The Homing Pigeons...

by Sid Bahri

  I had decided that I would buy both of them a gift from my first salary as a small token of appreciation. They had made so many sacrifices for my education. Eventually, I didn’t. Instead, I bought a silver chain for Radhika.

  I wished I could buy diamonds, but they were too expensive; my heart settled for gold but even at the turn of the last century, gold was difficult to buy. Silver was affordable (read cheap). I settled for a silver chain, waiting for the perfect time to present it to her. Yet, that afternoon when she was leaving for Chandigarh, destiny stepped in to kill my dream.

  I reached home, a little flustered and very upset with myself for waiting until the last minute. I wished the jeep in front of me hadn’t caused the traffic jam. I wished that the parking attendant hadn’t taken an eternity to write the car number. I wished that I had run towards the departing train and had been able to give her the present that I had chosen for her. I wished that I could have told her that I loved her.

  It was an expensive gift, especially in the light of the disappointing first salary that Citibank had paid me. The salary offer that had seemed so good on paper had disappeared faster than a bolt of lightning from my newly opened bank account.

  I pulled my weary self out of the car and crashed out on the mattress that lay on the floor of the apartment. I was in remorse of not seeing the smile on her face or the sparkle of surprise in her eyes.

  I was in love. I had discovered that. It wasn’t an emotion that had come naturally. I didn’t wake up one day and say to myself “You’re in love, boy” but it was gradual, subtle and steady. When I woke up each morning, the first picture that crossed my mind was hers. The first signs of love manifested themselves in a pasted smile on my face. It, stubbornly, refused to go away. In the training, I was suspected of being cheeky because of that smile. The trainers paid special attention to me; they thought that I was mocking them. They would throw questions at me just when I was lost in her thoughts.

  I would dream that we were on the summit of an isolated mountain. I would be standing behind her, looking down into the valley, when her hair brushed my nose. That citrusy smell of her hair would arouse me. I would run my hand up her arm, feeling the softness of her when the damn trainer would break my thoughts.

  It was in the evenings, on our dates that I wasn’t able to stop myself. When she laughed at some of my poorest jokes, I felt humorous. When she laughed, she looked even more beautiful.

  Laughing boisterously, we would often be stared at by the middle-aged people that thronged the Indian Coffee House. They would come and go but we continued to sit there for hours. It was just that hours of her company weren’t enough. I would often wonder how I could have really long conversations with her when I wouldn’t be able to talk to my friends for more than a short while. I had known Bhatoliya for years now, but even he couldn’t hold my attention as much as her. If that wasn’t love, then maybe love didn’t exist. In the numerous meetings that we had, I was sure that she loved me too. Her eyes gave her away. Yet, she wouldn’t say anything. I waited until I was convinced that I would have to make the first move in expressing what I felt for her.

  Even then, there was apprehension – I had just started out my career, my salary was inadequate, and I wanted to build my career. I was only a Management Trainee. The brain gave me a million reasons why I shouldn’t express what I felt for her and many more why this wasn’t the most opportune time to fall in love.

  I fixed myself a stiff drink, unhappy at what I wasn’t able to do, but happy that I could savour the delight of being in love, without the responsibilities or the commitments of being in a relationship.

  My work at Citibank had started in earnest; the reforms made to the Indian economy were less than a decade old. Banking in India was beginning to look beyond the nationalized, state-run banks. ICICI, HDFC and some other private banks were only beginning to find their bearings in the urban landscape. In this setting, Citibank stood tall – an icon of how banking should be done. I joined in as a relationship manager, interacting with some of the wealthiest people in Delhi, who were clients. I would meet them regularly, presenting new products and being responsible for sales of these products. After all, the branch manager would regularly pull up people who didn’t have sales figures against their names. Most appointments were scheduled over the weekends; my learning was that wealthy people worked for the money on the weekdays and made important choices about making the money work for them over the weekend.

