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Back Seat A Mumbai Tale Aditya Kripalani
Cover Photographs, Ruchi Mehta & Aditya Kripalani Front Cover Design: Debashree Karnik & Tess Alexander Back Cover design: Tess Alexander Printers: Archana Printing & Packaging: Mumbai Typeset: Mr. Chandru Jhangiani
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Acknowledgements I
n four years out of film school what I’ve learnt is that it’s not just the art but the person behind who needs to be really strong! Without the artist pushing it, the art may be lying by the wayside. And without all these people behind me, I’d probably be lying by the wayside myself. In that list at the top is my wife Sweta, who’s been the one central pillar of support throughout, without whom I wouldn’t be who I am, let alone this book being what it is. Next in line with regards to Back Seat are the friends who read it and felt for it strongly; Nadi, Amruta, Ruchi. In the same vein my Masi, Gulshan Gidwani who is also my Editor and has been honest enough to edit it staying aware that each word remains a part of my vision. In making me who I am, a strong role has been played by the people who taught me the various things I needed to get Back Seat out someday—my teachers:Ashwini Mallik, Anjum Rajaballi and Shihan Pervez Mistry to name the most prominent. Without the psychological stability and growth I began to have, thanks to Mrs. Arunachalam and Gouri Dange, my therapists, this wouldn’t have happened either. Shamita Singha, a childhood friend, Ruchi Narain, Pubali Chaudhuri and Abhijeet Deshpande for their reviews. Last but definitely not the least in the list responsible for this book ever coming out, are my parents, my grandparents, for their unconditional love and the many friends who’ve been my family. And all the books I’ve read over the years, the characters of which have enthralled me, made me feel so humble, so loved, touched, pained, happy that I someday was moved enough to want to use this medium of expression to say what I myself want to say.
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Preface O
ver the years, I’ve spent a lot of time with the streets of Bombay as my playground and not too much money to spend. And so, occasions like birthdays were spent planning the day around things like a buggy ride at Causeway, the fairy ride from the Gateway and the Chicken Tikka Roll from Bade Miyan’s, followed by a walk around town in the middle of the night when Bombay is at its best. This story was first written out from another character’s point of view, four years before the novel came into being. Then at a story work and healing workshop, the general idea of flipping around a story completely by changing the protagonist was discussed and Nikita’s story was born soon after. It has been a lovely journey getting in touch with my feminine side through Nikita and living in her world.
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1 T
he now bright orange glow of the sun as it turned paler and paler, sinking behind the horizon, was Asawari’s favourite time of the day to sit alone at the beach. The beaches of Ratnagiri, her home town, were absolutely clean and deserted. A majority of people living in this coastal town off the coast of Maharashtra were Kokanasta Brahmins and as such, didn’t eat fish. This kept the beaches relatively cleaner than beaches off the coast of the nearby Sindhudurg, where people were meat and so also fish eaters. This fact held true even for Goa, another major fishing paradise. The beaches off the coast of Goa for example, were dotted with fishing boats hauled up to the shore and at most times of the day large areas were cordoned off for swimming and others were inaccessible due to fishing nets which were lined up to catch even the smallest of catches which swam up almost to the shore. But Ratnagiri was different. Here most people didn’t fish. Asawari picked up the grains of sand in her hand. Then she squeezed and the bronzed sand slipped out of her fingers. The more she squeezed the more it fell. It was warm and felt good, when she held her hand tight around that little bit which remained perfectly enclosed in her tightly shut palm, letting the moisture and minimal oil from her palm seep into it and moisten it. “Mi aata kai karnaar? Aata college chi vel jhali!” What will I do now? It will soon be time for me to begin going to college. These were the words swimming in her young fifteen year old mind as she sat spending time with herself and her thoughts that evening. The sun having set she decided to return back home. Home was just a couple of hundred meters away. She walked back towards her house which was right off the beach. She first entered the small grove of coconut trees which lined the whole coast in a crescent shape, and then made her way into her backyard which housed eight mango trees. The trees in her backyard were alphonso mango trees. ‘Aambyancha Raja’ or the ‘King of Mangoes’ as the Alphonso was known throughout India, was the most profitable fruit to be grown in one’s backyard. Each tree yielded nothing less than 500 mangoes yearly on an average. Maybe 1000 mangoes were harvested in a good year when they didn’t have 11
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a mid year rain which spoilt the whole produce; and in a bad year, 400 mangoes. Asawari looked at her trees with pride. This was what contributed the larger share of income in her family and her father had taught her to care for these ‘annadaata’ or ‘food provider’ trees well. The ripening season was just around the corner and soon her house would be a flurry of activity as everyone would get engrossed in plucking, packaging and then selling off the mangoes. In other parts of India, in Bombay for example, DHL was actually sending mangoes from India to places as far off as the United States ‘for a few dollars more’. She walked towards her house. At the back of her house in the mini courtyard rested her favourite animal, Basanti, the cow. She’d been named after the popular character of Hema Malini in the smash hit, Sholay, released in 1975. Asawari walked past Basanti who shifted her lazy head towards her. Asawari patted her head and then ran her hand slowly over her head. Basanti’s large, pleasant, calm brown eyes stared at her with the vulnerability of a wide eyed Bengali bride. That ritual done Asawari entered the house from the back entrance. The backside of the house also housed the storage area for the mangoes during the cutting season. They used to be kept on the ground, lined up and stacked in lines of tens or twelves, forming a square like formation and then covered with the husk of the rice plant that is known for its ability to preserve heat in the packing which the mangoes needed desperately to become nice and ripe. As she saw this space she remembered the times when she was a kid and when her father, Shekhar and mother Shanta would get worried having not found her anywhere in the house and then they’d finally find her here with mango pulp dripping down her chin and smeared all over her face and clothes. She used to tip toe into this storage area when no one was looking, pick up the best three or four mangoes which were ready for the picking, then hold the apex with her thumb and the base with her fingers, tear out the top of the apex, and press every inch of the mango while slowly turning it around in her small, dimpled hands. Once the mango was fully pressed into pulp she would put it to her mouth and suck out all the sweet succulent mango pulp, from the tear at the apex, letting a lot of it drip onto her clothes and around her mouth as she was always in a hurry and afraid of being caught before she could finish the three-four she’d picked. Shekhar Jog, Asawari’s father with his handsome looks, was one of the tallest in the village, at six ft. one inches. He had light green eyes and was lean, but broad shouldered. He had a smile which absolutely made Asawari’s day when she came home from school and found him at home or whenever he came home from work and saw her there. He worked in the nearby government guest house as the manager and returned home by six O’clock every evening. He generally wore American checked shirts with many small checks on them which Asawari grew to love over time. He also used Old Spice after shave everyday and the advertisement for the product and it’s tag line ‘Mark of a Man’ remained in Asawari’s young head since she could remember. The minute she smelled the coconutty tropical fragrance
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wafting through her room, she knew he was getting ready for work. The checked shirt would be going over those broad shoulders, the thick wavy hair would be brushed and now the aftershave would have been applied to each clean shaved, smooth cheek and some splashed on the neck. Shekhar Jog also had a deep cleft on his chin which Asawari used to play with when she was an infant. It was Ganpati season in the village of Ratnagiri and Ram Buva Aathavle, the legendry Ratnagiri sculptor was a busy man. He sat in his shed behind his house which now had been done up with long mangal torans from corner to corner. Under this thatched roof sat dozens of ‘Ganpati moortis’ in various stages of completion. Some sat on the mythological mouse, some sat on a mat of gold, some had wider smiles, some had curved trunks which moved in all directions, some had large eyes, some smaller. Each Ganpati statue had a different ornate crown on his head. Some were not coloured yet and they looked even more beautiful in their grey colourless avatar than the other fully finished coloured ones. Ram kaka’s hands were full of grey clay and various colours of paint. Reds, crimsons, maroons, greens all fused to form various textures and hues on his old hands at various places. He wiped the sweat from his brow and looked at his latest creation, a Ganpati which was five feet tall and coloured in absolute gold. The curves of the trunk and the body were made to seem as if they all blended into one large oval. This statue on the whole, looked like a work of modern, slightly abstract art. Ram Kaka was pleased with himself. He’d modelled this on a small statuette of Ganpati in real gold which someone had brought him when they’d returned from Belgium. Ram Kaka had taken one look at the statuette and felt like his craft had aged. Suddenly he felt old fashioned. This season he decided he would reinvent himself, at least for a few pieces. His wrinkled smile widened as he looked the statue over, first from the front and then from the back. He then shook his head from side to side, fully satisfied by his craftsmanship. He still had a few tricks up his sleeve after all, he told himself! Right then Shekhar Jog and Asawari entered the shed from behind Ram Kaka. “Jhala ka? Have you finished it yet?” asked Shekhar. Ram Kaka chose not to say anything. Instead, with the poise of a renaissance painter, he slid from one side to the other without lifting either leg from the ground with the expert movement which even a karate master would have been proud of and then turned around to face them, in this one move not only revealing the statue itself, but also taking a bow for the work of art. “Waah kaka waah!! Kaay chhaan kaam kele aahes tumhi! It’s magnificent! Outstanding!” said Shekhar and then looked at Asawari who was standing a step behind him and marveling at this new kind of Ganpati. “Aavadle ka tula? Did you like it?” asked Shekhar. Asawari nodded her head, a broad smile spreading across her face. She hadn’t even realized it, but she’d begun to almost unnoticeably twirl her loose parkar, a garment very akin to a skirt. Their Ganpati moorti this year would be the talk of the town. The thought made her happy.
