by Pankaj Dubey
Why had he come here? He had jumped off the deep end unthinkingly. Life was a wicked twister, he should’ve known better. Why confront something he would never be ready for? It was madness, sheer madness to come here. Minutes passed. An hour. Hours. He stood there like a statue, cracked up. Fighting himself on the inside, and impassive and unmoving on the outside. But how long could he stand there? He had to get himself together, pick up the pieces and walk on—or sink. So he took a deep breath, made a decision and moved forward. Crossing the garden, Shehzad walked bravely up to the front porch, right up to the door. Found a bell there. It was time, he told himself, and reached out to ring it.
But something blasted inside him, throwing him back, and charring every piece of him till there was nothing left—nothing but tears. Tears that washed away his bravado, his air of invincibility. Carrying him away … far, far away from this house, this street, its people … and their power to destroy.
Shehzad did not directly take the Tube back home. He rode the Tube in one direction and then another, wanting to lose himself. It was sunset when he found himself back on George Street.
Rishi saw him walk in. This was a different guy. A broken man. Shorn of the swagger Shehzad was famous for. The Indian took a minute to swallow this. There were twenty things he wanted to ask, but held himself back. Clearly, Shehzad was not in a state to answer questions.
Shehzad did not see Rishi, or the sofa or the table or even the fridge, which was always his first stop every time he entered the house. All he registered now was the door to his room. A door that he staggered through and banged hard behind him to shut out the world.
Rishi gave him an hour before he knocked. Sixty minutes, in his estimation, were enough to seethe, mope or allow things to sink in. If you needed more time, you actually needed help. Or, at least, that’s how he saw it. And he knocked again. Getting no answer, he marched in, uninvited. His pupils dilated to make sense of the dark room. He discerned an outline by the bed. That was his friend. At once, he was by his side, just sitting there. Saying nothing. Sometimes, you only need someone to sit next to you. You don’t want them to say anything. A silent presence could be hugely comforting and Rishi understood this.
In the dark, two heads flung back against the bed, tried to figure things out, not knowing if they were worth figuring out. The evening dimmed to night, but it mattered not in this room. It was dark before and so it remained.
Thirsty, Rishi got up. Shehzad, surprisingly, was neither thirsty nor hungry. He hadn’t invited Rishi to come in. He didn’t stop him from going. Only one thing he registered—his room was his alone once again.
Hydrated, Rishi could think more clearly. He had known for quite some time that there was something eating Shehzad. Had seen it peep past the Bangla swagger. What he saw today was the shell his housemate had become. This scared him; he feared for his friend. If the broken frame did not vent out what was destroying him, it would be a funeral of all hope.
There was no choice. Rishi the counsellor had to intervene. He had to find the right weapon to slay the monsters and set his friend free. Armed with the infinite patience and wisdom that experience forces on to you, the Indian marched back into the dark to rescue his favourite Bangladeshi.
Shehzad had shifted from the floor to his desk. Oblivious to the help being launched from across the border, he waged his battle with his own weapons.
Rishi found the tattoo artist sketching. Furious black lines coalesced into what looked like two eyes, a nose, hoop earrings … and the rest was a blur. Looked abstract, but was a face for sure … a woman’s face.
It’s always a woman, cursed Rishi.
He slashed it then. Knifed his sketch. Cutting the face first with a thick, angry line and then with a paper knife. Shehzad smiled as he slashed it into two. It was a smile that hurt. Watching him in silence, Rishi felt his pain. It was too acute to be counselled. Walking up to Shehzad’s desk, Rishi bent to pick up the fallen half of the torn sketch. The lines were smudged with tears.
Rishi returned it to the artist with a compliment and a question: ‘Why a paper knife when you got more muscle than me?’
16
Spicy, tender and juicy—just like his tarkewali curried beef nihari. Well, if she was the nihari, he wanted to be her khameeri roti, the perfect match for such a delectable dish.
Ali was smitten. Zeenat did this to him. He had been having delicious, aromatic dreams about her ever since he’d first laid eyes on her. A glorious mix of a dozen strong and spicy scents assailed him every time she came near, stoking both his hunger and heartbeat. So appetizing to look at, piping hot in her ways, and sweeter and more fragrant than his pista kheer, Zeenat made him want to be utterly gluttonous.