  The fallout of these meetings was that I could not make a trip back home to meet Radhika. Occasionally, we would speak over the phone. In those times, we didn’t have a phone at home; so, long distance telephone calls were made from a public call office. There was little privacy, notwithstanding the high expense that it would rake up. Meanwhile, the silver chain continued to tarnish in my cupboard, waiting for its rightful owner to wear it around her neck.

  Radhika

  “I’ll buy the material myself,” I say, “Quote me your price for labour.”

  I am haggling with the contractor. Why? I do not know. Maybe, the upbringing that I had and the economics of those times has made me into what I am today. There will be so much less trouble in just outsourcing the entire renovation work to the contractor but my small town upbringing refuses to let go. Even if he does overcharge, I can afford it. Even if he fleeces me, I can afford it. Even if he cheats me, I can afford it. Yet, letting go is so difficult.

  “One lac for the entire thing,” Sudhir, the contractor replies.

  Sudhir is one of Laxman’s finds. When I told Laxman that we need to start the renovation of the house, his resourcefulness introduced me to Sudhir, a middle-aged, dark man. His generosity with mustard oil makes his dark, dyed hair shine. This is his second visit to my home. On his first visit, it had taken more than a few hours to rid the house of the strong odour of mustard oil. He already took the measurements and came back today to give me a quotation. I am already wondering if I should have this conversation out in the lawn.

  “That’s too high,” I say. I know that it isn’t. “No, Madam. Not at all,” he almost cries.

  “Okay, but I won’t pay you if the workmanship is poor,” I am unforgiving in trying to steal a bargain.

  “Don’t give me a rupee; give me to the police, if you find me wanting. You won’t find a reason to complain.” Either Sudhir is very desperate or wants to make a career in theatrics.

  “When can you start work?” I ask him.

  “Today, but when will you have the material available?” he asks me.

  I have no clue. I don’t even know where the hardware stores are and I have volunteered to buy the material. Sometimes, I am not sure if I know Delhi. I have spent time in this city, I have stayed in the suburbs, yet, it remains alien.

  “Give me your number, I’ll call you,” I say. I will not let Sudhir take wind that I am going to struggle with the bargain that I have just hit.

  Laxman is versatile and it is hardly a wonder that Vimal had employed him. He takes care of the house; he doubles up as a cook and can also drive. He is a virtual ‘Man Friday’- capable enough to carry off the entire load and even then have time to find a contractor. He can almost be perfect if he stops smoking. I am sure that he’s in the kitchen garden where we haven’t seen a radish grow. I think it’s because of all the stubs in the ground that vegetables refuse to grow. Sure enough, I find him there.

  “Laxman, where are the hardware stores? We need to buy the material,” I say.

  “Kotla Mubarakpur,” he replies, referring to the maze of streets that lie hidden between two very posh colonies of South Delhi. You can find anything from a rubber band to a steel cable there.

  “Get the car out; let’s go shopping for the material,” I say.

  I walk back inside to gather the list that Sudhir left for me. Laxman is almost becoming Ghanshyam. He has scurried off in the direction of the car. Back inside, I am picking up the list off the coffee table when Laxman comes back and says, “Kotla is
going to be closed today. It’s Monday,” he says.

  “Is there no other place where we can buy the hardware?” I ask him. I want to get this chore off my back. I remember the days in Lucknow when it took ages to complete the renovation. I know that the sooner the work starts, the sooner it will end. I want to get the renovation off my list before I give serious thought to what I need to pursue.

  “There are some shops in Sant Nagar; we could go there, but they’ll be a little more expensive,” he says. I think he makes that comment on purpose. I am widely being recognized as a miser. I take heart that Vimal has set very high benchmarks.

  “That’s fine, get the car out,” I say.

