by Keya Ghosh
But I tell you, there’s nothing to beat a pee. Not when you’ve been holding it in for ages, and thinking that at any moment now you’re going to let go and disgrace yourself. All that damn pressure builds up. In the head and lower down. And it gets to the point where you think that you’re going to burst. And then you pee.
Best thing in the world.
I’m grinning idiotically. I keep grinning while washing my hands. Mr Bhonsle is at the next basin. He glares at me. ‘What in this particular situation do you find so funny?’ he asks.
‘Nothing,’ I say. I’m not going to explain.
‘Youngsters of today!’ he snaps. ‘I don’t know what they take seriously. In a life-and-death situation, they are laughing.’ He turns to Harish, who has just stepped out of a stall and is also grinning.
‘I stuck two rolls of toilet paper in my pants, and I have an empty bottle to pee in,’ he says. ‘I’m prepared!’
Mr Bhonsle glares at him. ‘So you also find the situation funny, young man.’
‘What?’ says Harish.
‘We are being held hostage by a madman, who has made impossible demands that are unlikely to be met. He is threatening to kill us all one by one if they are not. You find that funny?’
‘But he’s going to let us have food and water,’ says Harish, trying to look on the bright side of things. ‘That’s kind of good.’
‘Bah!’ says Mr Bhonsle. ‘Useless! Today’s children. Useless!’
He storms out of the bathroom. The terrorist watching us indicates that we need to leave as well.
‘What’s his problem?’ asks Harish.
I know what his problem is. I’ve seen the shaking hands, the frantic look in his eye. My brother has the same problem. It comes in the form of empty bottles that he throws every morning against the wall. Mr Bhonsle is an alcoholic. And he is being put through an unexpected and thorough detox.
We walk back to the electronics section. Harish keeps chattering about what we might get to eat. I’m not listening. I’m mapping the place. Checking out exits. Places to hide. It’s training. An old habit. You never know when you might need a Plan B. I intend to have one.
Diya
We wash the children in the bathroom. Little Akku loves the water and splashes and gurgles. Manu turns the taps on and off, and runs around flushing every pot he can find.
It feels so good to wash my face and hands. Even Malini does her hair and begins to look like she’s back in control, a bit.
‘I can’t believe you did that,’ I say to her. ‘You yelled back at a terrorist!’
She shudders. ‘Don’t remind me. I don’t know what happened to me.’
‘But you got us this. Thank you.’
Malini looks around, then slides over to me and whispers in my ear, ‘I have my mobile. I was carrying two. I had one that needed to be repaired. I gave them that and slipped the second one into Akku’s diaper.’
Shit. That could be a good thing. Or a very bad thing if she gets caught.
‘What will you do with it?’
‘Call their father,’ she says.
‘Don’t,’ I say. ‘If he talks to the press, then it will be on TV.’
Her face falls. ‘I need to talk to him. I can’t let the fight we had in the morning be the last thing we said to each other.’
‘No,’ I beg. ‘You’ll just put yourself in danger. Put them in danger.’
‘I can’t carry on alone,’ she says. ‘I’m tired. I can’t. It’s been so difficult with two children. And he’s never there. I can’t carry on.’
I put my arms around her and hush her.
She lets out a strangled sob and says, ‘I’m pregnant again! I didn’t want to be but I am. I don’t know what to do.’
‘Don’t think about it. You can’t do a thing about that right now.’
‘I haven’t told my husband. I want to tell him. I need to talk to him. Please?’
‘You can’t call him,’ I say. ‘If they find the phone on you, you will be in trouble. Are you insane?!’
‘What will I do with it?’ she asks, suddenly frightened.
‘Slip it to me,’ I say. ‘I’ll hide it for you.’
She looks around to see if our guard is watching. He’s looking the other way. She slips the phone into my hand. I go into a stall. I have to leave the door partially open. Then, I type a message as fast as I can.
‘IT’S ME PAPA. I’M NOT IN COLLEGE. I’M IN THE LUXORE MALL. I WENT THERE TO SHOP. I’M ONE OF THE HOSTAGES. I’M SORRY.’