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Two days before Ganesh Chaturthi, Asawari and her mother had prepared the area where the Ganpati statue would be placed like an art set. Asawari’s mother, Shanta had made an elaborate rangoli design around the centre which was left empty for the Ganpati. The rangoli design was made in red and gold colours making it a very glamorous combination as they knew that the statue which Ram Kaka was making for them, was to be in gold. It was the age old tradition of the Jog family which Shekhar’s great grand father had begun, to never ask Ram Kaka for a specific kind of statue. They would always just rely on him and take what was given. And he never let them down, surprising them pleasantly every year. He’d told them this much, ‘This year, it’ll be all gold’. For the first time Shanta, Asawari and Shekhar were all a bit wary of what would come home in the form of a golden Ganpati. But when Shekhar and Asawari had gone to see it, they’d fallen for it at first sight! Today was the day before Ganesh Chaturthi, the day when Lord Ganesha was born. An hour before sunset, the modern looking, golden Ganpati was brought home in a handcart wheeled by Shekhar himself; his friends and relatives, the close ones who walked with him from Ram kaka’s studio right until his house. Shanta, being the only one who’d not experienced this golden splendour was surprised and instantly fell in love with the statue. “Massstta!” she said “Agdi chhaan re baba! Agdi chhaan! It’s marvelous! Absolutely lovely!” The lord was placed in his rightful place as he had been, year after year. All over the village of Ratnagiri, Ganesha statues were being placed in their rightful places amidst peals of laughter, songs and happy faces. The atmosphere was charged with joy. That evening after all the merriment had subsided a bit, Asawari’s friend, Jaai came home to spend some time with her and together they went to the beach. Through the backyard of Asawari’s house, Jaai and she went out onto the beach. The sun was a thin crescent on the horizon and the beach was bathed in a light orange hue which was fast escaping. “Chal aata Uthi Ka Bashi kheduya . . . lets play uthi ka bashi,” said Jaai. And they both began to look around for a twig long enough for them to create the setting for the game. Finding one, Jaai moved in for the setting up of the hopscotch game ground. Jaai patiently and very neatly created the whole game ground. She was this neat and meticulous even in her school books. Sometimes while dictating something in class, the teacher had to tell her to hurry up as she would concentrate too much on the curves of her letters. Many a time she would lag behind in class, as she became too slow though her books always remained the neatest. While Jaai carefully created the squares and wrote the Marathi numerals inside each box, Asawari closed her eyes and quietly listened to the rumbling of the waves, the first gurgle and then the beginning of the splash from left to right, sometimes with an intermittent sound of the surf in between, but otherwise almost always either a left to right or a right to left sound. Asawari tried to pick up the direction of the splash of the wave. She then picked out the sound of the foamy, froth like mixture
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as it moved towards an eagerly waiting beach, the golden sand awaiting its next encounter with the white liquid cloud. She remembered her first experience of a wave with her father when she was three years old. She had held her hands out to the wave when it approached her, knowing at that age that if her father was around, she was safe. The wave had however taken her completely by surprise as it toppled her over and then her father, to her absolute chagrin, simply stood there and laughed his throaty laugh. She felt betrayed for a second, but then she couldn’t help but laugh along with him herself, as she swallowed the remnants of the thick salty mixture in her throat, and blew it out through her nose, shaking her head to let her ears breathe again as the salt water trickled out of them. She could never be angry with him for more than a moment, her father, her God. When she opened her eyes the game ground was ready. Since Jaai had built the neat and clean hopscotch ground, she got the first chance to throw the stone. This one being the easiest, she landed it right in the centre of the number one box and then avoiding that box, she hopped, standing only on her right leg, one by one, onto all the other boxes, turning around and returning in the same manner back to number two from which she picked up her stone and then jumped back out of the game ground. Her first level had been completed. She continued in the same way upto 5 when she lost balance and had to pass on the stone to Asawari for her turn. Asawari went straight without any mistake onto number seven, one stop before completing the whole forward run. “Hey bagh . . . my new earrings,” said Jaai as Asawari came back to number one on one leg. Asawari came close to her, not letting the ploy distract her work and carefully looked at Jaai’s new earrings. They were indeed beautiful. A simple circle of gold with three small diamonds spaced out through out the circle. Jaai was from a family much better off than Asawari’s and she didn’t miss a single chance to show off her new buys. Asawari knew this well and had accepted her for what she was. “Sollid aahe re . . . they’re really lovely!” she said as she hopped back. Now Asawari had completed the forward run and she stood on the other side as she began her hopping journey back right from number eight to number one, while Jaai was still stuck at ‘five’ and that too in her forward run. “Tu te Saurabh Bhave la odakhtees na? That green eyed, fair, slightly motu boy from class with the cute smile?” asked Jaai. Asawari nodded as she continued her glorious run of victory. “Mala, kulfi khayla gheun gela to aaj.” He asked and I said yes, so we had two kulfis each. He’s such a cute boy and from a good family too. Bhave uncle is an advocate na? So, even Saurabh wants to become one. You know in his latest haircut what he looks like? That film ka hero . . . ‘Bekhudi’ . . . what’s his name . . . ? Kamal . . . ?” she asked. “Sadannah! Kamal, Sadannah, the one who made his debut with Kajol na,” said Asawari.
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“Yes, yes, right!” said Jaai. “Tula koni mula aavadtach nahi ka? You’re fifteen now. A young lady, as Mrs. Chinchpoklikar says, and still not one crush?! How strange!” said Jaai. Mrs. Chinchpoklikar was their Marathi language teacher. Whenever she got angry and caught someone talking in class she would suddenly stop teaching, turn around to face the commotion in the class and pointing out her finger say, ‘will you please!!’ that was it. Just ‘will you please’ as if that was enough. And she always scratched her blouse vigourously under her thinning breasts, right in the middle of the class, while speaking to the girls and boys. Everyone made fun of her for that during the break and after school. Asawari hadn’t liked any boy till now. What she could do, she thought. They were all so silly, talking about Hindi film heroes and heroines all the time. What a waste of time they were! And so Asawari said nothing. She found Jaai really silly at times; with the way she swelled with pride, like a prized monkey each time a boy asked her out for kulfi. Asawari jumped on to her last number, number ‘1’ on her backward run. She had completed the full first level of the game. Now she had to stand, her back to the game ground and throw the stone in such a way that it would land in any one of the numbered boxes. Then, that one would be hers and she would have to put her initials in it and do a full round, hopping on one leg without stepping in that one particular box. Once a box was named under either person, if the other’s stone landed in it, they would lose their turn. The one with the maximum ‘Ghars’ or ‘houses’ with their names on the game ground at the end, would be the winner. Asawari quickly and steadily wrapped up the game, speeding through this next level, winning hands down at the end with six boxes while Jaai had just got through with her first level, making Asawari the clear winner! “Kaay re . . . you’re just too lucky! That’s all,” said Jaai putting down her hundredth consecutive loss to pure bad luck. The hopscotch game ground was always created on the flattened sand which was wet and very close to the waves. The tide was coming in and so it was good that they had finished, otherwise nature would have finished their game for them midway. As they began to leave, they saw ‘Damle Veda’ a middle aged advocate who’d lost his mind they said, after fighting the Enron battle for Ratnagiri for seven long years. Now he lived at the beach in his torn and tattered black Lawyer’s coat and trousers. He was always angry when out of the water and at peace only when inside it with the waves lapping at his ankles. A few little boys were teasing him. “Damleeeee Vedaaaa, Daamleee Vedaaa!” they shouted running around him and taking playful jabs at his coat. He was furious and started cursing them with the choicest expletives which only egged the boys further on. Asawari hastened towards the boys. “Should I tell your aajoba, Sameer?!! Aaani tu pan, Vikas! Come, I’ll take you to your aai and tell her what a vaeet boy you are!” she shouted as she neared them, faking a movement to catch one of them by the arm as they all fled the scene. Jaai
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had also caught up with her. They watched the calm return to Damle’s face as he walked into the water right up to his knees and then faced the sea, his face turning into a serene plastic smile. He began his routine, a jump with the right foot, then the left, then again the right and then a 360 degree turn in the water to face the same spot he’d been facing a second ago. Then he calmed down to stare at the sea. He did this set of movements once every ten minutes and no one knew which part of his childhood this had settled in from, into his fragmented, torn mind. Jaai pulled Asawari away and they walked towards the Jog home leaving Damle Veda in the sea. They parted ways at the entrance to Asawari’s mango-tree-filled backyard, promising to meet soon. Just before entering her home, Asawari looked over her shoulder at the game ground and watched as the first wave crept over the box with a house marked in her name . . . then she went inside. The next day was the most important day in the calendar of Ratnagiri, Ganesh Chaturthi, and the day of the birth of lord Ganesha. Asawari’s home was like a play-school in recess. People from all over the village kept coming in and out to meet Shanta and Shekhar. Shanta looked lovely in a six yard sari which was a dark green with a thick golden border, supposedly made out of actual gold threads. She had on a ‘Nathan’ or thick nose ring which was again made of pure gold and her feet were coloured with Asawari’s favourite Alacktaka, a reddish maroon colour made out of natural colours and used to colour the feet of newly wed brides on their wedding day. Asawari liked to wear this even on a general basis and people always reprimanded her for it, calling it ‘apshagun’ or a bad omen. Shekhar looked resplendent in a pure white kurta with chikan work all along the collar and a white pyjama to match. Asawari looked on as he laughed and thanked the people for coming. For her, he was the epitome of good looks. In the morning the rituals began with the sthapana in which the newly brought home idol was kept in its place with a piece of cloth covering its face. Then the sthapana was done and the Bhatji, who was characteristically late, performed the pooja after which the face of the idol was uncovered. This symbolized breathing life into the statue. Now a naividya of 21 modaks was chadhaoed for the idol and an aarti was performed twice in the day, once in the morning and then in the evening. This went on for five days after which the time came for the Jog family to bid goodbye to their favourite God. Asawari sat about ten feet away from the idol. The day had begun on a bad note as Asawari’s eye opened to heavy rain and thunder. The sea was turbulent and angry, but the Jogs weren’t too worried because this had happened before. Many a time, by the time the idol had to leave, the rain would become violent and the sea would give it company. Shekhar was oiling Asawari’s hair. She loved his massage. He had a technique which he’d learnt from his father who had in turn, learnt it from his. Everything in the Jog household was steeped in tradition. As he rubbed his long fingers across Asawari’s scalp, he hummed, “Sar jo tera chakrai, yaa dil dooba jaae, aaaja pyaare paas humaare, kaahe ghabraye. Kaahe ghabraye?”
