by Pankaj Dubey
‘And in which course are you?’ he runs behind to ask. ‘Where do I find you?’
‘Here, in this library . . . I help out here.’
And poof, she’s gone!
Aamir stands for a minute and considers the empty space where she stood a second ago.
Then he returns to the bookshelves to retrieve the titles he wishes to borrow. She had not taken any in her rush.
Back with Dheeraj sir, after fetching the journal he wanted, Sanam sits waiting as he marks out something. Her eyes keep drifting . . . to that irritating Aamir. She watches the entire drama of his girl leaving him. Eyes him standing forlorn, a drooping figure, mourning the absence of the bespectacled librarian.
Sanam feels strangely bereft, although it’s only much later that she becomes aware of this feeling. Brushing away the unpleasant thoughts from her mind, she returns her focus to the man sitting with her.
Dheeraj sir tells her about a village visit that the academy will organize over the coming months. Her report will be key to her performance scores. The questionnaire for this has been developed by senior officers in the government and the trainees’ survey and analysis reports will be of paramount importance as they will feed into the formulation of policy regarding such matters. In assessing the candidate’s work therefore, the academy will also attach significant value to the trainee’s insight and recommendations.
This is an invaluable tip. Sanam feels replete; she did the right thing by seeking his advice. Also, he was proving to be good company.
With the books he borrowed in his hand, Aamir is on his way out of the library. Glances sideways, at the table where Sanam had been sitting with the course director when he entered this place.
Finds her still there. Lost in her Dheeraj sir.
Aamir walks out.
13
It has now been over a month and the awe and excitement of being at the academy, of making it to the threshold of power, has mostly subsided for the OTs. Cliques have formed according to common interests, geographical and caste affiliations or personal attraction, plain and simple.
Kuldeep, an OT from Haryana and Sanam are a trio. Neeti, her roommate, prefers the company of a Gujarati gang. Although she is part of a group, Sanam moves between groups fluidly, at ease and chattering with all. This is how she likes to be, unrestrained. Though, increasingly, there is someone who tries keeping her on a leash, away from everyone else. It is Dheeraj sir! He demands, and gets, most of her free time.
As for Aamir, almost every girl in the batch considers herself a part of his coterie. He is very easy going and does not bother to influence or pressurize anyone. He is happy hanging out with the Assamese fellow, Saikia; and also his gay roommate, Badal, from Bengal. Then there is Ramya—how fulfilling is the time they spend together, reciting and discussing poetry!
Sanam is tracking this budding poetic relationship. Little does she know that a shared love for Urdu poetry is the binding glue in this relationship. Even the mere sight of that scrawny girl irritates her. She can’t put a finger on the reason though. Perhaps, it is her cheesiness—posting couplets on his timeline! Yes, Sanam keeps checking his FB and Insta. No, she isn’t stalking—just tracking—she argues. He’s a batchmate, so it is normal to have a healthy interest in him, she says to herself, justifying her act.
Now, Dheeraj sir would never do something so lame . . . exchange poetry online! Dheeraj sir . . . that was another thing that was fast turning into a grey zone. Their association, or was it a relationship now, was heading in a direction that she seemed hazy . . . even murky at times.
‘Call me Dheeraj, when the others aren’t around.’
She almost spills the kale juice she was sipping when he says that. Hell, what was this leading to? Okay, she was the one who lit the fire . . . connected, but no, she does not want to drown in the quicksand of a torrid affair, that too with a faculty member . . . no way! In fact, the more time she spends with Dheeraj sir, the more she realizes that he isn’t right for her. He is somewhat like Nitin—perfect on the outside, yet not quite what he makes himself out to be . . . and one knows this only when one gets to know him better. Sanam refuses to dwell on this track any more and switches her mind to economics. There are concepts she needs to revise and clarify before the next class.