I wait for the reply. My heart is thumping hard. All of a sudden, I’m a frightened little girl again.
The phone vibrates in my hands almost immediately. ‘DO NOT TELL THEM WHO YOU ARE. I WILL GET YOU OUT OF THERE.’
I sit there a moment. He will do something. He has power. He has people. And he won’t lose me. Not with all the ambitions he has that are tied to me.
I place the phone in my bra and come out of the bathroom.
When we get back, one of the terrorists points at me. ‘You,’ he says. ‘You know about diapers and things. Go get them. And the food.’ He pushes a shopping cart towards me.
‘I’ll help.’ It’s Kabir. ‘It’ll take a lot of food and more than one cart to feed us all. I’ll help.’
The man nods. Kabir takes the cart from me, and the two of us walk out of the door.
Kabir
I know this sounds crazy stupid, but I’ve never been to a mall before today. You can say my life hasn’t been like that of a regular kid. No college. No hanging out. And definitely no malls.
My first time ever in a mall, and it’s huge. It covers God knows how many thousand square feet. We step into the food section and it looks like one portion of a well-stocked heaven. There are rows running off in every direction. I stop at one row, and there are like a hundred shelves of just potato chips. Just chips!
It’s crazy. Like some childhood fantasy come true. A huge kingdom of food in which you can wander and take what you like. The only problem is the man with the gun who is following us. But he gets a bit carried away with the food section as well. He gets himself a cart and begins pulling packets of stuff off the shelves.
Diya and I walk down the rows. I want to just walk like that for a while, beside her. Just to feel like we’re out walking on an ordinary day.
‘Let’s pretend he’s not here,’ I whisper urgently to Diya. ‘Let’s pretend this is just an ordinary day. We just walked into the store. And we met. You couldn’t reach something on the top shelf. And I helped you.’
She turns and looks at me. I think she’ll tell me I’m crazy. Then a smile comes into her eyes and she shrugs. ‘Thank you,’ she says. ‘I can never reach the top shelf.’
I grab the can without looking at what it is and toss it into the cart. ‘So, you got a lot of things to buy? Long shopping list?’
‘Mostly food. What are you looking for?’
‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘I’m a browser. Not a list-maker.’
‘Milk. Feeding bottles. Diapers,’ she says firmly.
‘Look at this,’ I say, indicating the store, ‘and all you can think of is the boring stuff? Let’s go crazy! Let’s just take everything we ever dreamed of.’
‘When I was a kid, I used to be crazy for Nutties.’
I search the shelves and tip a whole shower of packets into the cart.
‘What did you love?’ she asks.
I grin sheepishly. ‘I used to steal condensed milk.’
She pulls four cans off the shelf.
‘Here’s aam ka panna!’
‘Here! Bourbon biscuits. Tutti frutti cake.’
‘Peanut butter. Mango jam.’
We fill that cart with all the tastes of our childhood. All the food that made us happy.
‘My music teacher used to give me Nutties. I hated riyaz, and he’d make me practise more by giving me two Nutties every five minutes.’ She holds up a packet. ‘That’s twenty-five minutes of practice in there.’
‘I would fight with my brother to get condensed milk tins to lick,’ I say. ‘Then we’d take them outside and find a stick and play cricket.’
‘You like cricket,’ she says.
‘You like singing,’ I say.
We look at each other and laugh. She takes a right turn with her cart. ‘Come on, let’s go do the boring stuff,’ she says.
We pick up tea, milk, bottles of water, bread. Then she says, ‘Look! They have a gourmet section.’
That turns out to be lots of fancy stuff that I’ve never seen before. She knows her way around it. She chooses five different kinds of cheese. And these little green things called olives.
‘I don’t know which chocolate to choose,’ she says.
‘I know,’ I say, looking at the labels. ‘Just take the most expensive.’
Then, on a shelf, I see a row of small tins. The label says ‘Caviar’. I’m transfixed.
‘What is that?’ she asks.
‘Caviar,’ I say. ‘Fish eggs. They’re supposed to be very rare and expensive. Really fancy food.’
She wrinkles her nose. ‘I’m vegetarian. You like fish eggs?’