To call her a tempting dish would be a severe insult. She was a heavenly creation—a gorgeous mix of seasoning, texture, scent and flavour. Never had any girl enticed him so. He liked talking to her, he enjoyed hearing her talk. Her madness. Her sweetness. When she acted sour. When she became naughty. Everything about her whet his appetite like nothing else did.
Was he in love? Ali lay in bed, thinking. Wondering. Well, no one made him feel as much on fire as she did. He felt shy and tender around her, and talkative too. She stirred conflicting feelings in him, melting him with just a look, a word … a touch. This must surely be love.
Ali began to pace his bedroom, and then took to the living room, mumbling,
Yeh mujhe chain kyon nahin parta?
Ek hi shakhs tha jahaan mein kya?
Only Jaun Elia seemed to understand his condition. What about Zeenat? How did she see him? Did she feel the same? Did she find him as irresistible? Or was he just a regular dish—no big deal?
Khub hain shauk ka yeh pehlu bhi
Main bhi barbaad ho gaya, tu bhi.
Ali was full of love and doubt and anxiety. With girls, you never can tell. But how could he know for sure? ‘Approach her,’ cajoled a voice from inside. Yes, that was the only way. He would make a subtle approach. Girls liked that.
But then he was not Shehzad. That Dhaka fellow always gabbed with her to the skies and back. Not a shy bone in his body had he! Why couldn’t he be like Shehzad? Uninhibited, saying and doing whatever struck him. He was that way with some but … but not with her. Why? He didn’t know for sure. Perhaps love made you that way. Shehzad clearly had no such hurdle.
Ali decided he would go to her, snatch some moments together. Outside. Just the two of them. His love-struck heart jumped from one thought to another. Should he take her something? Girls liked gifts. But what could he give her? It had to be something special. Flowers … chocolate … perfume …
No. That was not him at all. He would not copy those around him. Ali would give her something totally his own, a slice of his heart. It struck him then. The perfect gift—shahi tukda! Yes, that Mughal sweet was fit for her majesty. He would make it for her right then, with saffron and cardamom and … The chef spent the next half hour in the kitchen, whipping up a treat for his love.
Soon after, laden with sweetness, he rang the bell at Zeenat’s house. Thankfully, it was she who answered. Surprised to see Ali at her door, she wanted to ask what he was doing there but stopped herself. Ali had brought her shahi tukda. That was sweet of him, but she was not fond of sweets. They messed up her system totally. She opened her mouth to tell him that, but couldn’t. It was good to see him get over his grief and start living again. No, she couldn’t prick his happy bubble. Inviting him in, she put the shahi tukda in the fridge and offered him a drink.
‘Not today,’ he said, and then apologized profusely for refusing.
It didn’t matter to Zeenat if he drank or not, so she changed the subject. She checked on his family in Lahore and learnt that they were coping. She didn’t know what else to say.
Ali gushed when she asked about them. She was interested in his family! Surely, that meant she was interested in him. His pain was her pain.
Zeenat waited for him to continue. Ali sat with a stupid smile
plastered on his face, saying nothing. She was okay with this too. She was comfortable with silence in his company. Actually, it felt good to have him around. He didn’t mess up her head in any way. Not like …
Ali saw her mind wander off; no, that would not do. He wanted her back, engrossed only in his own world, so he proposed a walk. A short walk.
Zeenat knew not how to respond to this.
‘We’ll carry our headphones,’ he said, wanting to quell any objections. ‘You listen to your music. I’ll listen to mine. We’ll get some fresh air. Exercise!’ And he successfully sold the idea to her. Together they left, headphones plugged in, in step with each other but musically apart. She with her Zayn Malik. He with his Sahir Ludhianvi.
‘Maybe it’s the way she walked … through the doors and past the guards’. Zayn made her swoon. ‘And we danced all night to the best song ever, we knew every line …’
Tuned finely to her moods, ‘vas happening’, Zayne’s music seemed to ask, questioning the new vibes coursing through her. Reminding her of Shehzad … of her birthday night and their dance … pepping her up instantly.
He swayed to the lilt of the ghazal.
