by Pankaj Dubey
Slamming his door shut, Ali at once tugged up his sleeve to check if his lion was okay. To his relief, like the ad had promised, it was a quality product. The sticker showed no sign of wear or tear after his battle. The predator still prowled magnificently on his bicep, firing him up for the evening ahead. Taking a one-minute shower, he changed into his best outfit—he had bought only this one set since arriving in London—and in front of the mirror practised the lines he would say to her. In ten minutes, he was ready and outside the front door, debating whether to take the Tube or the bus.
He saw Rishi inside a cab, instructing the driver where to take him. Ali was about to ask where the Indian was going when someone whizzed past him and hopped into the cab beside Rishi. It was that idiot, Shehzad. Again, he had left him gaping! Ali swore he won’t be beaten this time and raced up to Rishi’s window to pile in if the cab was headed his way.
‘Holborn,’ said Rishi before Ali could ask.
What the hell! These guys never let him get in a word, thought the Pakistani.
‘And Shehzad’s getting off at the British Museum,’ Rishi added.
Ali went cold. She was meeting this tattooed twit at the museum! Mullah had warned him against exactly this type of a scenario. But he never thought it would be Shehzad. The guy was a joke. True, she too fooled around with him sometimes. But this Bangladeshi pest was mostly piling on to her and she was too polite to shoo him off. He’d change all that tonight.
‘Ali! You’re keeping the cab waiting,’ screamed Rishi, cutting into Ali’s reverie.
The Pakistani, to their shock, got in as well, squeezing in at the back without saying a word.
‘Brick Lane?’ Rishi quizzed, wondering why Ali was leaving so early for work.
‘Hmm …’ Ali only grunted, not too sure he could control himself if he opened his mouth.
*
Shehzad had not a thought to spare for the Pakistani. The last half-hour had been hectic. He’d got this brainwave to not wait for Zeenat’s call, but to surprise her instead. He’d land up at the museum, a place where she would never dream of seeing even the ghost of Shehzad. He would catch her unawares and zap her with his truth. Bare his heart before the art of the world. His drama queen would lap it up. This was what her idol—Shah Rukh Khan—would do. He would lean back, spread out his arms and declare his love, unabashedly, in front of the whole world. If SRK could do that, he could do one better. So he’d wiggled into his black Calvin Klein jeans, slid into that tight T-shirt she particularly liked, slicked back his hair and jumped out. Something nagged him as he reached the front door. A gift! Girls dig gifts. Dammit, he wasn’t the flowers-and-chocolates type. There wasn’t any time anyway. He had to reach fast before she wandered off somewhere else. Would have to snatch something from the house only. But what?
Shehzad walked back into his room, and finding nothing, circled the hall, the kitchen, and then stopped at the fridge as usual. And there, he got his second brainwave. He’d give her that plastic heart that had come in the box of cereal they bought the other day. The pack had been a special promo offer for Valentine’s Day—at a steal along with a two-inch-wide glowing plastic heart. He sure knew how to use that toy heart, how to pop it to her.
Sneaking rings inside cakes and wine glasses were old hat. He’d place his plastic heart inside something way more tempting. Shehzad opened the fridge, took out one of Ali’s yummy kebabs, stuffed the freebie heart into its spicy filling, sealed it up good and proper, wrapped it in foil and pocketed it just in time. He heard Rishi come out and head straight for the kitchen. The fellow was dressed to go somewhere. Not to work, definitely, deduced Shehzad. Saw him guzzle down a whole bottle of water. That seemed curious too. But he had too much on his mind to dwell on Rishi for long. His gift arranged, he bounced to the front door, halting there suddenly to ask Rishi which way he was going and how.
‘Holborn. By cab.’
Smashing! The British Museum wasn’t far from there. The Indian, surprisingly, had booked a cab, which made it perfect for him to hitch a ride. Into the cab he jumped before his housemate, looking mighty pleased at the way things were aligning with his wishes. Even the Indian smelt good today, and had dressed fancily too. What was up! Shehzad bit his tongue lest he tease Rishi to the point of irritation and lose this free cab ride. It hit him then that he’d forgotten to spray some of that stuff on himself, and today was special! Shehzad jumped out of the cab, shouting out to Rishi he’d be back in less than a second. He did return in a flash, bolting past Ali, who he did not see standing by the cab.
