Lockdown Liaisons

by Shobhaa De

  Leaving and Other Stories

  Lockdown Liaisons

  Book 1

  Shobhaa Dé

  Leaving and Other Stories

  Lockdown Liaisons

  A NOTE FROM THE PUBLISHER

  May 2020

  Cocooned in our small little worlds yet living through the most precarious and awful times – this has got to be a first in the collective memory of the whole wide world. Untouched by the footsteps of migrant workers in the hot sun we rave and rant on social media. And as always what helps us to retain our sanity in moments like this are words. Our own words and words from loved ones but even more than that, words from gifted writers who spin stories out of universal experiences, from thoughts and ideas half-formed in our minds.

  Simon & Schuster India is happy to bring to you short stories by the inimitable Shobhaa De as she captures the fragile zeitgeist of the pandemic in her own unique way – through stories that don’t provide an escape into la la land but rather stories of love that will make you sometimes smile, sometimes frown but at all times understand the subterranean world of shifting human emotions. The author, and her stories, don’t shy away from the tremulous uncertainties of the world as we know but rather help us to confront and understand it all, just a little bit better.

  There is a feisty woman in the pages of this book who is sick of taking care of the house and her husband and baby, there is a migrant worker who has to choose between his lover and family as he gets ready to trek to his village hundreds of miles away, there is a woman torn between family and what she owes herself and there is a man who can’t deal with his wife’s denial of his sexual needs in these times of stress.

  I hope all of you enjoy reading the stories in this anthology and remember in these difficult times to be kind to yourselves, to the people you meet in the pages of this book and to those in your life and in the world outside.

  AFTER THIS, DUBAI?

  See. From the day we decided to get married, I had told my hubby, ‘No kids!’

  I liked my life, my job, my friends… I didn’t want to be stuck at home changing nappies. He agreed. Then he cheated. Usual tamasha - no protection. This happened after a wild Lokhandwala party. Saturday night, yaar. Everyone binge drinking! And everyone ends the night with sex.

  By the time we got down to it, I also got careless and said, ‘Forget it… kuch nahi hoga.’ I used to work in television - script writer types. Such stupid lines are common on the sets - I used to hear them all the time, and wonder, if these TV stars are bonking non-stop, how come they don’t get pregnant? And here I was having a bloody baby, in the middle of Season 3.

  I told Anirudh, ‘Yaar… this is not fair.’ But he made all those silly faces men make when they have zero arguments left… and you know the rest.

  Now… it’s day 39 of the fucking lockdown. My baby is one year old and teething. I have just been told I no longer have a job. The television business has been so badly screwed… let’s not go there. Anirudh is a journo. His bosses called and told him to take three months off - after that, the management will take a call. Which is another way of saying

  ‘You are fired!’

  Life sucks. But at the moment, I am very angry. With Anirudh. Had he not been selfish and used a condom that night, we would not have had Natasha to worry about during this fucking pandemic. We would have managed, somehow. Such a fucking asshole! We hardly exchange a word anymore. I see him on that bloody couch all day, playing some idiotic game or the other. Nobody calls. Well… nobody phones me, either! Even requests for Insta Live have dried up - people know nothing is going on as far as new projects go.

  I have so many sexy ideas for a new series… but where’s the fucking money to make anything? All those telly stars who would WhatsApp 24x7, with meaningless stuff like, ‘Hey Sweetie… lovely DP! Keep me in mind if you’re working on something.’ And then those emojis! Ufffff... But I miss even that rubbish. Now it’s making sure Natasha doesn’t stick her baby fingers into sockets. Since we had a no-baby deal - or so I thought - our flat was not baby proofed. Now, who’ll come to our building during this madarchod lockdown?

  Anirudh won’t get off his fat butt (yes, it’s fat, and getting fatter) to even stick tape on the ground level sockets. Maybe he wants the baby to get electrocuted? No, that’s mean. He loves Natasha… sort of. Maybe he is hoping I will get electrocuted. Naah… then who will cook and clean for this jobless oaf? I told him yesterday, ‘Why don’t you write a daily blog, like some of your journo friends? See how active they are?’

