoughts always give me an involuntary push. Maybe, it is the frustration of being rejected that’s not yielding results. Maybe, it is Karma – a penance of my past sins that is having me endure these times.

  Simple luxuries that I had assumed to be needs are luxuries again. I wish I can pull out a cigarette and light it but I don’t carry them anymore. I have realized that smoking, apart from what the doctor’s claim, is an expensive habit for the jobless. I console myself and walk on. I normally turn back from the roundabout that has an ugly igloo sitting on it, but today I cross the main road into Sector 10.

  It is past nine, dark and uninviting, yet I walk into the darkness. I am in an unhappy marriage but can’t break away from it. I am dependent on Jasleen even to have a house to stay in. I often wish that I can break away from her as I had done from my parents. I know it will leave me a destitute; one of those homeless beggars who make the subway their home. I shudder at the thought of things being worse than they are today. I am painfully aware that money can buy you happiness or at least enable you to live independently.

  I have none and so, this degraded life is now an eternal part of my entity. The five thousand rupees that Divya had given me is all that I have earned in the last one year. Hell, in another world, I used to pay accountants more than that to file my tax returns. I am no accountant. I don’t know how to hide incomes and increase expenses. I am a gigolo, a cheap whore that ought to be happy with that sort of money.

  I cross the intersection that leads to the Sector 10 market. I am tempted to take the left turn and walk the short distance to the coffee shop at Hotel Mountview. It has been so long that I have had coffee served by a waiter. It has been so long. There had once been a time that I wouldn’t have thought twice about doing this. Eating out perhaps is my biggest sacrifice in this ordeal. If I say I love food, it is an understatement. My life revolves around food. I am a voracious, insatiable, experimental devourer of food but that kind must be willing to spend money. And money, I don’t have. I am dead broke, living off my wife, without a hope of things being different in times to come.

  The five thousand rupees that I had earned are nearly spent. I contemplate making a visit to the bar again. Maybe, I will meet another fairy. Or easier still – I can talk to Divya. It is past nine thirty, a trifle late to be making a call to a relative stranger. Yet, I hit the green button on my cell phone after I bring up her number from the address book. It takes some courage to make a long distance call. I remember the row that had been created when I had spoken to my friend in Delhi. Jasleen hates high mobile bills and I can’t afford to upset Madam. To be fair, she has been extremely patient with me but the continued unemployment is stretching her patience. I do not blame her; this is my fate.

  Divya answers the phone.

  “Hi, this is Adi,” I say.

  “Adi who?” she says.

  What am I playing with her? Knock-Knock? Adi, the steak in the hotel room.

  “Aditya Sharma,” I say.

  “Do I know you?” her voice betrays no sign of recognition. My hopes are sinking. It must have been a one night stand that I have read too much into. She doesn’t even remember me.

  “Aditya Sharma from Chandigarh,” I say in a desperate attempt to resuscitate her almost dead memory cells.

  “Who?” she asks again.

  This is futile. I make one last ditch effort.

  “You remember that night at the Sipper? When you were here,” I say.

  “Oh, I’ll call you back,” she says with a hint of recognition. I continue to walk down the road that will lead me to Sukhna Lake. I cross another small roundabout. This part of Chandigarh is so unfamiliar. Only bureaucrats and ministers know which sector lies beyond this roundabout. The phone rings breaking the silence of the night.

  “Yes, what can I do for you?” she asks.

  It is awkward but I try to make it as inoffensive as possible, “I was wondering if you need my services”.

  “I am not travelling. But, can you come over to Delhi?” she asks me.

  “Yes, I’ll be there tomorrow,” I instinctively say.

  How? I do not know. Nevertheless, I jog the four kilometres back home. It is past ten and I stealthily open the door to the house. Jasleen isn’t home, so I leave her a note that I have an interview to attend in Delhi and leave the house to take the last train out.

  The train rolls into New Delhi station in the wee hours of the morning. It is an unearthly hour to call anyone up, let alone Divya. I spend two hours waiting for the first rays of the sun on the only available bench, right next to the public lavatory. I try to sleep but the unmistakable stench of urine doesn’t let me. I just sit there waiting for the Sun God to arrive.

  As dawn breaks out, I make my way to the waiting room. It is grubby, dirty and horrible but even then I shave, shower and change into my business suit. I spray a little bit of the Armani perfume that I have saved for days like today. To a stranger, I will appear as one of those hardworking executives that make their way to their jobs. It is just that my job is not in an office.

  Overnight and on the bench, I have reconciled myself that this is the only way forward for me. This is the only way left for me to earn a living. I wait another hour before I think it is prudent to call Divya. She answers the phone in a jiffy, almost as if she is expecting my call. I ask her when it will be convenient for her to meet me. With the timing and venue of our rendezvous decided, I leave the confines of the station on the back of a rickshaw.

  I used to live in Delhi. I know this city enough to know my way around. It is best to reach Connaught place on the rickshaw and then take the connecting bus to Greater Kailash.