Just then Neeti messages her. She wants her to come down to the hall for dance practice. Sanam immediately stows economics away in the drawer and waltzes down to the venue. Cultural Day is around the corner and the batch is practising their items. She had initially signed up for a group dance, because an individual performance and all the practice it would need, she just didn’t have the time for it. But during the audition, her moves, the grace in them catch the attention of more than one batchmate. Even Aamir. Everyone’s after her to do a solo performance. She agrees then and that’s what this practice is for.
Anita, Rajbir, Rohit, Neeti, Palak, Kuldeep, Badal . . . the OTs crisscrossed the hall, left to right and right to left, all supremely busy with some activity or the other. Some carried stuff, Rohit was adjusting the sound system and asked Rajbir to walk up to the end of the hall and check audio clarity. Two heads were bent over a chart, Kuldeep was running around with a list of the sequences. Some girls were going around, handing out the costumes—these had been ordered online and only just got delivered. Others hung around the stage where Shivam sat strumming a guitar. Sanam stands by the makeshift stage, enjoying his masterful finger-work on the instrument. Someone calls out; her item is next.
Sanam looks around, her eyes scanning every inch of the hall. In vain, for he isn’t around. ‘Must be with that skinny, couplet-posting senorita. Well, his loss!’ she tells herself. Then steadying her mind, she takes her position. The orchestra knows what to play for her. She is doing a mix of Spanish and Indian—adding Flamenco to Bharatanatyam.
And she begins. Unravelling the joys of the seasons as she moves . . . on one knee, her palms together and held aloft, she basks in the first ray of sunshine. Tapping her toes, she hops through valleys turning verdant with the coming of spring . . . goes splish-splash through a rivulet next. And ends up mourning the loss of leaves in autumn. Her expressions changing with each step, in tune with the season. Writhing in pain as harsh winter sets in, melancholia writ large on her face. Clapping of hands heralds spring again! Her moves and her feelings so intimately personal and yet something to be universally shared.
‘I could have watched you all day!’ Kuldeep tells her after her performance.
‘Your energy . . . your presence is amazing!’ says Shivam, who has accompanied her on the guitar for the Flamenco phase of her performance.
Her rhythm, her timing . . . the beauty of it all . . . she is inundated with compliments. Sanam usually revels in the warmth of such adulation. Usually. But not today. Why is today different then?
Aamir! That self-obsessed Kashmiri hero has not even bothered to come. He is fully aware that there’s a practice session going on . . . yet . . .
And this bothers her no end. Why? She has not figured that out.
Disappointed, Sanam returns to her economics. ‘Economic theories are enduring. Not Kashmiri playboys,’ she tells herself and the walls in her room. And feeling slightly better now that it is off her chest, gets going with Keynesian concepts again.
Sanam is the toast of the evening in the lounge and the Mess. The guys are still raving about her seductive moves . . . the girls only politely nodding, seething inside and green at the gills.
Aamir is lounging in his favourite corner, his fan club buzzing around him. At least that bony senorita isn’t there! She must be in a different course or department. Thank heavens! She would have monopolized him completely had she been here.
Aamir sees the play of emotions on her face. She is so transparent! Her feelings are all out there for him to see now. Just as they had been when she had danced. Yes, he had watched her dance. He had come in at the last minute and lingered in the shadows, by the rear entrance, reluctant to join he
r swooning fan club in the front rows.
Anita tugs at his sleeve just then, drawing Aamir back into the conversation. He goes back to discussing that rapper . . . the one who had been wowing the charts lately.
‘No PT tomorrow!’ Kuldeep whoops with joy as he announces this.
‘We know that . . . what’s new?’
That was Neeti. They were at the same table in the Mess hall.
‘Arrey, it feels so good to say this . . . that I just want to shout it out to the world. No PT! NO PT!’
This strikes a chord with almost all the OTs.
‘But we’ve got horse-riding na . . .’ Neeti laments.
‘That should be fun,’ butts in Sanam.
‘Have you ridden before?’
Sanam does a double take. Aamir! He is at their table that night, sitting beside Anita and had bounced this to her out of the blue.
‘No,’ she replies. ‘I never have, but there’s always a first time.’