  He glared at me and yelled, ‘And why don’t you shut the fuck up?’ He has not written a word all these days - I find that annoying. Anirudh is a lousy husband, but a good writer. He was one of the five ‘stars’ in the office. People admired him for his clean copy and good writing style. How can he not want to write? He was born to write!

  For me, it’s different… I am not talented or anything. Just efficient and hardworking and ambitious. But Anirudh is an original! I said under my breath, ‘Writers write even during lockdown.’ He heard me and threw his baseball cap on the floor to show his disgust. It’s true! I see so many interesting poems and posts from his office people - they are not sitting idle. They have wives and husbands and parents and kids. Everyone is fucking coping! But not in our home!

  I actually heard him say to his buddy who also lost his job, ‘Husbands are not getting their due - as if we have created this bloody virus!’ I shouted loud enough for Samir to hear, ‘Neither are wives, okay? So shut the fuck up!’

  Natasha started howling and before she threw up her porridge, I ran to pick her up. Naturally, I forgot about the daal I had left on the gas… how many things could I handle?

  ‘It’s fucking burning…’ Anirudh hollered. But did not enter the kitchen to turn off the gas. Let the swine eat burnt daal for lunch and dinner. Or cook something for himself. I went into the bedroom with Natasha and shut the door.

  The bills were piling up. We had taken a hefty loan to buy this apartment. It was my idea, so I cannot blame Anirudh. I had said at the time, ‘We cannot live in some rented flat… it is important to project the right image. Especially in my business. You journalists can get away with your fatela lifestyle and those outdated jholas. But television works differently. I need a good car and a good home to show people we are doing well.’

  Our BMW loan was also bothering me a lot. With no income coming in, we were going to DIE paying off these fucking loans. Anirudh was going to blame me, for sure. He used to say, ‘I don’t need shoshaa - my writing speaks for me… but in your superficial world…’ And I would stop him, ‘Aeeeeyyyyy… shut up about my world, okay? I earn twice as much as you do.’

  He was bound to throw that at me. This fucking lockdown! I would have to borrow money from my Dubai Jijju - but even he was tight for funds - Dubai was as bad as us during this Corona-thing. And he’s in the construction business! My sister was saying they have cancelled all their vacation plans this year. Poor thing! She used to be so jealous of me, saying, ‘My, my… what a glam life you lead! Meeting all these singers and stars.’

  I let her think that - though, in reality, I hardly met any star - I was mostly stuck inside the office. She also thought I was well off by Mumbai standards. Now… to ask her husband for a loan would make me look so small.

  Anirudh had no money. I had married him for his intellect. He had a fan following in media. That’s how we had met. He had come to my office to do a story on my boss lady. I was asked to sit in for a while since a photo shoot of a pitch was a part of his story. Our eyes met - and that was it. Two nights later, we had fucked after a drunken bar crawl around Andheri. We started dating and God knows why, we stupidly decided to get married.

  Our shaad
i was quite a media event - I invited a few telly stars and entertainers - and naturally, we made it to several websites because of that. One old timer from Bollywood, who was in her early sixties, had also attended, because she and I were salon friends, and we shared an eyebrow threader. I was happy to see her - she had come dressed like a bride herself! You know, jhumkas, maang tikka and all that.

  Sweet, I thought. But Anirudh had laughed and mocked her. His conceit was attractive in the beginning… but after a while, I saw through all his maha lagaao tactics. He was just a small town guy, with nice hair and a way with words. I was a pucca Mumbaiwalli - born and brought up here. You know, those smart types - we can do well in any city of the world once we make it in Mumbai.

  But it was only when the lockdown happened and we were stuck with the baby at home, that all these things started to bother me. I really couldn’t see us growing old together - no way. This lazy man with his fat bum and unhygienic habits that would only get worse over time. I was particular about cleanliness - and the lockdown made me doubly aware of how important that is. If I told him to wash his hands before touching the plates, he would snap, ‘Back off, cow!’