‘I’ve never eaten them,’ I say. ‘A friend of mine told me about them.’ And with that, I think of Aman.
‘What is it?’ she asks, seeing that the moment has changed.
‘Nothing,’ I say hastily. ‘Which is your favourite flavour of Maggi?’
I steer her back to talking, and the moment is gone. We go back to our little pretence. Talking just like two ordinary people meeting for the first time.
‘Where are you from, Kabir?’
‘Actually, I’m just visiting. I’m from Srinagar.’
‘What are you doing in Mumbai?’
‘Visiting a friend. He was in Kashmir, and we became good friends. This is where he used to live. You live here?’
‘Yes. Live here. Study here. I’m in college.’
‘So, what do you do besides studying? And singing?’
‘Not much else,’ she says. ‘I don’t go out much. I don’t have too many friends. You?’
‘Me neither. I mostly like being alone. It gives me space to think.’
‘Me too.’ We are both silent for a while as we search for the right kind of baby formula.
‘What do you think about?’ she asks.
‘Life. How strange it is. People. Right and wrong.’
‘Me too,’ she says. ‘I think about how cruel people are. There is nothing so bad that one man will not do it to another.’
‘Not all men are like that. I think sometimes of the sudden kindness of strangers.’ Aman. My kindest and only friend. How many kindnesses he has given me.
‘I think of being alone,’ she says. ‘I am not brave enough to be alone forever.’ Sadness drifts into her eyes.
Before I can ask a question, she quickly says, ‘Let’s go get some ice cream. I love ice cream.’
The frozen food section blows me away. The freezers are rooms you can walk into. And there is a whole room full of ice cream. An entire room! Every colour and flavour you can imagine, and dozens that you’ve never ever thought of. I walk along the shelves, calling out the flavours in astonishment. ‘Banana caramel. Butter pecan hazelnut. Cheesecake. Coffee almond. Mint chocolate chip. Peanut butter. Green tea. Green tea?!’
She laughs at my astonishment. ‘You’ve not had too much ice cream?’
‘In Kashmir there are only a few months of the year when you can.’ I say. ‘The rest of the time it’s too cold.’ As the cold breath of the freezer wafts over to me, I’m suddenly gripped with homesickness.
‘If you could be any place other than here right now, where would you choose?’ I ask her.
‘Me? The beach. Definitely the beach. Somewhere with white sand and clear blue water, where you just look down and you can see the fish. And you?’
‘In a forest in winter. The snow makes everything so quiet. You can hear every breath of yours, and you start noticing how alive you are. That the trees are beautiful. That way up in the sky there are three birds just sailing around in lazy circles enjoying the winter sun.’
She tilts her head and watches me. ‘You love Kashmir very much.’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘An emperor once said, “If there is a paradise on earth, it is here, it is here.’’’
‘I wish I could see it,’ she says.
‘Maybe one day you will.’
She shakes her head. ‘I don’t know if we are going to get out of here alive.’ Our little world of pretending is broken in that moment, and we are back being hostages with a guard watching over us.
We step out of the freezer and find ourselves facing rows and rows of fancy bottles. It is the wine section. I pick up a bottle, but the guard with us shakes his head and waves his gun in warning. I put it down.
We walk over to frozen foods to find chapattis and ready-made meals. Her sadness is back. I want so much to take it away.
‘What makes you happy?’ I ask her.
‘Singing,’ she says. ‘And you?’
‘I can’t sing. But I love old Hindi songs.’ I gently ask, ‘What makes you sad?’
‘Being away from people I love,’ she says, after a brief hesitation. ‘Losing them. Waiting and waiting to see them again.’
‘I know that feeling,’ I say. ‘I lost a brother I loved very much.’
‘Lost him?’ she asks.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I don’t want to explain.’
‘Then don’t,’ she says. ‘People don’t understand real grief. They think we are too young to know what real sadness is. Or real love.’
‘But we aren’t,’ I say. ‘Age has nothing to do with how deeply you can feel.’
‘No,’ she says.
I lost a brother. I lost two of them. Both in one day under a fine blue sky bright with sunshine. I don’t want to go on without them, but I have a promise to keep.
