The Heat and Dust Project

by Saurav Jha

  But this time we’ll be staying where the Israelis do – and hopefully we can get the sort of bargains they manage. I’d called Hotel Namaste India yesterday and booked a room.

  While I am studying the map of the area in Lonely Planet to figure out the location of the hotel, D has hailed a cycle rickshaw. Apparently the guy – wearing a jaunty cap and matching jacket – knows where Namaste India is, though he says, ‘Why do you want to go there? I will take you to a much better hotel. For decent people like you. I can tell.’

  ‘No need, no need,’ I tell him, annoyed. But D is already perched on the red seat.

  ‘We need to see Hotel Namaste India only,’ she explains. ‘Take us there.’

  ‘Why?’ asks the man, mystified.

  I am now sitting next to D, feeling extremely foolish as any grown man in a cycle rickshaw might. Apologetic too. ‘Shooting purpose,’ she tells him, flashing him a charming smile. ‘Doordarshan. Budgets are very small.’

  ‘Oh,’ says the man. ‘But Doordarshan programmes show good values.’ He starts pedalling fast. But then, of course, in Paharganj, even if one pedals fast, one is not going anywhere. There are hundreds of people, cars, autos, other rickshaws and cows clogging the road. Later we see, 20 feet down the road, past shops bursting with bags and clothes and semi-precious stones, a bullock cart hemmed on either side by a black Honda City, going in opposite directions. Both the black Honda Cities are driven by young sardars in turquoise turbans. Deeper, far deeper into Paharganj, there is a park. And beyond the park, the backpackers are sighted. Sleepily they emerge out of tiny lanes that wriggle out like arteries from the main road, and rubbing their eyes and shaking their afros, they enter cafes with dingy fronts.

  ‘Look, look.’ D pokes me with her elbow. ‘That’s a German Bakery right there! My Jaisalmer grief is finally over. Can we come and have breakfast here?’

  There are shops selling kaftans and ponchos and beaded bags – and one or two selling books. I realize I am going to have a tough time with the budget here. Finally, the rickshaw-wallah says. ‘We’re here.’

  ‘Where is Namaste India?’ D asks.

  ‘In that gali.’ He points to a tiny lane on the right that is barely even visible. ‘Go past the urinal, the shops, the cyber cafe and you’ll find it. Nice old building. That much is true. Of course, nowadays nobody likes these buildings. When you said shooting, I immediately understood. Otherwise, what would decent Indian youths from khatay-pitay homes like you two be doing here?’

  The man at the counter has an imposing moustache. However, the pink walls in the exact shade that Barbie might favour take away slightly from the severity of his countenance.

  ‘Hello,’ I say. ‘We have booked a room here. I called…’

  ‘Who are you?’ the man interrupts sternly. ‘We don’t give our rooms just like that.’

  I bristle at the rudeness but try to keep my voice even. ‘My name is Saurav Jha and this is my wife Devapriya. I called from Ahmedabad, and you said that rooms are available and we just need to show up. When I asked the tariffs, you said room rates begin from three hundred.’

  ‘I don’t remember any such phone call.’

  There is an impasse. I hesitate, unsure whether to turn and leave or blow my top or look up call history in my phone. ‘Wait,’ says the man finally, looking away from the computer screen he’s fixated on, his moustache quivering, ‘Did you say three p.m.? There is a possibility that you may have spoken to my brother.’

  That explains it. The man I had spoken to on the phone had a similar voice but a mild engaging manner.

  ‘Do you have I-cards?’

  ‘Yes,’ I reply patiently, producing my driver’s licence.

  ‘And Madam?’

  D scrabbles around in her purse and produces her PAN card.

  He takes a cursory look and purses his lips. ‘There is, unfortunately, only one room available. It is a large four-bedded room. For 600 rupees. A couple of German couples came in last night and took away the two regular doubles.’

  I shake my head. D groans. ‘Look, let’s just take whatever is available. I have to go to JNU immediately afterwards.’

  ‘The budget?’

  ‘We spent two whole nights on the road. On the way to and from Junagadh. I bet you can adjust!’

