by Pankaj Dubey
Zeenat was impressed by this guarantee of support. She could now quit worrying over parental infringement of her personal space and proceed to have a good time with her friends. Yet, a tiny part of her was still miffed with the events of the evening and this came in the way of her enjoying full throttle.
Shehzad had the perfect answer to this. ‘Try Ali’s mutton curry. It’s famous for its healing powers.’
‘What?’
‘Yes, Zeenie! It can warm your heart, mood and belly all at once.’
She knew not what to say. Their concern was bowling her over. Shehzad took her silence to mean she wasn’t convinced, so kept selling the curry to her.
‘Have a bowl and every stinker will get blown … into oblivion—I guarantee it!’
Ali just kept nodding. Zeenat was in tears. The smitten suitors rushed up to her with tissues, wanting to repair the damage they had caused unwittingly.
‘Silly, I’m not crying because I’m sad—I’m happy! You guys have made me happy.’ Their care and promise of curry had driven her to the edge again—a happy edge this time.
Reassured, the cook and his assistant took off for the kitchen. Rishi walked in just then and was promptly requisitioned for kitchen duty. Zeenat hovered around them and entertained the workers with her tales that defied logic but were within the realm of imagination.
That night she sat sandwiched between Ali and Shehzad, facing the Indian, gorging on curry that was refilled with aplomb even before she’d managed to finish half her bowl. Life sucked, but it did have its moments, she accepted grudgingly.
Their tummies full, they moved to the sofa and cushions in the living room, with Zeenat getting the seat of honour—the central seat on the three-seater sofa. Her two knights flanked her on each side just in case any apocalyptic disaster dared blow her way.
The Bangladeshi kept ribbing the Pakistani. He was not able to digest Ali’s physical closeness to his newly discovered love. How dare the chef potter with pans that were not his own? He tried to put him down by harping on his Pakistani-accented English.
‘Oh, shut up!’ Ali bellowed in flawless English.
‘No, Ali,’ Zeenat pitched in, upping the battle between her two suitors. ‘What Shehzad wants you to acquire is the excruciatingly polite but obfuscatory speech of the true-blue Englishman.’
Rishi knew where this was headed for and jumped in with delight. ‘She’s right. An Englishman would never say, “Shut up!” He’ll go like this: “Would you mind not speaking for a while?” Or more accurately, he’ll put it ever so apologetically, “Actually, old chap, I really am sorry for making this dreadful demand, but if it were possible, would you please oblige me with a few moments of silence—if you can, that is? Thank you.”’
And that brought the house down. The four of them rolled and rolled in splits at this supreme exhibition of the prim and proper English language, which was suffocatingly polite even when one intended to be rude.
‘You’re on point,’ admitted the Bangladeshi dude, throwing up his hands in mock surrender.
‘Yaar, you forgot one more thing they do,’ Ali pointed out to his Indian mate lounging on the cushion. ‘What about “Hmm … ah … um …” How can you … er … speak English like the English, without “um … er …” at least twenty times in every sentence?’
They again went berserk, exploding with laughter. They slapped Ali’s back and were hugging, laughing and crying at the same time. Totally thrilled at the way Ali had blasted the English penchant for not coming straight to the point. Zeenat was getting cramps from laughing non-stop.
The night was still young. Ali, Shehzad and Zeenat lingered in the living room, drinking coffee and talking. Rishi had retired to his room early. He needed to finish some work, he told them. Ali got busy trying every possible antic to woo his lady love. Shehzad’s eyes ordered him to buzz off, but there seemed to be network issues, his message was not getting delivered. He watched the Lahori lion prowling round and round his girl, roaring poetry that complimented her looks, her walk, her hair, her words … dammit, everything!
‘Leave something for me, you bastard,’ Shehzad muttered under his breath.
Zeenat soaked up all the attention and adulation like she had been starved of it for centuries. Waltzing happily in this triangle of her own making, she thrived on this proxy tug of war waging across international waters. The Indian had the tact to play the mediator, but he had gone off to work, sleep or whatever he claimed he had to do behind closed doors. So she played games with these two, taking sides at random.