  He backs out an old Honda Accord. It is a second hand car that Vimal had kept in Delhi. He thought that it would be cheaper than hiring a taxi. His trips were very infrequent, but even then, he did some calculation to prove that a second hand car is cheaper than hiring a taxi. I think he bought it for the same amount as a six pack of beer. It doesn’t surprise me when I look at the moth-ridden back seat. I am thankful that in his will, he was considerate to give me enough money to renovate the house and buy a car. I am not sure what car I should buy. Everything comes at huge discounts in these days of recession. The automobile industry is in as bad a shape as banking was. It needs to be changed but it is lower down on my priority list. I sit on the back seat as Laxman drives out.

  We exit the colony and leave behind the sleepy guard at the gate. Laxman drives onto Khel Gaon Marg and takes a left near Siri Fort. We enter Greater Kailash 1; I love the market in M-Block. There was a time when I would come here and shop for clothes. You know the clothes that you can wear on a weekend. It has been such a long time that I haven’t worn those sorts of clothes. I don’t know why but I suddenly get that heady feeling. I had yearned for freedom and I finally have it. Maybe, it is time to live up my life. We go past the busy M-Block market until Laxman parks opposite a small plywood store in Sant Nagar.

  It is almost evening by the time I am through with the shopping list. Laxman makes a U-turn and we start to travel back on the same route. It’s the rush hour and the traffic is slower. I wonder why the traffic isn’t lighter when so many people don’t have jobs to come back from.

  It takes us about thirty minutes to enter Greater Kailash and we are somewhere in the vicinity of the M-Block market. Laxman honks at the car in front of him. It braked suddenly because the car in front of it braked as suddenly. We are at a complete stop, yet again.

  I hate the winters because it makes me pee so frequently. My bladder is on the verge of bursting. I am stuck in a traffic jam but I must go. I ask Laxman to park somewhere. I am in front of the rows of houses that have been converted into shops. There’s a coffee shop and a saloon. Instinctively, I enter the saloon.

  Aditya

  Those days, I would often wonder why the world’s largest bank could not afford to give me a salary that would help me buy a car. How could they let the face of their bank travel to meet a client drenched to the skin? And worse still – why couldn’t I have chosen Chandigarh as my first posting? At least, I would have been closer to Radhika.

  I stood at the traffic signal braving the rain en route to a meeting with a potential client. I said to myself, “There has to be a light at the end of this tunnel; you are doing this to make a career. You are doing this so that you get a promotion. You are doing this to have a better life.”

  There are some people who don’t need motivation and there are some who need a reason to do well. I fell into the second category. I had to have a reason why I wanted to be successful and that reason was Radhika. Despite having not made a trip to Chandigarh or having expressed myself, I continued to build a fantasy world around me. Unknowingly, I justified each of my actions with “I was doing it for us”.

  I squeaked through the lobby of the office of my client. The leather shoes were squirting water from my sodden socks. A Vice President of an Insurance firm had given me a late afternoon appointment and I had accepted without expecting the rain to fall as furiously as it did. Maybe, it was my physical state and the sympathy that arose of it, that made him give me a cheque of three lacs for his investment account. The bank would get two per cent of that amount, about half a month’s salary for me. If I were to believe my boss, I was doing well. “On course,” he would say, without implying what the course really was and where it would eventually lead me.

  In the bargain, he owned me. I spoke to him about taking a few days off to go back and meet Radhika in Chandigarh.

  “The bank’s policy doesn’t allow any leaves in the first six months, unless it’s for a dire medical or personal emergency.” I had half a mind to fictitiously kill a few relatives to create a personal emergency; after all, there were so many. And then, the tiny voice in my head would say, “You’re doing it for us.”

  A famous writer once said, “Absence is to love, what wind is to fire; it extinguishes the little and enkindles the great.” If it had been infatuation, this was the perfect opportunity for it to die down.

  After all, it had been over two months since the incident at the train station. The monsoons had come. We seldom spoke because I was hesitant in calling her home. Her parents were orthodox and too many phone calls from a male friend were frowned upon. Why else would she call me up from a PCO, with the background chatter of a few hundred people, taking away the pleasure? I wished that I had been able to gift her a mobile phone instead of the worthless silver chain that I had bought – at least it would keep us in touch.