Pyar par bas to nahin hai mera, lekin phir bhi
Tu bata de tujhse pyar karu ya na karu …
Thandi hawa aein, lehrake ayein, rut hain jawaan, tum ho yahan …
The words were soft and haunting, letting out what his heart was singing silently.
They walked on, each in their own space. Not speaking. Listening. But not to each other.
Ali stole a glance at her ever so often, and he found her looking straight ahead each time. There was so much he wanted to say, and much more that he wanted to ask. But he did neither. Instead, he offered her his music and asked for hers in return.
Zeenat was too zapped by his request to refuse. Wordless, she handed over her headphones and took his.
Man re tu kahe na dheer dhare
Woh nirmohi moh na jaane …
She struggled with the words ‘nirmohi moh’ and checked with Ali what they could possibly mean.
‘Silent fascination,’ he told her.
Made no sense to her—the beat, the words—it all went over her head. She listened, but with half an ear.
Ali plugged into her music enthusiastically.
Shot me out of the sky
You’re my kryptonite
You keep making me weak
Yeah, frozen and can’t breathe …
And got zoned out. What was this kryptonite? He turned to Zeenat. She was hearing Ludhianvi Sahib. He did not want to disturb. ‘Cause you’ve got that one thing …’ This was not his kind of music. Yet, he tried hard to like it. Wasn’t that what you’re supposed to do when in love? Adapt? He wasn’t sure but gave it a shot.
Zeenat was done. The walk … the ghazal … the clutter in her head. All of it beat her down till she went crazy.
‘Ali?’
‘Shall we turn back?’ he asked, understanding at once.
He’d had a wonderful hour and a half with her and was now all charged up to sweat it out in life at the Nawab Balti tonight.
Zeenat was thankful he did not ask for more. She did not have the heart to give in or refuse, for that matter.
17
The nose had been sliced through diagonally. One hoop earring fluttered in his left hand, a hint of a cheek and some hair showing. The remainder was on the floor. As is my life, thought Shehzad. Torn and tattered. Existing in bits. Till Rishi picked up the pieces and handed them to him, asking him to make them whole again.
Rishi? What was he doing in the room? Invading his sacred space. Twice in one day. Didn’t he know better? Shehzad turned to blast the Indian for gatecrashing. Wanted to dump all his anger on the … He never got a chance. The idiot gathered him in a hug, startling him and draining him of his ability to think or curse. The Bangladeshi froze. He was not used to such show of emotion, it made him uncomfortable. No one had reached out to him this way, as far as he could remember.
Baba? Baba was a long-forgotten statistic in the family calculations. Ma was the most visible presence in their household even after she’d left the house—especially after she’d left.
Letting go of Shehzad, Rishi blinked. What had come over him? He’d never been the hugging sort. He looked at Shehzad, unsure of what to do. The fellow looked hollow, no colour, no dude act. In fact, he looked dark. It must be the room, Rishi thought, in shadows as it was. Why this boy did not switch on lights was beyond him. But something about Shehzad was still not right. He was breathing and yet not breathing. That’s it! That’s what made him embrace the guy, shocking the hell out of both of them.
Once the hug was done, Rishi was at ease. His housemate looked uneasy though. There was that sketch too, the sliced halves hanging before them, as mysterious as the Bermuda Triangle and equally unsafe. Rishi knew not what he risked if he dared to question the hyper fellow about the knifed sketch.
The hug had transported Shehzad into another world, one where there were no hugs, no kisses, no warmth. Only cold abandonment. People didn’t gather you there. They left you for good, unconcerned about what befell you afterwards.
He heard the door bang shut as she walked out with her bags. Bang! Harder. Louder. Till he could take it no more and fell on the chair, sealing his ears with both hands. The door had banged shut only once, that too, many years ago, but he kept hearing it again and again. The noise getting more deafening with each passing year.
Startled, Rishi rushed to him, dropping down next to his chair. He did not know this Shehzad and was not sure how to deal with him. But pain—he knew pain. He recognized it all too well, and had learnt to handle it like a pro. So he waited for it to all pour out. Not asking. Not hurrying. Giving it time to spill out.
‘Bitch! Bitch!’
Shehzad was angry—and in tears, only he didn’t let them flow. With a hand that shook, he grabbed the shredded sketch, balled up the pieces and flung them across the room.