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Asawari had never seen the song even on their old television set but she knew each and every line of the song’s lyrics by heart, thanks to this ritual which had been repeated once every week ever since she was born. Shekhar sang each and every stanza and with it came along his entire repertoire of techniques of massage which were well structured and stretched over an hour. Shanta was passing by as she hurriedly made arrangements for the Ganpati Visarjan later in the day. The beautiful golden idol which they’d come to love this year would be immersed in the sea, to return to their house again next year. “Pudhchya varshi laukar ya!” said Asawari in her mind, thinking about the evening’s forthcoming events. “Jasta jor dyaycha naahi, she’s a girl not a boy, don’t put too much pressure on her head,” said Shanta as she passed by yet again. Shekhar’s huge hands were very strong and his way of giving a massage was also in the same vein which Shanta couldn’t bear herself and so she warned him to go easy on their daughter’s head. But Asawari’s face was a reflection of pure bliss as Shekhar drummed away almost in rhythm with the song he hummed. “Tula aavadte na?” or “you like it, right?” asked Shekhar. “Khup!” Very much!” replied Asawari. The day went by almost in a blur as even though there was a flurry of activity, the Jogs had now almost gotten used to this enlarged sense of life over the past week. It was evening now and it was time for the visarjan. Outside his house, on the beach, stood Shekhar Jog with his Ganpati held high in his hands, placed on a platform supported by three other relatives. They supported the platform with their shoulders. The rain beat the sand which was already completely soaked. Even in that wet state, each thick round raindrop split the sand and scattered tiny fragments as it hit it. The overall sight was breathtaking as this phenomenon happened on every square inch of the sand for miles across the beach. The waves in the sea had risen to a height of eight or nine feet and the sea had a new tinge to its regular blue hues. The new colour was green which, like a fast spreading poison, was taking over the colour palette of the sea. The sea even smelled different now. The sound of the waves was deafening. One roaring wave hadn’t even purged itself of its tremendous anger when another one entered the race and competed with it, releasing its own wrath. Even the foamy backlash of the waves made a deafening sound as swarms of thick white froth rummaged about the clear water underneath, waiting to be lashed at by yet another giant wave. Five of the houses in the same line as the Jogs had decided to bring out their idols and place them together to do the final aarti. They all stood there getting pelted by the rain. As the combined aarti was performed, Asawari and Shanta joined in the festivities. Then the fruits kept at the feet of all the idols were distributed among the five families, the Bhaves, the Jogs, the Bhats, the Pais and the Kulkarnis. Now it was time for the statuettes to be sent in to their watery abode. When Asawari was younger, her father had told her that ‘Ganpati Bappa’ went into his glass palace under the waves where he lived, taking care of his kingdom beneath
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the sea for a full year, before coming back to their house next year to be with them and bless them. Asawari watched as Shekhar ventured forth with three of their relatives, walking slowly but surely, into the green embrace of the sea as the froth lapped at his sides and the rain beat down hard on him. The golden Ganpati statue, perched on the platform above the shoulders of the Jog men, looked ravishing as it was swathed in patches of water, partly from the lashing waves and partly from the enveloping rain. About twenty feet away was the Bhaves’ Ganpati which was not so spectacular. But the rain and waves made even its normalcy appear beautiful and special. The five Ganpatis carried by their respective families went deeper into the sea, rocking, as on a boat. They looked like an army of half men half elephants marching slowly into the large mass of agitated water. Asawari looked back at her Ganpati. The weight of the five feet tall Ganpati was beginning to tell on the faces of the four men carrying it. They were all in water right up to their shoulders but they still trudged on. Shekhar being the tallest, stood a few inches above the rest. When Shekhar himself was in right up to his shoulders and the others almost up to their necks, they turned around with the Ganpati. The statue now faced the people on the beach. Asawari looked at the curves on the idol which almost fused into each other, the gold looking marvelous in the water and mist. Shekhar’s face looked almost as marvelous, its sharp lines a striking contrast to the misty air and shapeless water rising up high into the air every few seconds. Just as the four were about to go for their first ritual dip into the water with the idol, the tallest wave yet began to form behind them. As it formed a huge wall behind them and moved onto them from behind, they all had to prop themselves up so as to bob with the wave instead of getting submerged beneath it. Only the Ganpati’s head was visible above the water as the wave crossed the four. They quickly performed the first dip, waiting for a few seconds under water before coming back out with the idol. Then another wave began to form behind them. Shekhar could feel the under tug beneath the water now which this area of the Konkan was famous for. He had learnt in his childhood from his father who was a national level swimmer that if the under tug pulled you in, you must not resist it but let it take you in and then swim along the shore for a while till it relaxes and then in a diagonal line, come swimming to the shore. He dug his feet into the sand beneath. The second wave was even larger than the first in its monstrosity. It lashed the four and one of the men, Asawari’s kaka, almost lost his hold over the statue causing all the others to sway dangerously. Regaining control with difficulty, the four steadied the heavy statue again and quickly performed the second dip in much the same manner as the first. Asawari and Shanta watched. Shanta gripped Asawari’s hand hard as she looked at the struggle about a hundred meters away in the surging water. Then the four came up and battled yet another wave which rose up from behind and
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crossed over them. This one was about ten feet tall and it completely submerged the entire troupe, including the head of the Ganpati itself as it passed over them, to raise its snake-like head at the watchers on the beach before it stung and then died down. The four now performed their third and final dip. Asawari saw Shekhar go down with the statue on his shoulders and then all the four were lost for a few seconds. Suddenly a huge wave suddenly hit them from behind, forming itself out of nowhere with amazing speed. When the three of them came up, the troupe had lost the Ganpati as was the practice, but . . . they’d also lost Shekhar! Realizing what had happened, they immediately began to search frantically for him in the water which was getting more and more turbulent by the second. Shanta began to scream hysterically! Asawari stood transfixed with her stare pounding the space where her father had been, just a few moments ago. Wives of the other men in the water began shouting at them to get out as the sea turned another page in its rancour. The shore was a sight of mayhem now with more men rushing in to get the ones in, out. Asawari shut her eyes and the sight vanished into blackness. She put her fingers into her ears and squeezed hard to block out the sounds of the beach till they faded into oblivion. She stood there, letting herself feel only the warmth of her tears which were swept away and beaten by the rain which lashed her face. Her father, her God, was no more.
2 S
amastipur was a small town in Bihar with many mohallas and Professors’ Colony was in one of them, right down Kashipur road. The colony hadn’t been planned too well and so whenever anyone went looking for a house, they just asked around for the name of the occupant and found it with the help of a couple of neighbours. None of the houses had any numbers on them. In the winter evenings, as was the case now, there was a light fog outdoors after it got dark and the lack of power on most days became the cause of sickness amongst those who couldn’t afford alternative means of electricity like inverters. Most of the inhabitants of this town fell into this bracket. Inside a house whose thirsty, dry, cold and dark walls hadn’t had any contact with paint for the past fifteen years, sat Vijay Choudhary at his desk with a light above his head, the solitary dangling bulb being powered by one of those rare inverters. He’d been woken up early this morning when one of the neighbours, Mr. Kumar had come home, his toothbrush in hand, for some morning conversation and had left only around nine. This was the one thing about his own town Vijay just couldn’t fathom. Why did people have to socialize so early in the morning? Vijay sat with his lanky frame doubled up over a textbook of Organizational Commerce or O.C. as they called it at college. Thin, lanky, with short-cropped frizzy hair which almost looked like a softy ice cream which has received an electric shock, Vijay, now 21 years old, was preparing for his T.Y. B.Com. examinations. He sat frowning over his textbook. “Functions of the Underwriters:” he read, “1. 2. 3. 4.
To help find the initial finance for the company. To guarantee minimum subscription. To gbhtuhtg uuthogunh oihr llkr lihrfk; rf . . .”