22
The agony uncle read that one mail again and again. It had a familiar ring to it. He couldn’t quite place it, but it sent all his alarm bells going.
‘When life dumps you again and again, should you blame the world or yourself for being this stupid?’
He replied with care, ‘Not stupid. It’s coz you’re strong that life tests you and not the people around you.’
‘He who advises you so, when he himself dumps you, then?’ A reader had suddenly appeared on live chat and took him head-on.
God, it was her! From a new email ID now. No wonder he’d been getting those vibes. And she was right—he had dumped her by immersing himself in the lives and issues of other readers. He had forsaken her after pledging forever support. Well, that was because he needed time to attend to his other readers. He could not ignore them forever—this was his job. But then, if he knew not how to manage his time, that was not her problem! Like you looked before leaping, should you not assess before you promise? Also, his crime was graver than that of the average guy who dumps. He had let go of the one girl who helped him reflect on his own insecurities and fears. She had showed him, in full Technicolor, what he had shut his eyes to all this time. Introduced him to the Rishi he was—a zombie. Living in denial. Just like her.
How could he have let go of her? Weren’t they fighting the same losing battle? Caving in to their diminished self-esteem? All that bravado of not wanting anything or anyone, he realized, had been just a mask. His battle had been mostly with his own self, like she was warring within, destroying herself and her notions of family. Rejected by the world, both had withdrawn into themselves and become their own punching bags.
Her cries of pain had awakened him to his own sorrow. Her misgivings rivalled the misconceptions he had long nurtured. The two tales were tragic, with most of their wounds self-inflicted. They were truly similar, so her pain became his own.
The agony uncle shook his head in despair. Typing furiously, he reached out to her again, wanting to reconnect with her and himself. He told her about his intense, but failed affair. They shared notes, laughed and cried together, not judging each other. She loved dewdrops she told him. He hated standing in a queue, he confided.
‘Will you adopt me?’
He was flummoxed by her question. ‘Don’t you already have a foster family?’ He asked her this, for he knew not how one could possibly adopt a soulmate.
Soulmate? When had she become that? What was going on? He was discovering new stuff by the minute. Her words seemed to be pinging his brain, making him see not just himself but even his feelings anew. But wait a minute—wasn’t he supposed to be the agony uncle? What the hell was she doing, ministering his agonies! This girl was one big jigsaw. She puzzled him even as she helped him solve his own riddles.
‘I got no family—real or foster. Yesterday or today.’ Her reply nailed him.
He accepted her then in whichever way she wanted him to. ‘So you’ll be mine from now on—legally, illegally, in every possible way.’ A smiley was all he got in return and then, poof! She had gone offline. Dammit! That’s how it was in the virtual world. Relationships were forged and broken and even frozen with a click. Rishi left his chair to lounge on the bed and daydream about his new adoptee. Family member, not adoptee. Adoption was a dirty word, so she had said.
Two delicious hours later, he went back to his desk and mails. A fifty-year-old woman wanted to remarry
but the only real offer she’d got involved her becoming a co-wife. She liked this guy, she said, but he had two more wives and would be visiting her on a rota if they married. He told her to see how much time and emotional resources she had available before taking a call. If she was high on career and short on time, and not averse to the idea of having a part-time man, what the heck, go ahead, he counselled.
Another reader wanted him to provide a checklist that he could tick off before getting engaged to a girl. The fellow also wanted top ten rules for a happy marriage. The agony uncle took pains to draft a structured response to this very systematic query. ‘Life has a way of surprising you that defies all planning,’ he wrote back. ‘When the heart gets struck, it punctures every list and rule in the head or paper. So plan, but be prepared to have to chuck that plan,’ he advised sagely.