‘So clichéd,’ comments Anita, condescendingly. She is Aamir’s friend.
Before Sanam can retort, Aamir cuts in, ‘Clichéd, maybe, but it holds. There is always a first time.’
This is even more shocking. That Kashmiri taking her side!
Sanam finishes the rest of her dinner in silence letting Kuldeep, Neeti, Rohit and the others dominate the conversation at their table for a change.
* * *
The next day dawns the same as the previous day. Only the OTs at the academy find it different. Vastly different.
No need to trudge down for any killing PT session! That is the first thought that most of them have when their morning alarm rings that day. And what an uplifting thought it is!
To the polo grounds they go that day, but only for horse riding. Clad in spanking new riding breeches, shiny boots and swish helmets, the OTs march out, looking smart, feeling happy and upbeat. For many, this will be their first ride.
Sanam is especially excited. She always wanted to learn to ride a horse, ever since she read the story of Black Beauty in her second or third standard at school. But somehow, she had never gotten around to actually doing it. All that is about to change now.
‘Gather around in a circle, officers!’ booms the riding instructor.
It felt great to be called ‘officers’ and not ‘trainees’. And chests puff up at this unexpected honour.
A series of instructions follow: How to mount. How to dismount. How to hold the reins. The right way to sit. What to do and what not to do.
Sanam tries hard to concentrate but the horses are distracting her. Lined up in front of them, all groomed and ready, they seem to beckon her.
‘Are you all in riding boots?’ checks the instructor. ‘And no loose clothing?’
Everybody nods. They have been told in advance that it is compulsory for them to be in proper riding gear.
‘Why not sports shoes?’ an inquisitive OT asks.
He gets booed. A lot of time has already been wasted with the instructional jibber-jabber and no one wanted further delay with inane questions. Everyone is keen to hoist themselves on to the horses and ride off into the sunset.
‘Trainers could get stuck in the stirrup if there is a fall,’ explains the riding instructor, though he could see the other OTs getting increasingly impatient. ‘We all want to stay on the horse. But if . . .’ he continues patiently, ‘if you should unexpectedly fall, you don’t want to get dragged by the horse with your shoelace snagged in the stirrup.’
That sounds ominous. Some get jittery, some titter nervously.
‘Well, let’s get on with it,’ signs off the instructor and asks them to follow him towards the glossy-maned beauties.
Chestnut, chocolate brown, black . . . it is a riot of horse colour.
Some have been on horses before and confidently choose their beast. Others follow, more hesitant. The instructor signals to his two assistants to help the OTs mount properly.
Sanam tries to swing up on her own, but it isn’t as easy as it looked in the movies. An assistant runs up to help her.
‘Left leg up first.’
She places her left foot in the stirrup.
‘Now, hoist yourself to get the right one across the saddle.’
That done, the assistant makes sure she has grabbed the reins the right way, before moving on to the next OT.
Sanam looks around. It’s truly splendid to view the world from this height. Her glance falls on Aamir. He is helping Anita and Badal get on to their respective steeds.
With many oohs and aahs, the batch finally got on horseback.
‘We’ll start with a nice, quiet amble around the grounds,’ the instructor announces. And off they go, sedately . . . clip-clop, clip-clop . . .
Sanam is on a high as they trot through the grounds. In her form-fitting jodhpurs, she looks and feels every bit a pro equestrian.
Half-way into their first round, Badal tugs at the rein a bit too hard and his horse comes to an abrupt halt. The horses behind have to brake suddenly too to avoid bumping into the ones in front. Some OTs do fine. Some horses though jerk their OTs forward when they halt, sending them squealing in alarm. Barely few inches they lurched, but the scare was big for new riders.
‘Not too tight . . . not too loose.’
Sanam hears Aamir shout out to Badal. They are way ahead of her, but his voice carries in the morning mists, annoying her. Why must this Kashmiri butt in everywhere? Isn’t the instructor there for precisely this job?
Nodding her helmeted head in disgust, she rides on. The crisp morning air and her love for the beast soon buoy up her mood again and she urges her horse into a trot.