Crammed in the cab, Ali cursed Shehzad. He ground his teeth at the thought of the Bangladeshi hovering near his soon-to-be begum. Perched next to him, Shehzad was tickled by the fact that this Pakistani’s kebab was to play a leading role in his romance that evening. If only the dumb-ass knew, his head would burn like an overdone kebab. What a tasty thought! The Bangladeshi’s smile got wider and wicked.
Oblivious to these two, Rishi was lost in his new world. It revolved round her, shone with her light, and was ready to embrace the darkness if that was what she chose to bestow. Saint Valentine kept a watch on his minions from up there, in the clouds, enjoying the foreplay of emotions before the rocking night ahead. Things were bound to get explosive!
26
It was a busy intersection and absolutely hell at peak times. Rishi glanced at his watch. It was almost 5 p.m. He rushed towards the one and only entrance at the Holborn tube station. These pricks had delayed him by fifteen minutes—Ali being indecisive and not getting off at Brick Lane and choosing to go to Covent Garden at the last minute. So much time he took to get his ass off the cab, glowering at Shehzad as he did so, not realizing that his juvenile antics were costing Rishi time and money.
And then that Dhaka Casanova insisted on being dropped off at the British Museum first. Hell, Rishi had booked the cab and would be the one paying for it, not that jerk. Yet the bugger had the balls to order him about. Thankfully, he had slipped out fast enough once the cab neared the museum gate. What had piqued his interest in art and sculpture overnight was another mystery, one that Rishi did not have the bandwidth to solve today. Let the fellow torture stone and canvas for a while! The world would be safer with the lampooning demon safely enclosed within the museum walls—at least Ali would be. Even someone blind could see how the Bangladeshi got the Pakistani’s goat every time the two came within shouting distance. Shaking his head, Rishi shrugged off all thought of his housemates, and hurried inside to meet his fate.
Ali looked for a bus the minute he hopped off the cab—Covent Garden had never been his destination. But he didn’t want that inked swine to know he was following him to the museum. The next bus was some five minutes away, so Ali decided to walk it. It wouldn’t take him more than ten minutes. Shehzad did have a head start on him, being in the cab, but it is the turtle that eventually wins the race, he told himself. Was it the turtle or the tortoise? Ali wasn’t sure. Whatever!
Shehzad reached the museum almost fifteen minutes before Ali, but the place was so huge that the Bangladeshi was going mad looking for his girl. He’d known it would be a spread, but he’d never thought there would be so many rooms and troops of visitors ambling in and out of every one of these rooms! To add to the clutter, school groups were crawling all over the place. It would be easier to find Zeenat in a haystack than this monstrosity of a place. He sighed in despair—the stuff that love made you do!
He was at the Montague Place entrance now; this area seemed more crowded because it was the entry to the Egyptian exhibits, housing mystical mummies and the preserved pharaohs—who belonged to Egypt, but got transported to museums all over the world so that they could be gawked at by the Americans, Asians and Europeans. A hushed awe filled the room housing these popular exhibits. Shehzad sped past historical and contemporary humans, looking for his love, and found an equally rare gem—a mummified crocodile! That transfixed him for a full five minutes.
Regaining control, he left the
bewitching beauty and zoomed past the Great Court, turned left, sparing a scant glance at the Elgin Marbles, and moved on. She was nowhere. The Rosetta Stone was around, as was the Sutton Hoo Helmet and Clarence’s Truck. But there was no Zeenat. He had checked the upper, ground and even the lower floors at a speed that would have been illegal on the roads. The museum was about to close and the visitors were filing out. Security was nudging any lingering fans firmly towards the exit. Shehzad was now at his wits’ end. He’d even scanned the cafeteria and the gift shops. But his lady love eluded him.