The next mail in his inbox was a job offer. It had been waiting since yesterday and offered to pay nearly double of what he was getting now. An unputdownable offer that also involved frequent travel to Edinburgh, Inverness and other Scottish towns. What more could an applicant with his sort of CV ask for?
Rishi’s first thought was it had to be a prank. But who could it be? Well, the world was full of sadists, who got their kicks taking the wind out of people. Must be one of those jerks, he figured. So he checked out the company profile, visiting their website, zoomed in on the careers page … and found to his shock that all was okay. Could the mail actually be genuine? His eyes widened in wonder. Should he call and check once? He didn’t want to make an ass of himself. But what if it was real! He needed to find out for sure. Swinging between yes and no, he finally made that call in the morning and experienced a huge shot in the arm. The email was real—they did want him and that too, immediately!
Rishi hung up in a daze. He had learnt to deal with pain and failure. But success? He was clueless there … it was new territory for him. He would have to invest in some new suits probably for those sales trips up north, and arrange for Ali to water his bonsai. Yes, he did have one, though he never liked to discuss or even acknowledge it, unlike the English always going on and on about their gardens and cats!
And yes, he would also need to resign from Desi Beats. He couldn’t ditch the column overnight, would have to manage it somehow for a month at least. Then let go. Let go … there were those words again, springing up twice in a day. Telling him that he was not doing right. What was going on? He didn’t want to let go, was that it?
But this offer had come as a big climb-up. And didn’t he find out only today that he no longer wanted to hang around like a zombie. He wanted to live, not stagnate. And rising up the ranks was surely a part of living. Yet, there were parts of him that objected to this good fortune. Not liking this windfall. Not ready to let it blow him away. He had just found his feet and it wouldn’t do to get carried away, not even by a wave that promised success.
Rishi made up his mind. He decided to stay grounded, rooted to his new reality, a reality built around her. A smile lit up his face, announcing a ceasefire. No conflicting emotions, his heart had won—a heart that now beat with Desi Beats and all that he had found there. His head nodded in understanding—having calculated that it could not operate optimally or even logically when it was too full of another person.
He sat up straighter at his desk and sent a graceful rejection to the handsome offer, telling them how pleased and honoured he was to be given this opportunity of a lifetime. But regretting that this unique opportunity presented itself at an inopportune moment, so he had to refuse it with more than a twinge of disappointment.
That done, the agony uncle got back to work again, opening the next reader email. It was a lonely, middle-aged lady this time who was sick of meeting douchebags. She inquired, ‘Are there men who could keep a clean and tidy house and entertain her suitably over the weekends?’ He read it with a smile and answered with another. There were a lot of nice men out there, he assured her—ones who could fill her lonesome moments in many different ways. Some may even vacuum her place as well to save on rent, but he could not be certain if they would not be entertaining more than one lady over the week. Pressing the ‘send’ button, he felt satisfied and at home. This was what he wanted to do, not be a slave to pound notes. Fifteen more mails to go, then he could switch over to her.
She had pinged him, reappearing as suddenly as she had disappeared. She would wait for him to finish, she told him. The agony uncle looked anything but agonized as he went about finishing his chores. A stupid smile sat on his face as he typed. Someone was waiting for him. That was enough to give him a high.
23
Not only his begum, now even Mullah was taken with him. The whole night he had thought of just one person. This said a lot about a person who had slept soundly even on his wedding night. This tormentor of his sleep also happened to be his tenant, and now, Mullah planned to offer the bugger a lease of a lifetime. He couldn’t wait for the dawn to break. The first ray of sun to break across the horizon had him up and about and itching to summon his prize catch.
*
‘Ali!’ thundered the landlord on the phone.
The chef rubbed his eyes, half asleep, his ears registering a familiar, threatening voice.
‘Ali!’ This was louder, awakening Ali to the reality of him having a landlord and the necessity of being respectful to him, no matter what bleeding hour the man chose to make his presence felt.
‘Ji, janaab.’ Ali was courteous even when only half awake.