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“Arre yaar ye to hadh ho gayi! This is too much! When am I ever going to start a company of my own?” Do I ever want to get into this whole company shampany business?” Vijay adjusted his table lamp which was the only source of light in that room. It threw light on the textbook but more importantly, it threw light on the small table clock lying on his desk. He looked at the Staedtler pencil his father had proudly bought for him from the market. He then smelled it. The wood scent was exquisite—the reason why he loved to write with Staedtler and the reason why his father bought it for him—though it was pretty expensive. He took another deeper breath, then looked at the pencil lovingly. Yellow and black, like those taxis in Bombay . . . then keeping the pencil down, he told himself, “Get back, Vijay, get back.” He again began to focus on his book. He heard the soft sound of his mother’s bare feet touching the ground and lifting off it as she walked up to him. He then felt her calm hand on his shoulder. He turned back and looked at her with his most innocent boy look. “Papa has set up too much of a time table for me for each day . . . I just cannot finish it.” Bimla Choudhary was short and petitely built. She had worn a sari, as usual. It was a cotton floral printed one. She wore a pair of thin gold bangles and her trademark mangal sutra. The fingers of her hand were soft but their tips were cracked from too much of kitchen work. Cracked but clean. “Theek hai, take a ten minute break. But after that, finish off this work anyhow. If your father gets angry seeing that you’ve not finished, don’t tell me.” Just then the doorbell rang. Bimla quickly moved towards the door. Using this chance, Vijay too shut his textbook and switched off the light. Then realizing that it might be his father, he went back, quickly switched on the light, opened his textbook and sat down on the table as if he had no clue about the doorbell being rung. It was indeed Prateek Choudhary, Vijay’s father. 6'1" in height, he was a broad shouldered man who wore thin metallic framed glasses. He perpetually had oil on his hair, as he did even today and always wore cotton short-sleeved shirts, preferably in solid shades of off white or cream and cotton trousers. He wore a pair of standard Bata sandals which was of the style he’d been wearing since he was Vijay’s age. He was a man who didn’t like change and didn’t like experimenting even with food. Prateek Choudhary came in and Bimla immediately pulled the pallu of her sari above her head, covering it. She looked down. Her freedom suddenly seemed to be lost. All of a sudden, she resembled, in body language and movement, a meek little dog! Prateek came ahead into the house and behind him entered Prakash Jha, his friend from the college. Prateek was a professor at the local college where his own son studied. Known for his strictness, he looked like a man who could inflict pain and Bihar was a place where teachers physically punishing students using a scale or stick were as common as buffaloes in every courtyard. It was not rare for Prateek’s
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wooden scale to break during one of his frequent beatings of students in class. The students were afraid of him and their manner was not very different upon his entry into class, than that of Bimla when he entered their home. Vijay too was scared of Prateek, but his body didn’t show it as much. From the manner in which Prakash came in and sat down, it was obvious that he’d come for dinner, uninvited and without any prior intimation as was the practice in this house. “Bimla, jaldi se khaana paros de, bhook lagi hai!” Serve the food fast, I’m hungry, said Prateek, his voice stern and firm. He was accustomed to treating this as his domain. It was after all his home and he was the man of the house. Bimla immediately nodded her head all the while keeping her eyes on the ground. Moving towards Vijay who was still in the act of looking like a serious student completely lost in his studies and oblivious of everything else, he walked right over to him. Towering over Vijay, Prateek quietly picked up the textbook, almost snatching it out of Vijay’s hands as it lay partly in his hands and partly on the table. “Which page were you reading?” he asked. “53,” answered Vijay meekly. He knew there was trouble ahead in ways that only boys can sense when their fathers tower over them. He suddenly felt a knot in his stomach. He began to look at everything around to catch some meaning in anything and somehow kick off this feeling, but to no avail. “What are the functions of the underwriters?” Vijay looked up, and then back down. He tried to find his voice which seemed like a distant boat on the horizon, sailing away to an unknown land. “Underwriters . . . to guarantee minimum subscription, to help find the initial finance for the company, to . . . uh . . . uhhh . . .” Prateek put the book down in one swift move and with his other hand caught Vijay’s earlobe and squeezed it tight. Vijay winced in pain. The pain shot up his ear into his head. He could feel it burning like it was on fire already. He thought somewhere in the recesses of his mind that by now it shouldn’t have hurt him anymore, having endured this for 21 years now. He should have been strong enough, but it still pained as if for the first time. “Sorry Papa.” “Sorry?!! Eight functions which are main and sixteen sub functions! Is this how you’re preparing?!” Prakash Jha sat behind and seemed to be enjoying this sort of domestic violence. The scene in his house was different as his wife wore the pants in the family and on many occasions, though he guarded these facts with his life, lest they leak out, his wife had thrown a glass of steel or two at him and even shut him out of her bedroom at night. She was a lady with a lot of meat on her bones, as Prakash would himself describe her after one of his drinking rituals with friends at the local pub. If he wanted to get her in bed, with his thin, weak frame, he had to listen to her. His wife knew that sex was the only way in which she could, at least to a certain
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extent, get him to listen to her. So Prakash enjoyed the torture of someone else who was meek and weak. His face worked into a thin smile as he looked on. Vijay’s ear lobe stretched out even more, more than it had the last time, and the time before. His face contorted into waves of anguish as Bimla who’d come back into the room looked on helplessly. Her face seemed to be going through more internal pain than Vijay’s external pain. The more his ear was twisted, the more the slight frown on Bimla’s face revealed the torture she was going through. Then the punishment stopped. “Andar ja!! Raat ko main phir se check karoonga . . . aur khabardaar jo phir se aadhi adhoori padhaai ki! Go inside! I’ll check again at night and don’t you dare leave your work unfinished again!” Vijay left. Prakash took this as a cue to begin his banter. After all, the daily folk play that had unfolded itself before him in this house was over. “Bhabhi do you know that everybody in the College says that Master Prateek Choudhary should have been at the University in Patna? Such a learned man, baba, wasting his time here in this small place!” said Prakash, as Bimla served some snacks along with some sherbet. He began to wolf them down and Bimla was pleased that at least something would keep him quiet and out of the affairs of the house. Bimla then asked: “Ji . . . should I serve dinner for the three of you?” “Bilkul nahin . . . Vijay is not going to eat till I take up his studies!” said Prateek. Bimla was looking at the floor, but the disturbance was evident in her eyes. She resented this but couldn’t find her voice. Later that night, Vijay sat on his small bed with the same reading lamp from the table now arranged near it. He half sat, half lay down, reading from his book. His face was red on one side, an all too telling sign of what had happened post dinner. He touched the skin slowly and tenderly. Then almost as if he had touched a burning pot he pulled his hand back. Only in this case, it wasn’t the hand which hurt but his face. “Pch!” ( a sound he often made when he was irritated or frustrated and couldn’t do more. The sound was made using his tongue and lips together.) After reading for a while he turned to his left where his Walkman was kept on the bed. He picked it up and was about to keep his book down, but then on second thought kept the Walkman aside instead. He got back to his book again. A few pages into the book, and he felt thirsty. On his way back from the place where the water was kept in an earthen pot, Vijay passed the area where his mother and father slept. As he was passing it he seemed to be very cautious and careful as he plugged his fingers into his ears. He seemed to be anticipating something. Then he heard it. The sounds of his mother groaning and crying, at the same time . . . that awful sound . . . Then he heard the slap. “Rand . . . chal jor laga . . .”
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Vijay heard the nightly ritual of Prateek Choudhary forcing himself upon his wife. The groans and slaps grew louder. “Please stop . . . it’s hurting badly!” Bimla pleaded. But the slaps went on as she cried and groaned. Prateek groaned too as he thrust himself into Bimla while she lay on her stomach. He beat her and shouted at her. She kept pleading for him to stop but he didn’t. Every night Prateek forced himself upon his wife and made her comply with all his sexual desires while she resisted like a rabbit resisting a hunting dog. Vijay’s face contorted in agony. This pain was obviously more severe than the physical pain of the ear twisting. He quickly walked across that area and sat on his bed again. But the sounds grew louder and louder. He couldn’t stand it anymore and he grabbed the Walkman almost in a frenzied state and plugged it into his ear. He had witnessed this problem for years and he had withstood it using his fingers or cotton or by rolling up pieces of paper and then stuffing his ears shut with it. The groans and moans and cries and slaps were drowned out by Kishore Kumar’s voice singing “Ye shaam mastani, madhosh kiye jaye . . .” Vijay’s face slowly relaxed and the contorted skin of his face smoothened out as he let the music take over where the sounds and cries had left off. “ . . . Ye dor koi kheeche, teri or liye jaye . . .” The next day Vijay sat in a small dark cinema hall watching a Bhojpuri film with his friend, Anand. The next exam being a couple of days away, he’d decided to watch a movie on the sly before getting back into the vortex of text books, guides and long hours of mugging which had taken over his otherwise bright life over the past three months. The breather was long overdue. “Arre why don’t you just leave and go away to your cousin, Praveen in Bombay. Just leave, I tell you. Bombay is the place . . . the place to escape and make all your dreams come true . . . ” said Anand, a short, dark, almost midget-like boy who was Vijay’s oldest friend and classmate. He kept adjusting his spectacles which were two sizes larger than his face, being his father’s old, used spectacles. “How can I just run away yaar?” Vijay replied. “I don’t even know where this cousin of mine is . . . he left five years ago to become an actor . . . We haven’t seen him in any movie or serial yet . . . Bhagwan jaane kahaan hoga!” “Better than doing an MBA in Patna University and fulfilling your father’s unfulfilled dreams, bhai!” said Anand. Right then someone from behind gave Anand a tight whack on his head. That was the hint for them to shut up unless they were ready for some curses and a thorough beating by the janta who came here everyday to forget their lives. After a while, tempted to still continue their conversation, Anand asked, “Arre what’s happening about your driving? License to mil gaya . . . but is your dad allowing you to practice in his Fiat? Does it ever start?” “I sneak it out once in a while whenever I get a chance, which isn’t very often,” said Vijay.