  Cow? Me? I did Pilates and hot yoga - my body, even after Natasha, was toned and bloody fucking good! People at work couldn’t believe I had a one year old! So many guys hit on me when we went clubbing. Forget all that. What bothered me was his sloppiness in the loo and the way he threw his stuff around. Seeing his underwear on the sofa drove me insane. He said, ‘It’s my underwear… I am free to throw it anywhere and keep it handy.’

  Handy? Then he said, ‘Thank God I don’t suffer from OCD - like you.’ So now, my good habits had become a disorder?

  I am not sure how long I’ll be able to keep my cool if the lockdown doesn’t lift soon. I have started sending out resumes, even though nobody is hiring. I am also thinking of a Plan B. Maybe, I can start my own consultancy? Or represent telly talent?

  I’ll talk to Jijju. Once Dubai opens up fully, there will be opportunities there as well. I just want to get away from this bum. But first, I need to talk to Jijju. I may be wrong, but I think he has always had the hots for me - he had touched me inappropriately during his wedding, but I had put it down to all those shots he had downed. I think my competitive sister senses something, but she’ll never admit it. But Jijju, I know for sure, will welcome my move to Dubai… it’s a chance worth taking. Besides… there is really nothing left for me here. The virus has killed the woman I once was.

  LEAVING

  I didn’t want to leave Suman behind, when all the others from my village decided to walk home. Our lives were ‘sold’ to construction sites and the chutiya contractors who bought us. We were no better than ghulams. We worked mostly in Mumbai, but I had also worked on sites in and around Pune. When this Chinawali bimaari hit us, I was not bothered. I laughed when other men on the site started talking about running away from Mumbai and going back to the gaon. Were they crazy? Gaon? Who would feed us? We hadn’t got our wages this month, and the chutiya was saying he would be delaying the payment because of some bank lafda. I was willing to stay back and take a chance with this Corona-Varona.

  When everybody else on the site had been bitten by mosquitoes and got dengue, nothing had happened to me. I was a majbut, strong fellow. But my wife called me home. She kept crying, and saying the children were wailing because they thought their father was going to die in Mumbai. I was certainly not going to die. But… I didn’t want to leave Suman alone and go back to Bihar. Who would look after my woman if I left? I felt sorry for Suman. She was a good person… and we had developed feelings for each other after a certain incident.

  Suman worked on the same sites as I did, because our labour contractor was common. We both hated his guts. Everyone hated the Seth. When he drove to the site in his shiny car, all of those of us who had suffered his anger and been kicked, slapped and punished by him, wanted to attack him… teach him a lesson, once and for all. Saala haraami number one - if we all left his naukri, who would build his towers? He and his kuttas were heartless… but that was life in a sheher. He needed us and we needed his wages. Sometimes, I was tempted to bludgeon him to death with those heavy marble tiles we fitted into the bathrooms of the saablog who bought these glittering flats for crores and crores.

  Suman and I were not the only ones he abused. This particular contractor had a nasty reputation of abusing everybody - he got away with it because he was the pet dog of a neta - the local MLA. Funnily enough, it was his abuses that had made our relationship grow - Suman and mine. It was a day, which I will never forget - I think Suman was having her monthly woman trouble, and had taken five minutes off to rest on the side of the cement sacks. The women carried the sacks in a single row, to the men who then transported them to the floor that was under construction.

  It was a particularly hot day, and Suman may have fainted briefly. Whatever it was, I saw Mehtaji walk up to her as she sat on the rough ground, with her head resting on her knees. Her eyes were closed, and I could see perspiration pouring down her back. He stared at her for a minute and then nudged her with the toe of his polished shoes. When she did not respond, he roughly grabbed her by the hair and raised her face, ‘Aurat! What are you doing sleeping on my time? Do I pay you to come here and fall asleep? What were you upto last night that you are so tired at work? How many men did you fuck, huh?’

