The Homing Pigeons...

by Sid Bahri

  It was in the afternoon tea break that he asked me. “What’s the plan for the evening?”

  “No plans. I don’t know anyone here. I guess I’ll go back to the guest house, read and sleep,” I replied.

  “Have you been to Delhi before?” he asked.

  “No, this is my first time,” I replied, hesitatingly, as if it were a crime to not have visited the city.

  “I could show you around, if you’re interested,” he said.

  I wasn’t sure why I accepted immediately. Maybe, it was his company that I had enjoyed last evening or maybe, there was something deeper that I could not understand yet.

  “We could go out, but want to catch up on my sleep,” I said, trying to be a little more reserved. Even when I said it, my eyes were sparkling, excited by the mere thought of seeing the city.

  After the day was over, he pulled the motorcycle out of the parking lot and we went to Dilli Haat – a street food plaza and a craft bazaar from each state of India. Each stall held my attention – be it the Rajasthani stall that sold the camel leather juttis or the Kashmiri stall that sold the pashmina shawls. I was like a small child whose attention span would last a few seconds, before moving onto another wonder.

  We had dinner of Rista and Gustaba – fragrant Kashmiri meat balls in gravy. We made our way back to Vasant Vihar, where he dropped me and made his way back home. I was still wondering if this meeting could be referred to as a date. It was apparent that we both enjoyed each other’s company, but wasn’t a ‘date’ meant to be a form of courtship? And were we really courting each other?

  Aditya

  The morning after my arrival, I wake up to the sounds of a thin man scampering in the drawing room to be dressed in time to go to work. I look at the watch besides the couch that I have slept on; it reads eight twenty five. It is a Monday and although it has been a long time that Mondays have ceased to make a difference in my life, I still hate them. If inexplicably, Mondays were people and had a face, I would gladly punch them.

  “I am already late. Just fix up something for breakfast. What time do you need to go to work?” Bhatoliya cries out while combing his hair.

  “Four o’clock,” I reply. Assuming that I do have a job offer at Aztec Software, four in the afternoon is probably the best time to go.

  “Leave the keys under the brick,” he says and runs out of the front door. It leaves me wondering which brick he is referring to. The truth is that even if I leave the door completely ajar, burglars will probably leave without taking anything. There is hardly anything to take away from the apartment.

  I switch on the radio, an old transistor from the middle ages which stalls and has to be beaten up to life. It refuses to take a FM frequency and the only option is to listen to a presenter on All India Radio. The faceless voice is giving out information on which seeds to sow in this season. Bhatoliya doesn’t even possess a TV; I wonder what he does for entertainment. I reckon that he must be earning a decent salary and could afford it. Where is the money going?

  I make a phone call to Jasleen, my first since leaving Chandigarh on Sunday morning. I think that the only reason that I want to call her is that it will give her one less reason to crib. “Hello,” I say into the mobile phone. In the many ways in which telephony has evolved, a solution to the crackling is yet to be found.

  “Aha, look who is calling! So, you finally found the time?” she replies back sarcastically.

  “Sorry, I got busy. How are you?” I ask.

  “Settled in?” It is that awkward moment when a question is answered with another.

  “Yes,” I reply.

  “I’ll talk to you later. Driving. Bye,” and she hangs up the phone. The conversation that has shown so much promise of being converted into a row fizzles out.

  I pick up the phone again and call Divya.

  “Hi,” I say. I assume my deepest, huskiest, sultriest voice when I say it.

  “Hi! Are you in Delhi?” she asks me. She is probably in a meeting, the voices in the background certainly sound like she is.

  “Yes, came yesterday,” I say.

  “I’ll arrange something; wait for me to call,” she says and hangs up. I am getting accustomed to women hanging up on me.

  I unpack my bag and bring out a black t-shirt and a pair of jeans. It is still warm during the daytime and a t-shirt will do. In case my escapade does extend into the evening, a wind cheater will suffice. Delhi is always warmer than Chandigarh.

  I shower and dress and wait for Divya to call back. It is painful to be in a house bereft of any form of entertainment, especially when you are expectantly waiting for a call that has no timeline to it. I thank God for the man who invented cell phones and lock up the house. With the key in hand, I search for the elusive brick to hide the keys under.

  I find the brick – a half broken piece that rests obtrusively on the niche below the electricity meter. The brick is so apparent, that it is the first place a stranger’s eyes will rest on. Hiding a key with a key chain under the brick isn’t the smartest idea but Birendra’s instructions were explicit. I do as I was told and leave the house, uncertainly. I am not sure where I am going but am desperate enough to leave the desolate apartment.

  I have just reached the corner of the street when a familiar number flashes on my mobile phone screen. The name “Divya” confirms it.

  She speaks in a hushed whisper. It is obvious that she has excused herself from the meeting to arrange a side income for herself.

  “I’m sending you an address, reach there,” she says. “The rate today is seven thousand; I take fifteen per cent,” and she hangs up without giving me a chance to negotiate terms.

  I get the message and make my way to the rendezvous. It is an address in Aurangzeb Road, one of Delhi’s posh colonies. It is a residential address and probably my first house call.