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The film continued with the hero beginning to sing a song right in the middle of the kitchen of the heroine’s house. He began to use various vessels as props as he serenaded her. The song ended with a lip lock and the audience began shouting and cheering. “Dabai deo chori ka!” Vijay and Anand looked on in rapt amusement and then they joined in the furore. On his way back from the cinema hall, Vijay passed by his father’s old white Fiat car. He’d got his license a year ago but had never been allowed to drive the car, as if it were some goddess which he didn’t deserve. This made Vijay desire it even more with each passing day. He’d once taken it out for a spin when his father was out of town and his mother, asleep at night. Anand and Vijay had sat in the front seat drinking Coco Cola from large glass bottles like a couple of grown ups driving through the city. Vijay had filled more petrol so that his father would never get to know but somehow the news had reached him, despite the secret driving through small lanes, despite the petrol being replenished, despite the perfect parking in exactly the same way as it had been before. His father had beaten him black and blue on his return from his out-of-town trip that day. The memory of that beating resounded through Vijay’s mind like a whip. CRACK! He walked on into his house. That night Vijay was studying in bed again. He was studying accounts. The table lamp was now on the bed in front of the accounts register. Strewn around the register were the regular accounting paraphernalia, a ruler, some pencils out of which one was the crowning glory of them all, the Staedtler, a sharpener, a ball pen—Reynolds Fine Carbure and an eraser. Vijay had drawn clear lines in the register. He was practicing a sum of final accounts from the textbook which lay in front of him. This time the Walkman was in use already. He could do accounts listening to music. It would be harakiri if his father saw this but small risks were something Vijay liked to take and was accustomed to. Kishore Kumar sang, “Pal pal dil ke paas . . . tum rehti ho . . .” as Vijay fretted and fumed over the balance sheet not tallying. He went through the whole problem all over again, step by step, checking whether he’d put all the entries in their correct places. Right then, in the middle of all this confusion, the voice of Kishore Kumar, Vijay’s sole love in the music world, began to dwindle. It began to sound like someone else’s voice. Just as Vijay left his pencil and was about to pick up the Walkman, Kishore found his note again and things were back to normal. All was well again in the universe. Vijay got back to checking all the entries in the problem. He moved his fingers quickly across the trading account, the balance sheet, etc . . . etc . . . and then it happened again . . . “Pal, pal dddddddiiiilllll keeee . . .” the battery was low and was dying fast. Vijay kept his pencil down in frustration. “Pch!” He picked up the Walkman and pressing the ‘stop’ button, opened the battery compartment. He tried taking one out, warming it with his fingers and putting it back to use but to no avail. The sound was worse. Frustrated, he put the Walkman down to search for some new batteries in the small cabinet which
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housed everything that Vijay owned along with his clothes. Slumped near the cabinet, Vijay was shuffling through the various notebooks on the upper shelf when he heard it again. “Please . . . stop . . . it’s hurting me . . . PLLLEEAASSEE!” This time his mother’s shouts were louder than ever. He now heard the groaning . . . His father’s thrusts stopped and he heard him get up and throw something that seemed to be made of metal on the ground. From the sound of it it seemed like a steel glass. ‘Twong.’ “Madarchod . . . zabaan ladaati hai . . . abhi dikhataa hoon saali . . .” shouted Prateek, infuriated. Then began the beating. Vijay just sat there frozen into silence as he heard the loud beating and his mother’s pleas to stop. Prateek was in a rage as he beat Bimla on the face. She used her wrists to cover her face and back, as she turned over to avoid the full impact of the blows. She dragged herself away. Bimla was half crying, half shrieking as she tried to slither away from him while he continued in a mad rage to flay her with his hands, belt and whatever quelled the recurring waves of the fury within. Vijay meanwhile was fighting hard to control the large knot he felt growing in his stomach. He clenched his teeth and shoved his fingers into his ears. This time the shouting was so loud that he could hear it irrespective of what he did. Then the shouting became louder and Bimla who was all bloodied and soaking wet with perspiration, started calling out to Vijay. “Us napunsak ko bula rahi hai . . . kulta . . . ?!” shouted Prateek as he raised his hand for another blow. Vijay couldn’t see anything from where he stood but he could visualize the whole thing, as if it was happening just two feet away from him. The knot in his stomach grew larger and larger with every fervent scream from his mother. He remembered the soft fingers, cracked at the tips. Cracked but clean. The knot exploded into a thousand smaller knots in his stomach and now they seemed to be rising up into his head. He couldn’t control himself any longer. Bimla had bruises all over her face, arms and elbows by now. Prateek himself was soaking wet with perspiration. In the hot dry climate of Bihar such heavy-duty activity resulted in one being drenched within minutes. Infuriated, he raised his hand above his head to strike yet another blow at Bimla, who by now had slumped into a sort of submission, resigned to her fate at this moment. Just as Prateek was about to deliver another blow with his open hand, he felt the ‘thunk’ of thick wood at the back of his head followed by a splitting pain which overtook his whole body and caused an almost immediate blackout! Prateek Choudhary was out like a light even before he hit the ground. Behind him stood a shivering, lanky, sweaty Vijay with his mother’s bailan in his hand. Bimla suddenly woke up from her beaten stupor. She gathered her pallu and draped it around her half naked body. Even their husbands almost never saw
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women in Bihar naked. The bailan fell from Vijay’s hand. Prateek groaned. Bimla suddenly snapped into action seeing the giant stir. She turned to the side table nearby and picked up Prateek’s wallet with a swift motion of her hand, with some hidden strength which she had in reserve. She stood up and gave it to Vijay. The agility with which she began to act was like that of a deer which fights off even a lion when it comes to the safety of her offspring. Bimla’s strength had returned and it smoldered like embers in her eyes, long dormant and now rekindled. “Le . . . bhaag . . . before he gets up. He won’t leave you . . . he’ll kill you . . . run . . .” “Where to?” asked a panicking Vijay. Seeing his mother’s sudden transformation and still rife with the fact of having beaten his father into near unconsciousness, Vijay was in a state of shock. “Bombay . . . In your father’s wallet is Pravin’s last known address. Find him. Use all the money in there . . . your father just got his salary today!” As if on cue, Prateek stirred a little. “Bhaag,” shouted Bimla with such strength that Vijay was shaken out of his shock. He took the wallet from her and ran. He ran like the wind . . . like his life depended on it; in all probability it did. For, if Prateek found him again, he’d skin him alive. Outside the house Vijay ran to the row of shrubs and small trees about three hundred meters away and knelt down and looked at his house again. He decided he’d wait and watch. If he saw his father coming, he’d run. This way he’d at least know what happened to his mother. Waiting there in the foliage and looking at his house, Vijay realized that it must be late at night. It was already one O’clock when he last checked that table clock in his room. This thought made his eyes heavy. But he fought the sleep and kept a watch over the front door. Slowly but surely sleep took hold of him and he succumbed to it. Vijay woke up with a start. Upon opening his eyes he realized that the sunlight was beating down on his face. He squinted as he slowly opened his eyes to the crisp dry sunlight. Turning his head sideways, he realized where he was as the memory of last night’s fiasco slowly returned to his mind. Those few moments of peace right after he woke up, were the last he was to have in a long time. As he grew more aware of his surroundings, Vijay heard a mob shouting nearby. There was a lot of commotion. Vijay suddenly sat upright and then moving into an uncompromising position, using the shrubbery as camouflage, looked towards his house. He could see some of his neighbours around. Some police from the local cop station, Darogas as they were called around these parts and a lot of people from the village were gathered there. Everybody was talking at the same time and from this distance, Vijay couldn’t make out what they were saying. Then he saw something that made his blood freeze! Vijay saw a body being brought out, covered with an old bedsheet which he knew all to well. The face could be seen. It was his father’s. A chill ran up his spine!
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Had he done that? Was he a murderer? Just as these thoughts swarmed his mind, he saw another body being carried out with another familiar bedsheet covering it. This time it was his mother’s body! Vijay’s body slumped to the hard earth as he looked on. The world began to swim before his eyes and he felt he was going to lose consciousness. He held on to a shrub for some miniscule support and tried to steady himself. Just then he saw two people nearing the shrub. They were talking. Vijay got a momentary hold on himself, enough to move closer towards them and still maintain the cover that the shrub offered him. He tried to listen to what they were saying. As they crossed him, from the few words that he could make out, he realized that after he’d left, there’d been a scuffle in which his mother had beaten his father to death. She had completed the job after Vijay’d run out after which she had taken poison herself, to end her troubles once for all. In Bihar a wife didn’t end her troubles by killing the husband who raped her night after night. She only started them. The village would have made her life worse than it already had been, and this, after the police had had their fill. It was a no win situation for Bimla that night. The two men passed by leaving Vijay with the inheritance of the loss. Vijay looked into the distance, his mind a jumble of a thousand thoughts and a thousand silences all at once. The dry sand and dust near the railway track lay still; the sound of silence in the air. The tracks, made of iron had lain there quiet, but for the train itself, for thirty years. Strong, unflinching lines of two parallel universes, that would never meet. The dust blew hard into the air almost in a spiral as the Bhagalpur Express thundered across the tracks. Vijay lay down on a mat in the aisle traveling on an unreserved ticket. He let the repetitive sound of the train’s wheels against the tracks lull him to sleep. His call to a new journey had come, albeit in the most disturbing way and he’d answered it. The future lay open like an unread book with no name and no author.