Forty minutes of this museum hunt, however, won him a shocking jackpot. Ali! The paper lion was wandering around the atrium, peering into faces, corners, rooms and god knew what else till he spotted Shehzad, at almost the exact second that Shehzad spotted him—and came to a dead halt. Amidst this exodus, the Pakistani stood immobile, glowering at the Bangladeshi for leading him on this cat-and-mouse chase, on a day that was so important to him. And where was she? Ali’s eyes panned the space surrounding the damn tattoo-cake frantically, came back to his face for a hint of what he sought, but drew a blank everywhere. Had the smart-arse hidden her somewhere? Or was he planning to run away with her, duping both Mullah and him? Shehzad was really raising his blood pressure way too much today.
Shehzad thought he was hallucinating. What was the Lahori doing here—the museum was the unlikeliest of places for him to be prowling in. And today of all days! Hadn’t he got off at Covent Garden. Why was he here then? And if he needed to be here, why did he get down there? Shehzad cursed—things were getting too complicated, and it was getting late. The place was shutting and there was no sign of her yet. Zeenie, where are you?
It hit him then—this animal must’ve known she was coming here and so was prowling in a territory that was not his own, in a bid to win a prize that was beyond his station. It would serve him right to have someone else make off with her, that too, using a kebab he had made. As he savoured this evil thought, Shehzad felt his pocket to check his yummy heart was still there. Confirming its presence, he moved towards the exit, avoiding Ali, who fixed on him a deadly stare.
‘Where’s she?’ roared Ali, drawing near.
‘Scat!’
Spitting out that one word, Shehzad went his way, wanting to blot out his ape of a housemate from his vision and reality. But got collared back and found himself confronting the very reality he had chosen to obliterate.
‘What’ve you done to Zeenat?’ The beast was shaking as he demanded an answer from Shehzad.
What made Ali so sure that Zeenat was here? Even as Shehzad seethed at being manhandled by this wild Pakistani, his brain was working overtime. How did he know? Was it … no … it couldn’t be … no … hell, was Zeenat actually meeting up with this ape here? Had she totally lost it? Shehzad knew girls did really dumb things sometimes, but dating Ali? You had to be completely insane. He looked up at his snarling housemate with wonder and distaste, trying to see what Zeenat could’ve seen.
Ali had had enough of this rat—that lion jibe still hurt, and now he’d hidden his girl too! How dare he strut around as if nothing had happened? Ali would break his every bone and make him squeal. He had seen only the sunny side of him. But Ali could get dark and dangerous when needed. Swearing, Ali scruffed him by the collar and edged him close. The fellow had the balls to stare back at him. Now, what was he eyeing him for? Was he …
He suddenly let go of Shehzad like he’d been stung. Ali wanted to finish off what he’d started but a man in uniform was looking at them from afar, so he reined in his temper. Shehzad stood up straight and brushed his collar with a swagger meant to irritate.
Shehzad saw the security guard too and sneered. Good! Let this buffoon bake behind bars. That would show Zeenat what trash she was mixing with.
‘Where is Zeenat?’ Ali ground out a second time, his hand clenching in a fist held back with much effort.
‘Stop blabbering, arsehole!’ Shehzad was losing patience now. Also, Zeenat was nowhere around. Had this bloody museum swallowed her up? Swearing, he punched the air, wanting to break that curved criss-crossing glass roof jeering at him from up there.
‘Last time, I’m asking you …’ began Ali, his eyes threatening the guy he had cooked for all these months.
‘She’s not a souvenir that I can pocket—use your overcooked brain sometimes.’
It was scathing, but logical. Ali began to see his point—the girl was truly missing. What was he to do now? He saw no path. His feet were aching with all that walking and searching, and his blood was still on the boil—all because of this rat!
‘I’m looking for her too,’ Shehzad admitted, looking goofy for once.
‘What?’ Ali was confused. What was this new act?
‘She came to see you but …’
Before his housemate could answer, security was upon them. They didn’t just want to throw the twosome out, but also question them first. Ali swore under his breath. This Bangla bomb fomented trouble wherever he went.
27
Rishi made a U-turn. No, it wasn’t the escalator. They had decided to meet up at the coffee vending machine right outside. His brain was all fucked up today. Excitement, delay, the morons he lived with—together they had fried every neuron inside his skull.