His gracious tone warmed the heart of the old curmudgeon. He had been right and his begum too had not led him up the wrong path this time. This fellow was perfect—exactly what he was looking for.
The line had gone silent. Had the Mullah gone to sleep? Why did he call then? Must have been a mistake. Or had he called in his sleep, like that neighbour in Lahore, who would sleepwalk every other night? These British sure do strange things, and Mullah was no less British now.
‘I want you to come over to my place now,’ Mullah bellowed, resurrecting like a phoenix from a line that Ali believed had gone dead.
It scared him stiff. When your landlord calls you at 7 a.m. and orders you to come show your face, your life was definitely screwed. Cursing in chaste Urdu, Ali wore whatever was handy, threw the three pieces of kaju burfi from last night’s dinner into a box—they would be his olive branch if the landlord was breathing fire—and mumbling a prayer, went to meet his fate.
He did not have to walk far. Five houses down, he saw the landlord zoom up to him. ‘Meeting trouble halfway …’ muttered Ali as he whipped up a sweet smile to greet Mullah. And he got a sweeter one in return. That floored him completely. A sweeter-than-honey smile on Mullah’s face looked as fake as purple chutney on a tikka. What did the crafty demon want at this goddamn hour! Ali was getting edgy now.
‘Son,’ began Mullah, gathering his tenant in a bear hug that wrung the life out of him and flattened the burfis too. It wasn’t the physical act that took the wind out of Ali—it was pure shock that did him in. Like a wooden doll, the chef hung out there, ready to be beaten, grilled or charred.
‘Let’s take a walk.’
Feeling exactly like a lamb on its way to halal, Ali fell in step the second Mullah commanded.
They had not crossed three houses when Mullah cleared his throat and asked, ‘What you think of Zeenat?’
‘Zeenat …?’ blabbered Ali. ‘Why, nothing!’
Had this old fox zoomed into his heart? Ali was positively shaking now. He’d be slaughtered in this foreign land and no one would know or care. The bastard would even deny him a funeral. Love could be so painfully final. Had Ali known, he would’ve cooked his heart and served it to the dogs before it dared beat for the landlord’s daughter.
‘You don’t like her?’ Mullah was so excruciatingly direct.
Ali only nodded a no. He had lost his voice.
Mullah took the nod to mean ayes. Ah! That’s what he’d thought. The boy was smitten but shy. ‘So how do we go
about it?’ It was a matter-of-fact question.
But the answer was as evasive as Ali could make it. ‘Let’s not do anything about it.’ It had taken every ounce of his Pathani guts to muster that reply.
Mullah went both black and white at once. Thundering black in anger at the lethargy of this generation when it came to taking things to their logical conclusion. And pale white at the thought of his daughter losing such an appropriate partner. ‘Look, I’ll make it good for you,’ Mullah offered. ‘Everything. I’ll take care of everything.’
Ali stole a confused look at him. How on earth could someone kill him and make it good for him too? Unless it was a life insurance agent gifting him a policy that his beloved heir could make a killing from after Mullah killed him. But he had no heir, beloved or otherwise. So the point of this offer escaped him.
Scratching his un-shampooed hair, Ali felt jittery and irritated with the world.
‘You take my Zeenat, and I’ll take care of you.’ There, he had got it off his chest. Put it bluntly to the Pakistani who was dilly-dallying.
‘Take Zeenat?’ Ali repeated in a daze. ‘Where?’
‘You had too much to drink last night, son?’ Mullah threw his prospective son-in-law a look that probed for more signs of a hangover. ‘It’s okay now, but when Zeenat’s around, mind it. You’ll need to control. Else she’ll end up drinking double of you.’
Ali’s head was finally clearing. Mullah was clearly not out to kill him, not in the way he had imagined. Instead, this had something to do with Zeenat. His Zeenat. And Mullah’s Zeenat. The landlord wanted to send her somewhere with him. Mashallah, what an opportunity! He needed more information.
‘No … no. I’m fine, janaab. Even Zeenat is … even she did not drink last night.’