3 I
n the suburb of Bandra, right in the centre of the dust ridden city of lights, Bombay, was Crystal’s Aerobics Centre. Nestled in a heritage building with old Victorian architecture, the aerobics class was Crystal D’mello’s love child. She’d started it after her divorce eighteen years ago. Now, after her third marriage, she still ran it with complete conviction and poise. For her it was the one thing which provided the much needed stability that most people living in this, sometimes monstrous, sometimes Garden of Eden, city of Bombay, needed. Fifteen ladies swayed their bodies in the stretches which Crystal showed them, facing in the same in direction as she did. The class was in a small room. Small, when compared to the fifteen people who met there thrice a week for class. It was decorated with film posters of Dev Anand’s era: Guide, Jewel Thief and Johnny Mera Naam amongst others. Crystal was a great fan of Dev Anand and ironically, also of Gregory Peck, the Hollywood hero after whom Dev Anand had modelled himself. The other conspicuous thing about the class was the large one piece mirror which though now almost antique, adorned the walls, covering them from corner to corner, making this setting perfect for all the students to see themselves and correct their actions as they performed their exercises. “And now a left, sttrreettcchh! And now a right, ssttrreettcchh!!” Crystal performed her stretches bending first upwards, pulling skywards, then towards the front as much as possible, then down, bringing her stretched fingers towards her neatly manicured toes adorned closely by her leotard, and then finally on her waist, facing upwards, exhaling in a final release. The most nimble student was Asawari Jog, A.K.A. Nikita in her Dance Bar circle. She’d been coming here for six years now, regularly three times a week. Her light green eyes winced as she stretched in a final exhale upwards with her hands on her hips. Dressed in a very stylish track suit, all grey with a pink piping, she wore colourful pink and white Nike shoes which were almost a fashion statement on their own. A few more stretches and the class was over. Nikita’s figure had only got better over the years. In her seventh year at Sharan Arasa’s Atithi Dance Bar, Asawari had just enough physical activity in the form 30
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of her typical latka jhatka form of dancing which she had perfected almost into an art over the years. The right thrust of her perfectly formed ass or waist, at the right beat and at the right time, in her audience’s journey, through the night for maximum impetus meant the largest amount thrown into the air for her. Nikita, as she was widely identified, was known for her courage as well as for being the perfect Indianized blonde—fair skinned and green eyed. She was the ideal ‘tits and ass’ girl, with a brain to skewer any man like a knife through hot butter if he so much as thought of her as a dumb bimbette. The only thing finer than Asawari’s figure was her mind, sharp as a Katana Sword. The class came to an end and the popular Bollywood number receded into oblivion. Crystal shut off the archaic music system and turned to face the class. “See y’all the day after, gang!” The crowd gave their cursory replies as they dispersed—hot sweaty bodies, already in motion to leave the class. Ten minutes later, Nikita was at the nearest bus stop waiting for the 38 No. bus which would take her home to Malad where she had a one BHK (bedroom hall kitchen) apartment on rent. As the bus arrived, Nikita got in, her gym bag firmly in tow. She was now in a pair of tight jeans and a well fitting white T-shirt which had ‘Babe’ printed across it in maroon lettering. BOLD. Getting in Nikita found a seat next to a woman who looked awfully bony and sharp featured. The minute she sat next to the woman, she realized that she had been mistaken. It wasn’t a woman, it was Sheila, the transvestite who frequented the streets of Linking road, Bandra every night, awaiting tired truck and car drivers who were looking for that cheap and easy blow job in the comfort of their vehicles as they drove around or parked in the shady, quiet lanes nearby. “Kaai re Sheila, Kashi aahes re tu?! How’ve you been?” Sheila turned around to see an old friend. Her broad smile layered with thick lipstick glistened in the receding sunlight of the evening, as her brown lips parted to reveal teeth which weren’t much of a lighter shade than the lips, thanks to an obvious long term association with gutkaa. She was truly happy. “Kaai re Nikita, tu ikde? What were you doing here re? oh . . . ya ya . . . class na?!!” Nikita nodded. “Yes what to do. Been coming here for over six years now and so just can’t get myself to shift to another class, closer home. Also, this one’s really affordable now. Earlier it was still viable to start a new class, the newer gyms . . . khoop mahaag aahe re . . . too expensive.” Sheila instinctively felt the topic go much deeper. Eunuchs in India had this legendary sensitivity which suddenly kicked in. “Yes, yes, I know, that whole ban! That bloody madarchod Bokil! Dance bars are blowing out the flames of our age old tradition and culture it seems. Saala bhadwa must have been snubbed by some bar queen himself or something. You
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know these politicians na re. Always putting their nose where they shouldn’t be!” said Sheila. “Arre!” she added, slapping her forehead hard, so hard that the action took Nikita by surprise and the pure force of it more so. “That Shreepal, the Gujrati waiter at your bar who lives in our basti na . . . he’s in jail. Was trying to get through to you but couldn’t, I heard. Stole 25,000 rupees from a jeweler’s shop in Borovili it seems, what with no income anymore from the bar industry and the case is under that PSI Kamble. You know what a halkat he is na! The money was recovered but he’s taking out all his bhadaas on poor Shreepal. Kept him in the lock up for over a week now. Taking out all his shriveled little lauda’s garmi on that poor chap!” “Oh my God! Poor fellow, nahi tari tya gareebachi vaat lagli hoti and now to add to it, being in jail for theft and that too under that bastard Kamble . . . We must do something re Sheila, but what to do . . .” said Nikita. Shreepal had come to Bombay from Godhra in Gujrat. Like most men who came to Bombay he too had had an arranged marriage to a girl from his village and had then come to Bombay to make his life. But like most men who were the immigrants in this ‘land of dreams’, he too had ended up living in a slum, and getting into a form of working and earning that was averse to his earlier principles. He had begun work as a waiter in a regular chai ki tapri but had soon graduated to Atithi Dance Bar and under the ever watchful eye of Sharan Arasa, had begun to earn a small fortune in tips from the easily formed overnight millionaires of Bombay’s underbelly, a world perhaps much larger than the already large world on top. Over the past five years or so Shreepal had fallen into the regular traps of Bombay’s night life, some hash, loads of beer, adding to his already fruitfully growing paunch and cheap prostitutes. He diligently sent half his income back home. With him, his family and son back home too began to prosper, thanks to Atithi Dance Bar. With a sudden thought entering her mind, Nikita looked at Sheila and paused for her to get caught in her gaze. Once Sheila felt Nikita’s eyes on her, she turned back from looking at S.V. road and all the roadside vendors to see Nikita’s bright face. There was a twinkle in Nikita’s eyes which Sheila knew all too well. She waited for the wave of thought to come lift her off. “Do you still do that stint on Linking road at night?” asked Nikita. “Yes of course,” replied a slightly surprised Sheila. “Would you really be bothered who you were giving a blow job to?” asked Nikita “Not so long as I felt safe, why?” quizzed Sheila. “I have an idea! Tonight we’ll set Shreepal free!” Nikita’s face shone not unlike the jasmine flowers which grew in her building near the gate, right after a fresh monsoon rain. Nestled in one of the oldest areas of the city, in Colaba, diagonally opposite the legendary ‘Leopolds’ restaurant, was the century old Colaba Police Station.
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Notorious amongst the criminals as one of the most sinister of police stations, it was the first place any foreigner indulging in crime would see if he was caught. The drug racket which thrived basically on foreigners coming to look for that ever elusive ‘nirvana’ in this country of mystics, India; underworld financed black market foreign currency, or the older than civilization prostitute racket in which one could get any one, from a junior level film star to television soap queens to a foreign national from any country around the world, were crimes all handled directly by the Colaba Police Station. The building of the station was still Victorian in its architecture and appeal. Built at the time when the British ruled India, it still maintained its inherent colonial flavour. A large block of space was set aside for this station and it held its palatial police station look with pride. The main complaint room had part cubicles built in it, ironically resembling the cubicle structure of the foreign police stations from where most of these thugs had initially come. In each space sat a PSI or police sub inspector who handled a different function of the station. Dwarka Divecha, tall, with light wheatish skin and light brown eyes, or ‘cat’s eyes’ as people called it, was a 42 year old Gujrathi who had spent the longest time in this station. He was now in his twentieth year here and not only did every restaurant owner know him, but so did every criminal in the whole of South Bombay. Dwarka Divecha had opted to remain in this cesspool of corruption, stench and frustration instead of opting for the dozens of other options which a policeman could opt for, give examinations and then get out of the routine of coming to the station everyday. He was in charge of the Beats around this police station. Each small area around South Bombay had its own smaller version of a police station known as a Beat and Divecha controlled the functioning of all the small Beats in this area. He took his jeep or his trusted Enfield motorcycle and did his rounds twice daily. To his left, sat Alok Patil, short and stubby with eyes which bulged out of their sockets, a hawk like nose and the typical Maharashtrian moustache which was trimmed almost to a thick stubble and kept in check. This, he loved to fondle every few seconds, sending the temperature of every criminal up and making every lady who ever sat across the counter from him, extremely self conscious. Patil was in charge of the wireless systems. If there was a problem anywhere in their jurisdiction, he’d be on it in a jiffy as he was always monitoring with the help of a few constables under him, the entire wireless communication in Colaba, Kala Ghoda and Back bay areas. The last PSI in the pecking order was PSI Kamble, one with the most unassuming looks. The only feature that stood out in his otherwise ordinary as chicken soup face was his lecherous eyes. The movements of his eyes over people’s bodies made them shiver more than the beatings which he’d inflicted on them. Like the quiet before the storm they were the herald of all the torture and nightmares which criminals and many a time even innocents, endured in that jail. He had been transferred here only recently. Before being posted here, he had a stint at the infamous Gamdevi police station, right outside Grant Road Railway
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Station. A minute away from his station was Nikita’s workplace, Atithi Dance Bar. For years PSI Kamble had abused the whole system of dance bars in his area which also housed the world famous ‘Kamati Pura,’ the only legal red light area in Bombay. Kamble frequently got himself the prized catch of the bars in his area and sexually exploited the women in the back filing room of the Gamdevi Police Station itself. His disregard for higher authority kept even that small check at bay and he had a free hand at treating the dance bar owners and their women as he felt. His brother in law was a very powerful corporator and an important man for the Kshatriya Dal, an almost militaristic wing of a particular party which handled all the organized riots in the city over time. This gave Kamble even more of a free hand in his masochistic adventures. However, Atithi Dance Bar was the only place where his tyranny couldn’t really lay its festering seed as Sharan Arasa himself was a very well connected man. His dance bar serviced the highest level of politicians and their many sons spread across South Bombay. This was the most high class bar around town and chiller meaning ‘loose change’ like Kamble were not even allowed to enter. Sharan Arasa had enough vat or clout to have things his way. Nikita had always been the uncrowned queen of Atithi Dance Bar, ever since the day she set foot in it. Nikita had refused politicians’ sons and police heads alike for anything other than the dancing which itself cost them a small fortune. The scores of admirers with easy money to throw on Nikita every night made her acquire this untouchable diva status in the bar, making her even more desirable to those with a fake sense of power which their reputation gave them. For years Kamble had heard of Nikita and had lusted after her, his fantasies based purely on reports and descriptions he’d heard from his peers. She had over time acquired quite a reputation. A couple of years earlier, Kamble had tried his best to get into the club eventually even using brute police force, but thanks to Sharan Arasa, he hadn’t even been able to get into the bar. Today, his lustful destiny was about to get a golden ticket. As Kamble went about his work, work being taking down complaints, one of his regular Saturday night merriment, a prostitute named Geeta came outside the station and gave him her customary salaam. Four boys, hardly out of their teens, had come to lodge a complaint. They were from the nearby kuccha or temporary slum. Kamble had just directed them to the front seat after he’d finished with an old man who’d come to lodge a complaint about his lost cell phone. Insulting the old man for thinking that the police had nothing better to do than find his cheap mobile set while much more heinous crimes were being performed elsewhere, he’d dispensed with justice in his usual way. Just as the boys sat down, Kamble noticed Geeta and his full attention was obviously not on his work anymore. He looked back at the boys with severe disinterest apparent on his face. “Kaay re . . . aata kaay re tumcha?! What is it this time?”