Rishi saw it land in a far corner. ‘Shehzad …’
That did it. He burst out like he hadn’t for years, hitting the desk with his fist, throwing back his head and crying like hell. His face contorted, his body trembling. ‘How could she? How could she?’
Rishi gripped Shehzad’s hand lest he hurt himself.
‘They’re all the same …’ Rishi couldn’t stop himself. He spoke from experience.
‘Same?’ Shehzad was furious then. ‘Your mom’s the same, huh?’ He gripped Rishi’s collar and stared at him, his eyes crazed. ‘Your ma ran off with her husband’s friend, did she?’
Rishi’s heart sank. This was too black, way out of his depth.
‘Took off like just like that! Snap! You sit watching, not crying, just watching … watch Ma go … watch Baba go too—to the dogs!’
Shehzad got up with a start. Even the chair was beginning to hurt. All because of that damn Pakistani! She left them for him. Chose him and a life in London with him; she found her life in Dhaka no longer bright. Londoni is what she wanted to be. So she dumped them. Like yesterday’s trash. He slammed his fist against the wall. Hurting it. But feeling nothing. It was so bad inside, his fist felt just fine. He had not understood why she left when she banged the door shut. The truth bomb hit him much later, when the neighbours began to sing, retelling her story in vivid detail, gossiping about how she was queening it up in London while her family rotted back home.
He had tracked her down then—right up to her house in South Harrow Lane. The one he took the Tube to this morning. He zoomed in on her address the day he landed at Heathrow. That was why he had come to London—to find her. He knew not what he’d do when he found her. But find her he must. It took him months to muster up the guts to go up that road. He would go near and come back each time. Today, he made it to her door. But that insecure monster inside him pulled him back. What if she didn’t want him still … and rejected him outright? What if he lost control and did something he’d regret?
Ri
shi felt Shehzad’s load weigh him down too. So he kept sitting on the floor, while Shehzad vented it out. On the walls, going from one corner to another, till his battery drained out and he flopped on to the bed.
‘How old were you?’ Rishi asked.
Shehzad took five minutes to reply. ‘Not even six.’
God!
‘I saw her today,’ Shehzad confessed in a whimper. ‘Her house actually.’
So that’s where he had been coming from this noon, looking ghastly and chalky. No wonder! The pieces were now fitting in Rishi’s puzzled head. The Agra lad dragged himself up on to Shehzad’s chair and stared at his friend sprawled on the sheets, eyes tightly shut, but awake. His past was screwing his present, etching itself on him like the tattoos he etched on human skin.
The blank sketch pad on the desk teased him, reminding Rishi of the slashed face that haunted this room. She seemed to be everywhere—in his room, his mind, and his bloody world. He had to rid Shehzad of her. Now. But how? How do you purge yourself of a face? How? Yes, so simple it was—with another face. ‘Shehzad,’ he said, walking up to his friend and throwing the pad at him.
The Bangladeshi’s eyes flew open at this new weight on his chest. His pad.
‘Shehzad, see if you can sketch another.’
What the hell was this fellow saying? Had he lost it? Shehzad was not in a state to focus on Rishi or his gibberish.
Rishi shook him then and thrust the pad into his hands. ‘Sketch one more face, bro. But this time, make it a happy face.’
Shehzad examined the Agra specimen, his eyes dilating in wonder. This one was definitely not from the same planet as him. No way!
‘A face,’ continued Rishi, ‘that makes you happy. And fills you with love. Sketch that face.’
Leaving the Bangladeshi artist to take on this challenge, Rishi walked out the door, hoping the demons of yesterday would walk out with him.
18
The agony uncle was hard at work. His inbox was overflowing with every Bangla, Lankan, Hindustani and Pakistani lonely heart clamouring for his attention. And advice. One wanted to know how to rid herself of her selfie-obsessed boyfriend. Another desired a Buddhist partner willing to chant with her. One guy was keen to spread world peace but complained his wife wasn’t cooperating. Added to this were dozens of queries from late bloomers on how to date confidently. Several ugly ducklings wanted him to suggest a magic makeover that could snag them handsome princes. Some wanted to know if guys who were not obsessed with beauty actually existed. All of them expected the moon from their agony uncle and believed he could supply the same.