  Meanwhile, the man thrusts his nose in our direction again.

  ‘What is this about JNU?’

  ‘I am enrolled there,’ D explains.

  ‘You are a student at JNU? Then why on earth do you want a room here? Oh, that is very fishy.’

  ‘It’s because we are writing a book,’ she says. ‘It’s for research.’

  ‘Madam, to me it is fishy why you will come all the way from JNU here. Wrong reasons, I am sure.’

  ‘Wait,’ I say, though now I realize that we could have just picked up our bags and left. There are plenty of rooms in Paharganj. But somehow both D and I are bending over backwards trying to explain the legitimacy of our room requirements to this guy. I bet he doesn’t ask firangs all these questions. It’s because we’re Indians! ‘You have Internet, right? Why don’t you google my name? Saurav Jha. My articles on World Politics Review will show up. They have a photograph too. You can check. It’ll tell you about the book I have written and this one that we’re writing now.’

  The man narrows his eyes and peers suspiciously at the computer.

  D hisses at me. ‘Why are we allowing ourselves to be humiliated like this?’

  Now I get angry. ‘You said we should take that expensive room just to hurry matters up! Instead of traipsing out again. It’s all so that you can take a quick bath and go to the campus.’

  ‘Fine,’ she sniffs.

  ‘This does seem bona fide,’ the man says unhappily. ‘But we have to be careful. There are problems of all kinds in this area. Do you have any document that says she is your wife?’

  ‘We’re not carrying our marriage registration certificate around for crying out loud!’

  ‘Wait,’ D says. ‘My passport. It gives Saurav Jha as spouse.’

  Both the man and I look at her. ‘But it’s not on me. I’ve stowed it safely with a friend. I shall give it to you in the evening.’

  ‘For sure?’

  ‘Yes, absolutely.’

  ‘Fine. Please fill your details in the register.’

  While I write, D wanders over to the bookshelves. After I finish, the owner begins to scribble his notes in the register. Two Israeli girls in hippie gear – bright flannel ponchos and harem pants – drift down the stairs behind us and go out through the main doorway. A lackey appears from somewhere and tells the man urgently, ‘Sir, bahut der se darwaza nahin khol rahin hain. Aaiyegaa?’

  The man jumps up. In a trice he’s out of the counter area. With stiff military carriage, he marches up the stairs. Midway, he looks back and asks us to follow him. The lackey twinkles at us genially. Apparently, our room has been cleaned and is ready for occupation.

  The corridor upstairs is gloomy but it has just been swept. The lackey unlocks our room and switches on the lights. The first thing that arrests me is the use of arches. It’s a fine touch, and the room is large and satisfying in a nostalgic sort of way. The walls are bubble-gum pink, the floor is traditional terrazzo in mossy green and the four separate single four-poster beds are covered with starched white sheets. D has already located the bathroom. The man disappears to add weight to his boss’s opinions a couple of rooms away. He leaves our door open.

  I keep the bags on chairs and with my thigh begin to push one of the beds towards another. Suddenly, rising well above the scraping sound this generates, a dull screech of wood against the floor, there is a loud banging on a door. The owner is heard shouting, ‘Madam, madam, please open the door.’ Banging. ‘Madam, can you hear me?’ More banging. ‘Hello, hello, please, can you open the door?’ Still more banging. Th
is goes on for ten minutes. D appears. She immediately collects the pillows from the other two beds and lines them up on ours. The plenitude of extra pillows! She says she’s feeling blessed. ‘Hmph,’ I snort. ‘Three hundred rupees extra for your pillows and blessedness.’

  The banging comes in a last flourish of rat-tat-rat-tat-rat-a-tat-rat-tat. ‘Madam. One final time. If you don’t open the door, I will have to call the police.’

  There is a pregnant pause.

  ‘Maybe someone’s OD’d inside,’ D tells me.

  There is a click.

  ‘Yez?’ a languid female voice is heard, her accent uncertain. ‘Can we ’elp you?’ There is another voice, this one, clearly French.