  I look at the piece of paper on which I had hurriedly scribbled down the address. I look up at the board that displays the name of the guest house. The exterior of the guest house looks run down; its walls haven’t seen paint in over a decade. I have reached the right place. The guest house, in Greater Kailash, is one of the many nondescript establishments that thrive on lust.

  I enter the gate to see Divya waiting for me at the reception. Even before we’ve had a chance to greet each other, she looks at me from head to toe. “You look very different,” she says.

  Her revelations don’t surprise me. When she last met me, she would’ve thought twice about picking me up. Today, I am clean-shaven, wearing my best business suit and I also have on a fancy perfume.

  To confirm, I ask her, “For better or for worse?”

  “Better,” she says. When she smiles, she doesn’t look so bad. I remember the picture of her when she was luring me into immorality and I only see a monster.

  It is apparent that she is a regular at the guest house. The receptionist hands over the keys to a room without bothering to take down her details. I wonder if the fat register that sits on the desk ever gets used at this place.

  “My friend owns this place,” she says. Does she read minds too?

  Contrary to my expectations, the room isn’t half as sleazy as I expected it to be. Despite the exterior, the interior seems to be perfect. I look around and see a painting on the wall. It is a print of an M.F. Husain. While I am admiring it, Divya goes into the bathroom.

  Is this my cue? Is it time to strip and lay naked on the bed? Is it time to act like a sultry siren? I am not sure what a novice gigolo is supposed to do. I think back to my days in the Philippines. Those go-go girls from the bar – when they came back home with me, did they undress the moment they walked in?

  I am still dwelling on Karma and how life has come full circle for me when Divya walks in. I am relieved to see her still wearing clothes. I thank myself for my indecision although it robbed me of her reaction. I would have loved to see her expressions at seeing my entire six foot one frame, naked in the middle of the roo
m.

  For the first time, I really look at her objectively. My recollection of that morning is extremely hazy. The hangover and the events of that morning had numbed me. Divya is in her early thirties. Without the heavy makeup, dressed in jeans and a blue polo T, she looks different from what I remember of her. Despite her average looks, she has done well to maintain her body. Even then, I remember the pineapple jelly. The softly accentuated curves of her body give me an unfamiliar feeling of arousal. I don’t even remember when I had last heard the call of lust.

  “You okay?” she asks. It must be my stare that prompted her question.

  “Yes,” I make it a point to look away from her breasts when I say that.

  “Any luck with the jobs?” she asks.

  “No, I don’t think I’m going to find one,” I reply honestly.

  “I know it’s difficult. I’m barely hanging on to my own. This recession is such a catastrophe,” she says

  We sit on the only chairs in the bedroom. She offers me a cup of tea but I decline. We make small talk on the economy and the city. Casually, she reaches out for my tie. She loosens up the knot while continuing to talk. She yanks off my tie and moves to the coat. I am passive. I am not sure what I should be doing. I just stand up from my chair.

  She is still sitting and thinks I’ve stood up because I want my trousers off. She deftly opens my belt and the button of my trousers. She motions me to move towards the bed. I lie on the bed wearing my boxers and a vest that has a fast growing hole. I can’t afford to buy a new one. She undresses and joins me.

  Not much changes between the last time and this. She is still the same flesh eating animal. The bruises that she had given me last time had taken a week to subside. I wonder what is it about her aggression – why does she have to bite to make her presence felt. Lovemaking can be so much more pleasurable.

  She does it again – bites my nipples harder than I had anticipated. Disgusted, I push her to stop my nipples from being severed. She isn’t impressed; a resounding slap is her response. A large part of me wants to smack her but an unsaid realization stops me. Knowing that I am the prey and not the predator makes me remain passive.

  I am spent, physically and emotionally. I feel humiliated and cheap. She is indifferent when she lights up a cigarette. My last cigarette was over a year ago but I still feel the urge. She offers me one and I can’t resist. We continue to lie on the bed, smoking when she says, “I don’t know if I told you, but you are really good in bed”.

  I am not sure if I should be happy about the compliment or be sad about the degradation. I choose graciousness, “Thanks, I am sorry about pushing you off.”

  “Never do that. Not to me, not to anyone. When you are being paid for it, you do as you are told,” Divya says.

  This is my first lesson in being a gigolo.

  It hasn’t been that long but she wants to make love again. She is just insatiable; I find out that day. By the evening, I am limp, dehydrated and hungry.

  Just before she is about to leave, she says into my ear, “Have you ever considered doing this in Delhi?”

  “Not really. I mean, this is not the ideal career people dream of and plan to execute,” I say.

  She nods, as if she knows what I am talking about. “Yeah… but I could get you some clients if you are interested,” she says.

  Clients; I don’t know when that word meant horny women.

  “You could be really successful. You have an advantage over the other escorts that women hire. You are good looking, cultured and can keep a conversation. “You’re not a sex- machine,” she says.

  I don’t know what to say. I remain silent.

  “Are you going to be in Delhi for some time?” she asks.

  “If you want me to be,” I say.

  “Stay back. I’ll call you,” she says.

  “I don’t have a place to stay,” I say.