  *

  The last few weeks since I have moved to Delhi have been exhausting. Unexpectedly, my schedule is keeping me very busy. Divya has lived up to her promise in providing me an endless supply of women. Frankly, I had never thought that there were as many desperate women who would pay to have sex. I was ignorant until now.

  It is one of those rare evenings in the last three weeks that I have no appointments. I choose to laze all day in bed with only a book for company. It is in the evening that I finally push myself into the shower. I come out of the bathroom with only a towel wrapped around my waist when I see a forlorn, brooding character sitting on the bed.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “It has finally happened. My company gave me the pink slip,” Birendra says.

  “Why? I thought your industry was unaffected by the recession,” I ask.

  Birendra worked for a fast moving consumer goods company. The likelihood of people not brushing their teeth or not having a bath due to the recession was remote. His job was insulated, unlike bankers like me, who lived off the interest of subprime credit.

  “I don’t know, I thought so too, until the son of a bitch called me into the office and told me that I needn’t come from tomorrow,” he says.

  “Did they give you a reason?” I ask.

  “Yes, the recession; it’s the most convenient excuse everyone has these days,” he replies. He is holding his head between his hands. Despite the sombreness, he reminds me of an actor from the mid-fifties who specializes in tragedy.

  “Cheer up, it’s all going to work out,” I say. I try to sound optimistic but I know it is in vain. I know the feeling and it is terrible. I was close to tears when I had been asked to leave.

  “How come you didn’t go to work today?” he asks.

  “There’s some work over the weekend, so my boss thought it would be best for me to take a day off during the week,” I lie. I am lying with so much confidence these days that I can become a specimen for a multiple personality disorder.

  We step out for dinner to the nearby dhaba to enjoy a sumptuous meal of mutton curry and rotis – they are the only highlights of an o
therwise melancholic day. The food that I had so missed when I was jobless is returning to my life. The mutton is a little overcooked and spicy but even then, it almost gives me an orgasm. My mouth is burning long after the meal and we make the short walk back from the dhaba. We stop to a get a sweet paan at the cigarette shop. I need something to help me douse out the fire of the green chillies. While the paanwaala puts in the right amounts of kattha and choona, I light a cigarette and inhale. I am back to smoking regularly. Everything that I had forgone to save money is re-entering my life.

  “Can you refer me for a job at your company?” Birendra asks.

  I want to tell him that there is no such company but I say, “They are just a start up; they don’t have any revenues coming in. I’ll try.”

  “If they can hire you, they obviously think that there is potential. Please try and push it.”

  “I will,” I say half-heartedly.

  I hate to lie, especially to a friend. But such is my destiny that I cannot confide in anybody.

  Radhika

  Yes, I was in love with him. It was love the first time that I had let him walk away in school. It was love now that I was going to leave behind when I would make my way back to

  Chandigarh. I had struggled to decode the gene that dealt with emotions. Initially, I thought that this strange feeling could be called a crush. I rationalized and waited a few weeks until it didn’t feel like an infatuation. I thought it was a strong liking, a kind of adoration of meeting someone who is familiar. Now, when I looked back at the events of the last five weeks of the training, I knew that I was in love.

  If I hadn’t looked at the watch, every day, five times between five and six, in anticipation of the day to end, I might have thought otherwise. Every day, I would eagerly wait for the training to end so that I could spend the evening with him. When places like Dilli Haat started to prove very expensive we found the Indian Coffee House in Connaught Place. The place we were at, ceased to make a difference. I realized that it was his company that made the evenings so likeable.

  It was my conversations with him that made me realize why I loved him. He had the gift of the gab. His humour was dark and wicked and it would make me laugh. He could make me laugh until I cried. Sometimes, even when he wasn’t funny, I would laugh. He could even make the most mundane things sound funny – the gatekeeper at the Radisson was a walrus because of his indomitable moustache; the waiter was a catfish because he had a habit of opening his mouth and closing it while pouring the coffee. He said he was reminded of the fish in his aquarium every time he saw the waiter.

  So often, we confuse humour with superficiality and make judgments. Initially, I thought he was too until one incident served to remind me that he wasn’t. We had just stepped out of the Indian Coffee House when I lost my step. The twisted ankle didn’t take very long to heal because he had been caring enough to rush me to a doctor. For the three days that I couldn’t walk, he would pick me up from the guesthouse and carry me down the flight of stairs.

  When he carried me, I couldn’t help but notice the bulge of his biceps and the smell of him. It would drive my senses wild. The proximity to him during those moments wanted me to slip and twist my other ankle. I was brought up in a very conservative home that didn’t allow women to think this way but when I was with him, he would arouse me. It would make me fantasize about us making love. Often at night, alone in the confines of my room, I would imagine that we were on a private beach where he made love to me under the open skies. In the mornings, I would chide myself for being promiscuous.

  Maybe, it was this confusion that didn’t let me express myself. Despite our free flowing conversations, we never broached the subject. I was sure that he did feel something for me, but he never expressed it, and that took away my courage to express myself. It was a relationship, maybe even a courtship but it didn’t have a name – just a little beyond friendship and a little short of love.