I wonder how to make her sadness go away. I spot a small bakery shop in one corner of the food section. ‘Look!’ I say. ‘Let’s get Manu an un-birthday cake. They’ve even got candles.’
That brings a smile to her face. The bakery has a little corner with everything you need for a party. We go all the way and add paper hats, balloons, some crayons and a drawing book.
‘Let’s take the microwave,’ she says.
I unplug the microwave from behind the counter and shove it in our cart. It would be nice to have hot food.
The diapers section is right next to the personal hygiene section. While she reads the packets and struggles to understand what size to buy, I furtively take a couple of bottles off the shelves. Deodorant. And mouthwash. I just don’t want to breathe acid on her while we talk.
I wonder whether I should take toothbrushes for everybody, just in case we are here tomorrow morning. But I think that might make them more demoralized, so I don’t.
Then I nearly blow it. We take a final round to see if we have missed anything, and I quietly take something off a shelf. Then I ask her, ‘If you could have one thing right now, any one thing, what would you ask for?’
‘Bubblegum. I love it. I’ve finished every single piece I had with me. I couldn’t find it on the shelves.’
I hand her a packet of bubblegum. She freezes. ‘How did you know that?’
Her eyes are on me. Frightened and puzzled and worried. I have to think really quickly. ‘I just picked up some for myself. Breath freshener, you see.’
Her eyes stay on me, wary. So wary.
‘You like it too?’ I say. ‘That’s great. We have one thing in common.’ To my relief, she takes the packet. Phew.
I check whether we have enough stuff, quietly kicking myself for being so obvious.
‘Haven’t you finished?’ asks the terrorist. His cart is piled high.
‘Yes,’ I say, turning to her. ‘Gotta go. I have some people just dying to see me again.’
She smiles. ‘Me too. Nice meeting you like this.’
‘Me too. I thin
k we could be friends,’ I say. ‘I don’t have too many.’
‘All right,’ she says.
I wave at her and she waves back. Then we walk back with our loot.
We’ve come back with not one cart, but three. All filled to the brim with the finest. The sight of all the food seems to fill Harish with new energy. He puts himself in charge of handing it out, plugging in the microwave with great enthusiasm and ripping open packets.
‘Did you know,’ he says, handing out the goodies, ‘any man condemned to die is allowed a final fantastic meal?’
‘I wonder what Salim chose,’ I say. ‘He was supposed to be hanged tomorrow.’
Harish isn’t listening. ‘Look! You got pizza. And olives. Caviar? I don’t know what the hell that is.’
‘It’s fish eggs,’ I say. ‘Russians love them.’
‘Damn. I’m vegetarian.’ He holds up slabs of chocolate. ‘Oh! I love you both. You got chocolate! And ice cream!’
I’ve chosen butterscotch and mango cream. Harish almost kisses me. The two terrorists watching us wander over to check what the excitement is about. They take the mango cream.
Harish heats everything in the microwave. He serves it on paper plates.
We are all starving by then with the smells that fill the room, but first we cut the un-birthday cake. Manu’s face when he sees all the balloons and party hats is a sight. There is no question of lighting the candles, so we just pretend. He blows at the candles and we clap. He is so excited, it makes all of us happy. His little brother gurgles and laughs and chases the balloon that I blow up for him. For the first time, a few smiles show on the faces of the terrorists. We cut the cake and give them some. They give us back some of the mango cream. Harish seems to forget that they are terrorists. He hands them more cake. He urges everyone to eat more. He hands out cold drinks. He behaves like the generous host at a good party. I think all of us, the terrorists included, are playing pretend while the meal lasts.
The only two who stay out of the make-believe of normality are Sharmila and Mr Bhonsle. The old lady takes the water we give her, but refuses to eat. She sits there patiently, crooning to the guard.
Mr Bhonsle takes the food, but sits there glaring at the world. I sit next to him, and he snorts at me. ‘What? You think this is a time to have parties?’ I slide out the present I’ve got him from under my shirt. I managed to grab a small bottle from the rack of wine as we went past. He stares at it, then quickly hides it behind him. I get a reluctant nod as a thank-you.