The initial rounds done, many OTs dismount, but an adventurous few stick on, opting for another round past the hostels and all the way up to the academy gates. Sanam is one of them.
She rides up the cemented road, getting a rush seeing the hostel blocks whisk past her. As she reaches the academy gates and tries to turn in, the beast suddenly begins to nibble at a tree within reach and veers a little to his left.
In vain does Sanam try to coax the animal back to the track. The other horses have moved on by then and are rapidly disappearing from view on the winding path.
Not knowing what to do, Sanam loosens the reins a little. Then some more. And then yelling at the animal, nudges it with her heel to get moving.
And it does!
By breaking into a gallop all of a sudden.
She jumps and almost loses her balance. Now completely terrified, she cries out, holding on to the reins for dear life.
The horse, now a master of his own destiny, goes sideways, off the cemented path and into the gardens. Sanam wonders whether she should jump off. But the ground seems too far down and the horse is going at quite a rapid pace! She holds on. But the horse veers again and she finds herself slipping off the saddle, one foot sliding out of the stirrup. Any second now, she will be hitting the ground.
Her body half-thrown to one side, she hears, not sees another horse charge in within breathing distance. And the rider leans across to twist her horse’s ear. Shouting out to her as he does, ‘Don’t let go!’
She has no intention of letting go, but it’s getting harder by the minute to stay upright.
‘Hold on to the reins . . . dammit!’ he yells again.
With one leg swinging free of the stirrup and her body fast slipping to that side, Sanam doesn’t know how she is to hold on to anything. Till someone presses onto her hands that still grip the reins somewhat and pulls it back hard. The beast slows down, almost knocking her off. His arm as it grips the reins in front of the saddle-curve breaks her fall.
‘Sit up!’
Aamir! It had to be him! She hadn’t recognized his voice until now, and it jerks her up like nothing would. She sits up. And rides on. Glaring at him as he rides alongside, still holding onto her reins.
‘Sanam!’ he shouts in exasperation as she tries to yank the reins back from him.
She freezes mid-attempt. Almos
t letting go of the reins. Thankfully, her horse stops too. But throws her off-balance again. Aamir is off his horse and by her side in a trice, holding her as she dismounts in a daze. When her feet touch the ground, she feels like crying, but controls herself. Not before him!
He is now holding on to both the horses. Petting hers. Talking to it. Cooing into its ear, it seems.
The bastard! Not one word has he said to her in sympathy. No checking to see if she was okay; consoling the stupid horse instead. This beast that had scared her shitless.
Dusting her jodhpurs, she begins to walk away.
He leaps forward and yanks her back, ‘Are you mad?’
Her blood is boiling by now, she wrenches her arm away and gives him a murderous look. Aamir ignores her blazing eyes and goes on, ‘Wasn’t that enough?’ he snaps angrily. ‘You want that horse to kick your ass too, huh?’
He’s right. The riding instructor had warned the OTs to avoid walking behind the horse, not unless they fancied a kick. Still. How dare he be so rude! And this wasn’t the end, he looks absolutely volcanic right then.
‘Maybe, you should’ve got that kick,’ he tells her. ‘Would have knocked some sense into you.’
This is enough to send her charging after him. ‘Now you’ll decide I got sense or not,’ she hits back. ‘You, Rank Two!’
He lets that remark pass. There were other fights he had with her. ‘Why . . . why do you need to act macho all the time?’ he throws at her instead.
Where is this coming from? Sanam wonders.
‘When you don’t know how to ride, why do you try to race?’ he goes on. ‘Is this a motor car . . . haan?’
She stays numb.
‘It’s a beast. You got to have tuning with it. Only then can you ride.’
Sanam has found her tongue by now.
‘Why are you lecturing me about all this?’ she throws back.
‘Because you didn’t listen when the instructor did.’
‘So, you think you’re very smart . . .’
‘It’s not about being smart,’ he replies, sounding a lot calmer now, ‘but being safe.’