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One of the boys had come in a while ago for pick pocketing and Kamble recognized the other boys from the slum as he himself had relatives living there, his in-laws. This made him dislike the boys even more. “We were sitting around and having a smoke when these two attacked us for no reason,” said one of the boys. “Yes, just came there and began hitting us. Then we could obviously not take it lying down,” added his friend looking at the other two boys with anger. “Kaay! You think you’re a teesmaarkhan or what? You talk in this filmi hero tone again and I’ll give you such a gaand pe laat na, Halkat! Patla ka?!” said Kamble, furious that anyone dared to talk in a tone higher than a whisper in his presence. He then turned to the other two boys. “Aani tumcha kaay shhtory?” What’s your story? he asked. One of the two boys answered, “We were sitting and having a drink outside Pasha’s tapri, and these two attacked us for no reason at all.” Kamble almost smiled. He turned to Alok who was keenly observing the situation waiting to see how Kamble would handle this one. Both the sets of boys had leveled the same set of accusations at each other almost making this case a joke. “Chaaaila . . . do you think this is a nautanki theatre?!! What sort of loudu story is this? Are you still suckling your mother’s breasts?? Bloody infants!!” Right then, Nikita entered the police station. Suddenly in the midst of the commotion of whirring wirelesses, complaints, registers, old archaic fans running, there seemed to be a wave of lust in which time stood still. Divecha, Patil and Kamble all looked in their most attempted inconspicuous, but actually quite obvious way at Nikita. She was still dressed in her Babe T-shirt and her figure hugging dark blue fake Diesel jeans accentuated her lower half fitting like a glove. Patil looked at Kamble and muttered, “Heech re . . . Atithi chi queen, Nikita!” She’s the one, the queen of Atithi, Nikita! Kamble’s stare now became free of the shackles, of all pretensions of it being inconspicuous. He looked Nikita up and down, with his dark face, his red veined eyes set deep in their sockets, his six day old stubble and slightly haggard skin holding his lustful expression. He began to flip his flashy slim mobile phone in his hand, a sign of the anxiety within. “Sir . . .” said one of the boys awaiting the closure to their case. They were all thin and lanky and dressed like look alikes of Enrique Iglesias from different phases in his career, long hair, skull caps, bracelets, body fitting T-shirts, the works. Kamble whacked his palm hard on the table in front of the boy who’d disturbed his lusty reverie. “Tcha maaailaa . . . aataa daakhavto tula. I’ll show you some justice, you bloody punk!”
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Nikita walked over to the seat behind the boys and sat down, aware that this show was being put on for her. Kamble asked all the boys to line themselves up near his desk behind the mini half cubicle. They were afraid; their fake bravado was soon vanishing. “Kya sir . . . please gussa mat hoiyee . . . don’t get angry sir . . .” one of the boys started pleading. “Bhenchod, all of you hold your hands out. NOW!!” shouted Kamble in a voice which was not much more than a whisper but sounded like a shout none the less. The boys held their hands out. Suddenly their enmity seemed to have vanished. They were now all sailing in the same unsteady boat, being maneuvered at this point by the sinister looking, sadistic PSI Kamble. With a smooth movement of his wrist, Kamble unbuckled his standard PSI thick leather belt and slid it out with another swift, practiced move. The boys now started looking at each other for support. “Hold your haath out nice and straight, you son of a rand, before I choose your thopda instead!” shouted Kamble to the one closest to him. All of them responded to the command by nervously holding their hands out straight. “WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! WHACK!” went Kamble’s makeshift whip across the young bony palms of the Iglesias boys. Almost as if in a symphony being conducted by a virtuoso, one by one as the belt did its handiwork, their hands moved back in a stabbing pain and they began to jump about like scalded cats. “Now if any one of you chutiyas still has anything to say about each other you can do it in the lockup where I’m going to keep you all for one night. Anyway I know most of your parents, and they’d think Kamble saab was doing them a favour by doing this.” The thought of the lockup terrified the already frightened boys even more. “Sir, amhala kaahi problem nahi sir . . . kaaheech nahi . . . We have no more problems whatsoever with each other, sir,” began one of the gang and the rest followed. “Ho sir . . . no problem at all. We’re sorry to have come to disturb you for something so small,” added another smart one who was catching the drift. “Tar aata get out! And if you come back with such silly stories again, I’ll skin you bhadvas alive!” shouted Kamble, as the four had already started moving out. Despite her surprise at the way Kamble treated the four youths, Nikita could scarcely bring herself to control her smile. “Ho Maidame sanga . . . what can I do for you?” said Kamble, now turning his penetrating gaze on her, simultaneously looking her up like an x-ray machine. “Te waiter Shreepal cha tumhi kai decide kela aahe? What have you decided to do?” said Nikita, getting straight to the point. Kamble was taken by surprise not only by the directness, but also by her reason for coming there. He banged his head not unlike Sheila in the bus earlier in the
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day with his right palm, more so as it was such an obvious connection that he was upset at himself for not having figured it out yet. “Bara . . . bara . . . saanga . . . kaay ticha? He cannot be left out on bail. Court orders,” he said. “But I’ve found out that even the jeweler took back his case after the money was found, so how big can his offence be? And if the case has been withdrawn, then on what grounds is he being kept here?” asked Nikita. At this remark, which to him meant a direct offence to his authority, Kamble straightened and came forward on the table, closer to Nikita. “Madame tumhi mala majhach job shikavnaar ka? Are you going to teach me my own job? I know the rules. He has stolen and we know how to make sure he never tries such chutyagiri again!” Nikita didn’t want to waste time getting into an ego quarrel with Kamble. She’d handled such men earlier, whose sense of power came by harassing hapless helpless men and women in the police station, by beating to a pulp an innocent who had no clout or vat to protect him, by harassing old people, bullying young boys and as such keeping their egos afloat in an otherwise deepening pool of self doubt, incompetence and impotence. “So what would make you change your mind?” she asked. She knew this directness would work better with men like Kamble. At this Kamble just smiled and looked her up once again. He noticed the surging line of her bust which lay in wait for her next lover; he noticed the light green mesmerizing eyes and the light blue eye shadow which made them stand out even more. He noticed the light pink lipstick on those full lips which beckoned like the sea and he noticed the hands, the fingers which he had a fetish for. Nikita’s were the most beautiful hands ever. Long fingers with well manicured elegant feminine nails painted to perfection with a whitish silver polish. Looking back up at her eyes Kamble smiled again. Today his fate had showered him with good luck and he wasn’t going to let it slip out of his grubby fingers. Hotel Sea Lord was a hotel which spanned the second floor of Kamal Mansion, a building bang opposite the famed Radio Club on Arthur Bunder Road, now Niyaz Ahmed Haajee Marg in Colaba. Newer than the India Guest House which was comfortably housed on the third floor and was now decades old, competing in age with the Taj Hotel down the road, Sea Lord was of a relatively newer breed. A hotel which mostly housed foreigners who read about the three hotels in this building in their faithful Lonely Planet Books and who constantly needed the help of the police, as so many of them after a while of being seduced by the charms of India, decided to stay over even after their visas no longer held validity. All hotels in Bombay were made to keep a register of every customer and a copy of their passport which was then deposited at the nearby Colaba Police Station. So they all needed PSI Kamble. And, Kamble had certain needs which they helped him with as and when required.