  Something happened to me when I heard those words, and I rushed like a mad bull towards both of them… I was not thinking! The other men did nothing . They stopped working and silently watched the tamasha. Some of them laughed. Some women also laughed. But I was not laughing - I wanted to kill that man on the spot. That was my reputation in the village as well, when I was much younger. People said I was too hot headed. I would argue and get into fights with the village elders and boys much bigger in size than myself. By the time I was twenty, I looked like an ox. My neck was strong and my shoulders broader than the akhada pehlwans’. People kept out of my way and left me alone.

  I ran away from that lousy life after talking to a man who was visiting his in-laws and worked in Mumbai on construction sites - like the one I work on now. Thanks to him, I soon found somewhere to live - in a place called Dharavi. I didn’t care that it was over crowded, cramped and filthy - I was in Mumbai! That’s all that mattered. Yes, I had left my young wife and two sons behind. I would send them money when I made it. Till then, my parents, uncles and cousins would take care of them.

  I was lucky, given my build, I was picked up by contractors phataphat and soon learned how to get ahead on these sites, where we were paid daily wages - just enough to eat two meals and pay the rent of the kholi. I got a little extra for working harder and for longer hours. I had built a good, solid reputation for myself. Nobody dared to act funny with me. Everyone knew about my hot temper and kept their distance. Even the Sethlog showed more respect and generally avoided gaalis when they talked to me. But yes, my charging at Mehtaji came as a shock even to them. Nobody attacked powerful, ameer men who fed them. It was said it brought bad luck to hit someone whose salt you ate. But I could not just stand there like an impotent man… or a hijra… while a woman was being ill-treated.

  Mehtaji was too taken aback to react - but everyone saw his expression! His face had turned white and he was shit scared as my fist came close to his face. Nobody moved. I bellowed, ‘Leave the woman alone… stop… or I’ll kill you.’ He froze. And yelled for his security guards. Fortunately, one of them was from Dharavi and lived one lane away from my place. He swiftly intervened and calmed Mehtaji down. I walked away… slowly… towards the gate… without looking back. Suman struggled to her feet and followed me out, walking swiftly till she caught up with me.

  We spoke to each other for the very first time, standing under a large peepul tree. We have been together since that day. Now the time had come to join the others from my village, who had decided to walk home to escape the bimaari. Dharavi was sealed off, and there was a sense of dread, as if d
eath was waiting to enter each gully and take us one by one. There was no construction work. Our money had run out. The police were not allowing us to leave those small rooms, even to use the toilet more than once a day (we had to pay Rs 2 for that!) If we stayed here, we would die of corona. If we walked home, we would die of starvation or heat stroke. Most preferred to take the chance of walking home. I too was ready… but how could I leave Suman behind? If I left for my village now, I was sure I would never come back. I had seen life in Mumbai. It was cruel and without the slightest remorse. Being poor was not an option here. And the virus was at my doorstep now. But how could I leave Suman behind? What would happen to her without my protection? She was a young widow. I had seen others eyeing her. Including the bada-bada Sethlog in their big-big cars. She would be consumed by any one of them, in one big gulp. They stayed away from her because of me. I was not a leader or anything, but even the unionwallas were scared of my temper and didn’t do any masti - no tricks - for they knew I would not hesitate to break their jaws.

  I looked around my kholi. It contained very little. I had no possessions as such. Just a small cloth bag with two changes of clothes. And I had a cell phone - a good one. New. Not second hand. Suman’s cell phone was very old. We could not speak on it properly. If I left her behind, we would never hear each other’s voices again. I could give her my phone, but then what would I do on that long walk back to my village if there was trouble? I had heard from others and seen it for myself on television, that workers on the road were being beaten up and sent back. Some of them had died in road accidents - just like that. ‘Maut’ was a mysterious visitor - no advance warning. No invitation.

  I had also seen what happened to workers who were walking along railway tracks to avoid the police beating them on highways. How were they to know that some trains were allowed and some were cancelled? They slept on the tracks with trust in God and hope in their hearts. But I was not stupid and ignorant like them. I was going to stick to the highways and walk with a group from my village. Some people from Dharavi who had more money were escaping in trucks and lorries, auto rickshaws and Ola cabs. Whatever little money I still had, I wanted Suman to have it.