  “That’s your problem,” she says. She brings out a wad of notes from her pygmy colony purse. I earn another five thousand today, which I think is enough compensation.

  Radhika

  The board exams weren’t the demon that people had told me they were. In fact, they were a breeze and so were the honours when the results came out. I topped the school and was a close second within the district. If my grades in English hadn’t pulled down my average, I might even have topped. The school was a little more overjoyed at my showing than I was. To celebrate, they organized a function to felicitate my achievements. The principal of the school was a cautious man when it came to showering compliments but despite his second nature, he was generous in his praises of me.

  “She has done our school proud and we wish her success in all her endeavours,” he ended the speech, signalling that the few snacks, that a government school on a limited budget could afford, be served to the guests. While people were in conversation with each other, the principal waded through the crowd to find my father and took him aside.

  Radhey Shyam Gupta, the principal, was a short, bald and skinny man. A chain smoker who had nicotine-stained teeth, he wasn’t setting a great example for the children under his ward.

  “I think Radhika is an exceptional student,” Mr Gupta said, pulling out the pack of cigarettes from his trouser pocket.

  “I know her results speak a lot. I am given to believe that she’s among the top ten students in the state,” my father said. “I think you should send her to Chandigarh or Delhi to study further, the education here will never do justice to her talent. I can arrange a grant,” he said from the corner of his mouth as he lit up a cigarette.

  At home, my mother had returned from another one of her now frequent trips to the hospital, this time bearing the fruit of her labour – a son. My father’s gamble had paid off and ultimately, he had been blessed with a baby boy. Maybe, it was the coming of the baby that had made my father make the difficult decision or maybe, it was the coming of the grant from the government, but his plans for me were made. I still believe that my mother had something to do with his decision.

  He made one trip to Chandigarh to have a conversation with his brother and then, another to meet the principal of a school in Chandigarh. That day, he was only announcing his decision in the presence of his family.

  “I have ensured that Radhika gets admission in Chandigarh,” he said, “It will be a little expensive but Suresh will keep her.”

  Chandigarh was a city much larger than Solan could ever dream to be and a place which would hold a fifteen year old girl’s fancy. I was excited about moving to Chandigarh, but then there was a hint of sadness to leave everything and everyone that I was familiar with. But then, Chandigarh was only two hours away. I hated to leave Ehsaan and my father. The others weren’t really important.

  I wasn’t a sapling but I again found myself uprooted. It wasn’t until the following weekend that we made the trip to Chandigarh, with a bag of clothes that were my only belongings. The welcome that I got from my biological parents was a little subdued. The surroundings were unfamiliar. The small house that I remembered from my childhood had now been replaced by a larger but not so luxurious house. There were three bedrooms in this house, the master bedroom that my parents stayed in and one each belonging to my elder brothers. My coming had created a feud already. Both of them were asked to share a bedroom so that I could use the third. They looked at me with displeasure – I was unwelcome.

  My biological parents Suresh and Sudha displayed mixed emotions. On the one hand, I was their daughter, born of their own flesh and blood and yet, I was a stranger in so many ways. Maybe it was their guilt of having given me away or the cobwebs in their brains, but it prevented them to display their affection, if there was any. The reunion was a little muted than what I had expected it to be.

  School started the following day and I was alone in the presence of my biological family. I don’t know if it was the unfamiliar bed or the unfamiliar surroundings or just the unfamiliar heat of the plains on that June night, but sleep refused to come. I thought of
Ehsaan and how he wouldn’t have got his meal today. I was the one feeding the birds in Solan. I sobbed with my head buried deep into the pillow until at some time sleep overtook me.

  The first day of school was troublesome, even before I had reached the school. It took a lot to rid my hair of the knots that I had built into them last night. The skirt that the school expected me to wear for uniform was too short for my liking. It was such a stark departure from the salwar kameez that the government school had insisted that I wear. The nakedness of my legs made me uncomfortable and it wasn’t until a few hours later at school that I realized that my skirt was the longest, riding two inches below the knees.

  Suresh dropped me to Yadavindra Public School where my admission had been secured by my foster father.

  I was a new student and as was usual, there was a small induction at the principal’s office. The principal introduced me to my class teacher – Ms Kapoor, a forty something lady, who wore a lovely red Sari and held her hair up in a bun. Sophisticated and suave, she wore rimless glasses that sat on her fair face. I was already impressed because the maid who brought in the tea for the principal was better dressed than most of my teachers in Solan.

  “She is your class teacher – Ms Kapoor. She will help you get introduced to the other teachers,” the principal said, with a wave of her hand to signify the end of the conversation; a chore had just been finished.

  Ms Kapoor escorted me to the classroom filled with over sixty pairs of peering eyes glued on me.

  “She is Radhika. She has just moved from Solan and will be studying with you. Try and help her settle in,” she said and continued with her lecture. She taught English to the 11th class students that had chosen to take commerce over humanities and the sciences.

  There were about twenty-five girls and thirty-five boys in my class. The class’ attention was focused on me, despite the fact that Ms Kapoor endeavoured to hold their attention. The English lecture ended about an hour after it had started.