Running now, lest she gave up on him, he headed for the Nescafé signage his eyes had picked up on the way. A few metres from the machine, he stopped with a jerk, bewitched by the beauty in the red jacket waiting right next to the machine. She’d messaged him earlier that day to say she’d be wearing crimson, changing her mind about playing cat-and-mouse with his heart. There she was, striking a pose in red! Voluptuous in the right measure, the air of mystery and magic surrounding her seduced him no end. Raven locks fell in a sheath, dancing past her shoulders, veiling her face. He inched closer to steal a look past the lush, black curtain. She turned to face him the same second.
Their eyes met. And held. And bulged. A zillion emotions sparked in both that one nanosecond. Shock. Disbelief. Denial. Confusion. Hesitation. Reservation.
Zeenat! Rishi’s entire being rejected this reality completely. It couldn’t be. There was definitely some mistake! A dreadful misunderstanding! Perplexed, he stared at her, not trusting his eyes. Surely, things had got mixed up. But she was wearing red and standing right there, next to the vending machine. Looking so hauntingly beautiful. Having the same misgivings as him.
Their eyes were on each other, reluctant, awkward, and yet, loathe to let go. It was as if each was seeing the other for the first time today. Trying to make sense of this twisted fate. In those few seconds, they swung between distrust and longing, rebuff and acceptance, from indifference to understanding, and finally, graduating to love. They covered so much ground and space. It was like they were building their own new world out there. The sea of humanity around them had long ceased to exist. It was only them and their battles. She did not budge from her post. He decided to take the first step. Dispelling anxious clouds and shy winds, floating on hope and courage, he pushed himself to take that first step, a giant one, into a whole new world.
Boom! The whole thing exploded. Blotting out his world, flattening him, plunging ice picks into his eardrums, flooding his lungs with smoke and dust. The force of the blast numbed his mind and body. Like a sucker punch, it hit him fast and hard, knocking him off the ground. And giving him no time to get a grip on what was happening till it was over. And then a sudden silence, a stillness that was unnerving. The vibrations rippled through him much later. Things were still shaking around him as he tried to take stock. Thick black-grey smoke swirled around. Shards of glass and bits of metal, paper and cloth were scattered everywhere.
Rishi staggered to his feet, wobbly and disoriented. He was having trouble seeing clearly and it felt like his ears had been stuffed with wads of cotton. He could taste the thick grit of smoke on his tongue and his lungs were burning. His head was spinning as he tried to make sense of what had happened. People were panicking, running back
and forth, terror writ large on their flurrying bodies.
The acrid smell of smoke and death hung thick, overwhelming him. Covering his ears with his palms, Rishi opened his mouth to equalize the pressure. That he could think of doing this told him that his mind was more or less intact. Thank god! He looked at himself up and down, ensuring that all his limbs were still with him. And Zeenat! His next thought was of her.
She was gone but in that fraction of a second, the topography of the station had changed, death and destruction, chaos and fear were now everywhere. It was raw, palpitating fear. The bomb had not emptied the station yet. People were still hurrying out, escaping debris and smoke and sections that had caved in. He ran to join them, not to flee, but to search. He went looking for Zeenat—in every face, under every piece of rubble—wanting her to be safe, praying she was unscathed. His heart filled with dread with every passing minute. Had he lost her? Why did fate send her to him when it was going to take her away the next second? Was this his destiny?
He heard people shouting near the entrance. Rishi raced to check, it could be Zeenat. Pushing through men, women and clutter, he kept going, hurling ahead like a maniac, till he banged into a policeman coming his way. Gathering himself, not wasting time or effort to mumble an apology, he made to take off again, only to hit a wall—a human wall. A battery of uniforms had closed in on him in a sudden swoop, coming from left, right and behind him, making him fall down hard on his ass.
What an overreaction this was! An inadvertent banging into a cop and how these racist officers were avenging it! But yes, he should have said sorry. These Englishmen—they lived by their sorrys, thank yous and pleases. But how can one be polite during a bomb blast? It beat him. But one thing he learnt today—even the seemingly unruffled British could go hyper at times.