  Today, in about two hours when my train left, it would be over. Like it had ended five years ago. He had promised to drop me to the train station but there was still no sign of him. I leaned over the balcony of the guest house, to see if there was any sign of him. There wasn’t; nor was there any sound of his motorcycle.

  I went back inside from the balcony and looked at the suitcases that I had packed. I had a lot more luggage than what I had come to Delhi with. I questioned myself if I was right in not asking for the office cab. It would be quite a challenge to balance the large suitcase on the bike as it rode through the ruthless traffic.

  A sharp honk from a white Maruti broke the silence of the otherwise still afternoon. When I saw him, he was half outside the car window trying to grab my attention. I had seen the car once before when a torrential squall had forced him to drive into the Radisson instead of riding the bike.

  I struggled with the heavy suitcase and somehow managed to reach the car. He loaded the suitcase into the boot and looked at his watch. He had lost time on the way which meant that we would have to rush to catch the train. He wasn’t chivalrous enough to open the door for me so I did it myself. We women, tend to over expect.

  I sat in the uncomfortable front seat and stole a look at him. I wished there was no rush to get to the railway station. Maybe, in these last moments, we could confess that we loved each other. In that instant, I wanted to kiss him – smack, on the lips. In a car with no air conditioning, the hot summer afternoon felt even warmer. A small bead of sweat rolled down his cheek. I was a little jealous of the sweat; at least it could touch him. I looked at him longingly until he turned his head towards me. I looked down, unsure, if I should listen to my heart. It had been forcing me to tell him that I loved him.

  I looked up to see him but his eyes were focused on the road ahead. I fought myself again – my heart longing to express myself and the brain continually reminding me that I might be rejected. The fears of the past that my foster parents had instilled in my psyche were too deep seated. I wasn’t sure if I could cope up with another bout of rejection. I chose to stay quiet.

  In the brutal midsummer heat of that Delhi afternoon, not many dared to venture out. The streets were empty and moments later we were at Connaught Place. We took a turn off the outer circle to drive down the straight road that leads to the chaotic railway station. Despite our fears, we had made good time. There was still about half an hour for the train to leave when he dropped me on the porch of the New Delhi railway station.

  “I’ll park the car and come; just wait here,” he said and drove away. He had barely travelled ten metres before being stuck in a traffic snarl.

  I waited for over ten minutes but there was no sign of him. I looked anxiously at the watch. I still had twenty more minutes. I continued to brave the random men who would come by and ask “Taxi? Madam Taxi?”

  Another ten minutes later there was still no sign of him. I made the decision to start walking inside. I gave another futile glance in the direction from where he was expected. He was nowhere to be seen. I continued to lug the large suitcase behind me.

  The train was already stationed at the platform – the gates of the train thronged with activity. Unpunctual travellers like me struggled to board the train. I stole another look in the direction of the entrance but he still wasn’t there. Hesitatingly and unwillingly, I boarded the train and made the four hour journey back to reality.

  Isn’t this also a reality that I continue to sit on the porch? It has been a while that Shipra and her family went back home. I look at the moth that is an exception. Even in the brutal cold, it continues to fly around the lamp. I ignore it and go inside to the warmth of a soup that Laxman has boiling in a pot. I sometimes wonder how life would have been if I had told Aditya about my feelings. I think when I stopped short of telling him the first time, I was foolish. When I stopped myself the second time, I was a blunderer.

  Aditya

  It is ten o’clock when I wake up to Divya’s phone call. I couldn’t sleep last night. I think it must be my lying that kee
ps me awake these days. I have heard about a clear conscience letting you sleep comfortably. When I couldn’t sleep until two last night, I went out for a run. I hadn’t done that for very long. To add to the adrenaline rush, two well-meaning stray dogs had started chasing me. I cut short my run and came back home. I slept at about three which naturally made me wake up so late.

  ‘There’s a bachelorette at a farmhouse in Chhatarpur and they need three or four people – do you have any references?” she asks me.

  “References?” I ask her. I am still groggy. I am still trying to comprehend what she is trying to ask.

  “Yes, any other gigolos that would be interested. Even if they are freshers,” she replies.

  “Let me see,” I say and hang up.

  I don’t know what part of the conversation rings a bell. Maybe, it is the word fresher that lightens a lamp somewhere in my head. There was a time when I was a fresher. Way back in 1999 when I had just joined Citibank as a Management Trainee and had met Radhika at the induction. We went out to a lot of places those days because I didn’t know where else I could take her. The only other option was to take her home to the bachelor pad that I had in Sheikh Sarai that I shared with friends. Two of them were still searching for a job; only Bhatoliya and I had been lucky enough to find jobs off campus. It was a relief because the allowance that I received from my parents would sometimes fail to cover my expenses. My father’s business, despite his hard work, refused to gain the glory of his father’s business. Towards the last few days of the training, I remember looking at the calendar. I guess it would have been the twentieth of May in 1999. I had heard that the salary got credited into the bank account on the twenty fifth which meant that there would be five more days of scavenging.

  I looked forward to payday when my first real earnings would end the drought of living in debt. It was just natural that my thoughts would veer to what I would do when my first salary would come through. I owed a lot of people; the most to my parents.