  ‘Madams,’ the owner says. ‘I was knocking so hard. You did not hear?’

  ‘No, we were zleeping,’ one of them offers. The r is rolled perfectly.

  ‘Wiz earmuffs. Eet eez so cold.’

  ‘Your friends left a while ago. They told us to check on you. That they had also tried to wake you up and failed.’

  ‘What friendz?’ one of the girls asks.

  ‘We have no friendz. You are making miztake. We must sleep now. Merci.’

  We hear the door shut.

  ‘What friendz?’ the owner mimics. ‘Arre wahi doh Angrez ladke. Ek saath hi toh aaye thay? Hum kya jaane friends ya enemies? Humlog ko bataaya ki nahi bataaya, ki ladkiyan behosh bhi ho sakti hain?’

  ‘Bilkul batayaa, sir-ji,’ the lackey agrees strongly.

  They pass our door and the owner pops his head in. ‘One thing. Guests are not allowed in the rooms. Got it?’

  D spends the day at JNU, getting her work done, running from counter to counter in the red-brick buildings, while I finish a pending article. We meet at Chittaranjan Park at her friend Gee’s for dinner. We collect the passport, regale the charming Chatterjees with our tall travellers’ tales, and get a photocopy of the passport on the way back. When we return to Paharganj, it is half past ten and we are exhausted. We present the photocopy to the man at the counter, but it is the brother. ‘Oh, that’s fine,’ he says through his moustache, glancing casually at the passport and pushing it away. One ID proof is enough. We have a copy of your driving licence, I think.’

  ‘Actually, your brother insisted,’ D tells him. ‘This proves we are married.’

  ‘Oh, my brother?’ The man shakes his head apologetically. ‘Don’t mind him. Also, if you like, you can take a book or two from the shelves.’

  37

  ‘Hi, Neel,’ I say. ‘Come on in.’

  It is evening. Our second day at Hotel Namaste India.

  ‘How did you manage to get past the gorgon at the counter?’ S asks, his eyes still on the laptop. The second article should have been sent off by afternoon. But he’s busy catching up on news from around the world – and it’s still not done. I am in a pretty vicious mood. Waiting for hours to check my email. The computer will be handed over to me only after the revenue-earning work has been accomplished. ‘Apparently, guests are not allowed in rooms. This hotel is worse than many hostels.’

  Neel waltzes around the room vaguely for a couple of minutes and then begins to take off the various layers that provide buffer to his Bong frame from the audacious cold outside. First the jacket. He keeps it lovingly on one of the spare beds. I can see one sweater, one woollen turtle-neck skivvy below. ‘I bet you’re wearing thermals too, Neel?’ I ask innocently. ‘Yes. Of course. Woollycot.’ He uncurls the grey muffler which was wound first around his neck and then around his head. I realize this is going to be an interesting performance and sit down on the opposite bed and nibble a cookie. After the muffler is unwound, a grey monkey cap is revealed. It goes well with the sweater. ‘You can take off the monkey cap, Neel, it’s not that cold inside.’ Below the monkey cap, he is wearing a pair of leopard print earmuffs that are being sold in Paharganj by the hundreds. He changes his mind – it’s too cold – and wears the monkey cap again. He plants himself on the bed, next to his jacket. ‘Neel,’ I say seriously, handing him a cookie, ‘it is not safe.’

  ‘What?’ he asks, loudly.

  ‘It’s not safe to walk around in this state.’

  ‘What state?’ He looks a bit shifty. ‘I had only one gulp. The others were drinking. But I was leaving to meet you guys. Okay, two gulps.’

  S bursts out laughing. ‘Not that,’ I say. ‘Your ears are under so many layers, I am scared you won’t be able to hear the honking. The traffic in Paharganj is dangerous.’

  ‘What?’ Neel asks, looking up from the box of cookies. ‘I can’t hear you.’

  ‘How did you get past the gorgon at the counter?’ S shouts.

  ‘Don’t know about dragons. The gentleman at the counter was very nice. He didn’t say anything about no visitors. Of course, I also told him I am a lawyer.’