  It was a Friday evening in late July when we finally spoke. It was a chance occurrence when I was at my desk and answered the phone.

  “Good Evening. Citibank. This is Aditya Sharma. How can I help you?” I said into the receiver, thinking it to be a call from a client.

  “Hey,” she said. I looked around to see who else might be able to eavesdrop on my conversation with her. Thankfully, there weren’t many people around.

  “Hi! How are you?” I was happy to hear her voice.

  “I am coming to Delhi,” she said excitedly.

  “When?” I asked, more excited than when I had seen my first porn movie.

  “Next Thursday. There’s a training scheduled in Delhi,” she said.

  “Wow! For how long?” I asked.

  “Two days. But I’ll see if I can extend it over the weekend.”

  I almost said, “I love you” at the end of the conversation, but it would be so much better to say that in person – at least for the first time.

  I was excited, happy and expectant. The evening refused to give way to the night. The five days that lay between now and meeting her were unbearable. I lay awake until past midnight, knowing that Saturday was a working day at the bank. I tossed and turned, replaying in my mind a thousand times over – how and what I would say to her. I imagined us in the finest restaurant, where she was dressed in the peach sari and I was dressed in a tuxedo.

  In the light of the solitary candle on the table, I would hold her hand and tell her how much I loved her and what she meant to me, and justify why I had taken so long to say what I was saying. At some point, after I paid the bill and before we made love, I slept.

  The next morning, I cancelled a meeting with a stingy client to take the silver chain to the jeweller. The humidity in the air had tarnished the silver beyond the two-and-a-half months that it had existed.

  Radhika

  When I walk out the door of the beauty parlour, I see Laxman standing in the distance. I wave to him but he doesn’t wave back. I cross the street and go to the parked car where Laxman stands smoking a beedi. I am almost in front of him but he still doesn’t recognize me. I am not sure that a haircut can change me so much. I could’ve easily walked out of the parlour once I had used the wash, but I didn’t. I got rid of my tresses. It’s quite a fashionable cut – it’s left me feeling like the rats ate my hair. It’s that uneven. Even before the hairdresser chopped off the first tresses, I was unsure. Now, I am upset. I sit i
n the car thinking that I am overdoing this freedom thing.

  It’s almost January by the time that I am able to get rid of Sudhir and his workers. I have struggled to be lost in my thoughts while the workers hammered nails. I have been able to buy a new car though. It’s a brand new white Honda Accord. It isn’t by accident that I got stuck with the same car. The year- end discount on that model was the highest. I don’t spend too much and most of the allowance that the trust gives me is sitting in the bank account. Even then, I’m stingy. I’ve saved from the budget of the car with absolutely no recollection of what I will do with the savings. It’s the darned piggy bank from my childhood that’s making me do this. I wish I could change.

  I don’t know if it’s because of the workers moving out or that I have most items struck off the to-do list, but the days seem longer. They’re also duller than before. I still sit in the winter sun on the porch for hours together. There is nothing that fills my days except the pigeons. Ehsaan must have died but I have new favourites. Even then, I feel that I am living a worthless, lazy life that bores me and questions my very existence.

  Often, my thoughts veer towards having an occupation. I wish I can have a job, like I used to before I married Vimal. He had insisted that I leave my job right after I married him. I don’t need the money but it’ll give me a routine. I’ll be doing something better than reminiscing and brooding about a love that I had lost. It is magical how some people can remain etched in your memory.

  Laxman brings in the morning papers for me and my first reaction is, “Where’s the rest of it?”

  The paper has thinned. Not many companies advertise and I have heard that people are losing their jobs. Yet, I am immune. I wonder if I didn’t have the luxury of my marriage, would I have kept my job. Maybe, some things just happen for the best. My marriage was a nightmare; I had foolishly rushed into it. But it has left me with the comfort of not having to work.