  ‘Ah, nice, the shift must have changed,’ S said. ‘It’s the brother. The other one is very khadoos.’

  Neel Mojumdar is the sort of boy whose looks, in Bengal, would be compared to goddess Durga’s elder son, Kartik’s. He is fair, even-featured, has a thin moustache, and a genial, slightly goody-goody expression. His mum was my professor, and he was in S’s batch in college. Studied history. He used to write poetry in those days under the pseudonym ‘Red Rose’ and once or twice waylaid S in the corridors of the economics department to read him some of his latest work. He can be a delightful person to hang out with. (Mostly.)

  After the third cookie, Neel feels warm enough to take off the monkey cap and loosen the earmuff somewhat. The conversation finally progresses.

  ‘So, this girl I am in love with?’ he says.

  ‘Yes. Norkim,’ I supply, eating the last biscuit. He had told us details of his unrequited love story the last time we met. She studies with him in the same tutorial on Barakhamba Road, and does not return his longing looks.

  ‘She has finally agreed to a date.’

  ‘That’s nice, Neel. That’s progress.’

  ‘She was standing with her friend Gurmeet. So I asked them both.’

  ‘Are you sure you can call it a date?’ I ask carefully.

  ‘Sort of. Gurmeet may not come. Any ideas where I should take her?’

  ‘Wimpy’s,’ I say immediately. ‘You should have a spicy chicken fillet burger with extra cheese.’ My mouth begins to water. Sometimes we used to go to Wimpy’s from our office on Tolstoy Road.

  S finally shuts off the laptop and says, ‘Shall we go then?’

  ‘Can we go to Wimpy’s?’ I ask immediately.

  ‘No,’ he replies shortly. ‘Our room has pushed us over-budget already.’

  We’d planned to go for dinner together. Neel is not familiar with this part of Paharganj so we thought we’d show him around and point out the cheap eateries. I’ve already fallen in love with the place. (Not the hotel, though. The gorgon/kind man blow-hot/blow-cold thing has got too much. The gorgon demanded to see the passport the minute he spotted us this morning.)

  ‘Not so soon,’ Neel says. ‘Wait, I have some stuff for you guys. I just returned from home.’

  He takes out a battered box from his bag. There are sandeshes, slightly misshapen from the train journey, but delicious.

  ‘You know what happened on the train? So these three Bangladeshi gentlemen got in. I began chatting with them. We got along famously. When the TC came, I got my ticket checked. Then the gentlemen offered theirs. After studying them carefully, the TC said. “Sir, where are you going?” “Delhi,” they replied immediately. “By what train?” The men looked at me as though the TC was daft. I rolled my eyes. “Rajdhani. Obviously.” “Which Rajdhani?” the TC asked. Now the Bangladeshis were stumped. “Delhi Rajdhani?” One of them offered. The TC sighed. “There are two Rajdhanis from Calcutta to Delhi. One from Sealdah station, one from Howrah station.” “We got in from Howrah,” the men replied. “But your ticket is from
Sealdah!”’

  He waits a moment.

  ‘Then?’ I ask.

  ‘“I am a lawyer,” I said, entering the conversation.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Then what? We are an atithidevo bhava country. Seats were found for the three gentlemen on the Howrah Rajdhani after I established that the ticket should underline the bit about the station.’

  ‘Good.’

  In this manner, Neel Mojumdar keeps us entertained for the better part of an hour, and then we decide to get dinner. It takes Neel about ten minutes to gear up, and then all three of us troop out. We walk through the pissy lane rapidly and emerge onto the main road, with the dazzling shops and crowds. We sit in one of the tiny restaurants where one gets a limited thali for forty rupees. We order three thalis.

  ‘Hey,’ Neel says loudly (he’s wearing all his ear guards), ‘you guys want to come with me and see Norkim from a distance at the bus stop tomorrow?’

  ‘Much as we like to stalk unsuspecting future civil servants, I am afraid not,’ S says. And then adds, apropos of nothing, ‘We are going to Mathura tomorrow.’