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Room 403 was one of the best in the house, with a double bed, light paint, freshly laid over the walls and a small window with a harbor view. This helped them to let out the room at a hefty premium. Here sat PSI Kamble, drunk, blindfolded, handcuffed and bound to a chair. Nikita had entered this room three hours ago with PSI Kamble drooling all over the broken tiled floor. With a lot of seduction and after an hour of a private dance routine for Kamble with every new Bollywood number from Baazigar to Yes Boss, Nikita had finally managed to get him so drunk that he couldn’t stand. Then she seduced him further into wanting desperately to adhere to her proposition for some kinky sex involving none other than the blindfolded handcuffed routine. PSI Kamble was so sloshed he could hardly tell his head from his leg. But he still wanted his pound of flesh and by God, he was going to get it. “Shuru kar na re . . . aren’t we done with foreplay yet? That bloody waiter of yours is also scot free now . . . come . . . light the stove of the kitchen in my trousers,” he said through slurred speech. The play of words made Nikita laugh. She was in her bar dancer attire now and it transformed her into the perfect femme fatale, the bestower of men’s private, otherwise repressed fantasies. Her uniform of sorts was a ghagara choli and lehenga. The ghagara and lehenga were so ornate that the ensemble could have put one of Bollywood’s top designers to shame. Bedecked with diamantes, Picasso squiggles and crystal pieces, she shone like a diamond in the queen’s crown jewels. The fit of the choli was the specialty; it showed just enough of her cleavage for any man to loose complete control over his senses. The ghagara began over the line of her buttocks in such a tight fit that each thrust of her hip during one of her dances would extract at least a five hundred rupee note from a customer. She walked over to Kamble. “Jaan, atta, I’m going to make you feel like you’ve died and gone to swarg. Or rather narak and are being serviced by the devil’s private harem of hell’s angels!” She pulled down his zip. He still wore his work khaki trousers, with a white shirt on top which was unbuttoned. “Uhh . . . .” Kamble moaned with the anticipation killing him. Then Nikita got up, turned around, walked over to the door of the room and opened it ever so quietly and in stepped Sheila. She flashed her million dollar smile at Nikita and walked over to Kamble and bent down in front of his crotch. Nikita walked over to the small window and peered out to the sea as Sheila first slipped on a condom, then another and then began to give Kamble a blow job. He began to moan. “Aah . . . aah . . . waah re Nikita . . . You’re a magician re . . . !” The sea in the harbour of Bombay was coloured a thick grey from years of pollution. At night this looked like a large expansive sheet of thin aluminum foil, coloured grey, floating over space. Many small boats wobbled in the choppy water near the Gateway of India. Nikita wondered if she could just hop across into one
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of those and sleep and sleep and sleep forever, not having to worry about anything ever again. Then the thought of her own problems of money came back to haunt her. She had to deal with her own problems now. The waters of her life were getting choppy too, polluted by the squeezing grip of time, bad time. She needed to get back into some cash flow soon, or her little world which she had so carefully built against the storms of life in Bombay, would fall like a house of cards.
4 C
limbing up a dark staircase, nestled in a building which had survived at least thirtyfive monsoons in Bombay, Vijay stood with trepidation outside what he knew to be Praveen’s last address. The train had reached Mumbai Central at 4 O’clock in the morning and even after trying to buy time by eating breakfast outside the station at a redi serving omelets and the regular dal chaval, Vijay had landed up at 32 Jal Tarang in Vile Parle East at 5.30a.m., the time most Bombaites were getting home from their late night sojourns. Vijay again looked at the staircase from which he’d come up. The steps obviously built by a first-time builder decades ago were not perfectly at ninety degrees to each previous step. At many places the cement layered steps had broken off creating odd shaped wide and dangerous gaps, giving the impression of one of those unfinished mummies in the English films Vijay had watched on TV, whose disintegrated jaws were just a hole in the middle of their faces. The wall had a sort of jaali effect in it, small squares cut into each other, forming a sort of grid. From many of these squares hung cobwebs, small, faint, like those created by the feeble Bombay house spiders. It looked almost poetic, a round web in a square space. Vijay looked at the door again. ‘Singhals’ it said. Vijay didn’t know that most houses in Bombay said one name on the door and housed someone completely different inside. Most people in Bombay still lived on rent. ‘Bombay, kisi ka sagga sheher nahin’ or ‘Bombay is nobody’s own city,’ his friend had once told him, something even Anand had heard from an uncle who chatted with his dad one day. Anand had just repeated this dialogue to Vijay, as it seemed smart and impressive to repeat. Vijay checked his watch again. 5:30 a.m. It was a Titan, considered in his village, to be the watch of the big people. His mother had bought it for him when he’d got into the college of his choice after his ten plus two. “Pch!” said Vijay. And then he rang the bell. For almost an eternity there was no sound from inside. Vijay was not too sure whether to ring the bell again. He tried to listen for some noise, any noise or sound that would indicate that his meek bell had done its job of rousing the inhabitants out of their slumber. Thinking that maybe they hadn’t heard it and he’d probably 40
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be admonished for ringing it again if they had, he decided to leave. As he turned towards the staircase, he heard a sound. The sound of a latch, then another latch, then the knob of the door which obviously housed another latch being turned first once and then again, before the door slowly creaked open. A sleepy, middle aged face, female, thick neck, fat arms and a floral printed cotton nightie, peered out just enough to reveal these details. “Praveen Choudhary?” Vijay somehow managed to say. “Arre bhai . . . that boy to shifted from here six months ago only . . . no bloody clue where he might be. We’ve had two tenants come and go since then,” said the lady. Her husband, groggier, thick set and irritated, came up from behind her. “Is this the time to bajao someone’s ghanti, ting tong ting tong . . . so early in the morning, Behenchod?!” Vijay turned and began to hurry away as the wife began controlling him from coming out and furthering his aggressive intentions. Vijay hurried down the stairs. On his way down he could hear the wife and husband having a quarrel in which the much louder voice was of the husband’s. Vijay realized that even in Bombay some themes seemed to be just the same. Later in life he would come to understand truly that some themes were the same almost everywhere. From a roadside vendor, Vijay bought a map of Bombay which he used to begin his tour of the city. Upon asking, he got to know that Fashion Street was the cheapest place to buy clothes. He had Rs 8000 in his father’s wallet; his father’s monthly income after cutting the P.F. (Provident Fund, an amount which the company saved on your behalf in a P.F. account which you always hoped would come to you someday but often never did. It just dangled on and on, like one of those proverbial carrots in front of the panting, running donkey). His father owned a decent piece of land in a distant village of Bihar and money came in from there as well. He had sublet it to farmers and for the past decade, the produce was on an all time high. At first Vijay was thrilled with the amount. He’d never even saved half as much in his life, let alone handled it and now he had the freedom to use it as he pleased, that too in the midst of this unparalleled freedom, in the city he often dreamed of secretly. Vijay soon came to realize, Rs.8000 did not get you far in Bombay. He began by staying at Colaba and visiting all the hot spots. Often he found South African men coming up to him and asking him if he wanted ‘stuff ’ which he refused. He had no clue what this ‘stuff ’ was. Vijay understood English well as it had been his second language at school and Languages were the subjects he liked the most. Numbers were his nightmare. He stayed in small, cheap hotels and began to live life as if the incident with his mother and father had never happened and he’d not lost his entire family in one gruesome night. For Vijay in those two weeks of ecstasy, he was the king of Bombay. He ate in big restaurants, bought clothes from Fashion Street often, roamed in rickshaws and taxis and saw films at the local cinema hall.
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He phoned his friend Anand often. Anand, vicariously through Vijay’s travels, experienced the city of his secret dreams too, Bombay. Soon enough, Vijay’s sack of gold came to an end. An abrupt end. In the last few days Vijay had started traveling by bus or walking, eating at roadside restaurants. He also started looking for a job everywhere. He’d left his certificates and other proof of any qualification back home, and so finally after trying out a few other job options, he was ready to even accept a job as a waiter. He tried and tried and tried as with each passing day his need for money became more urgent, but no work came his way. Then one day after several hours of walking around in the hot mid summer Bombay sun, Vijay sat down to lunch at a redi or roadside stall. A plate of dal rice was being sold for Rs 10/-. Vijay checked his pockets. He had Rs 50/-left. He just didn’t know what to do! Right then Vijay noticed a man, wearing a shoddy watchman’s uniform with ‘Zen Security’ emblazoned across the lapels on the dark blue shirt, looking at him. The man got up and came over to him. Sitting down, he began to talk to Vijay in that all too familiar Bihari accent. “Arre bhai kauno town are you phraum? Bihari no?!! Aaee cun tell eu seee.” “From Samastipur,” said Vijay. The watchman then spoke about some random things relating to Bombay and got to know that Vijay was here on a sort of holiday but now wanted a job as his money had run out. The watchman didn’t question Vijay further, as outsiders coming to this city of dreams, then finishing off their money and not knowing how to manage, was one of the oldest of reasons for the population burst Bombay was experiencing continuously for almost a century. The watchman’s name was Atul Dubey, a man of medium height with a hawk-like nose and thick, baggy eyelids. He told Vijay that he had an option for him. Vijay’s eyes lit up just a little. Somewhere within him, he knew that another stage of this sudden call to adventure which had appeared before him a few days ago in his life in the most tragic way, would unfold itself very soon. ‘Mehta,’ said the name plate at the door. Above it, ‘304’. This building, Homestead, was much neater than the one Vijay’d been to, looking for Praveen in the suburb of Vile Parle. This area was Lokhandwala Complex, an area where, Atul told him, most of the film people lived. As they took the 266 BEST bus from Andheri station and got into Lokhandwala about twentyfive minutes later, Atul had pointed out with pride the houses of almost every film and TV actor or actress, as if he knew them all personally. With each passing site, Vijay had grown more excited. Atul spoke about the film world and about his insights into what happened behind the scenes. He spoke with the aplomb of a studio manager rather than an ex-studio watchman that he was. Vijay took all this in with rapt attention, a part of his mind dreaming away in filmdom. The conversation thus lulled them both into a dreamy world of Stardom, as they both swayed and bobbed along in the front seats of the upper deck of a large ‘Whale of the Indian Roads’ double decker bus, the head of the bus rushing into some branches of trees every now and then.
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Homestead was a 15-year-old building and more of an upper middle class one. The builder had as usual, chosen a particular theme and colour for the entire construction on the exterior, but in the interior, ironically, each flat seemed demarcated by some particular furnishing, tile layout, and colour pattern, as if it was a flea market, with small stalls set up inside, selling completely different things. This house had expensive wooden flooring which extended a few feet outside the main door and the wood extended a few feet on the walls too. Right after the wood ended, began the original mosaic tiling which the builder had basically used to tile the entire inside of the building. “Now you’ll meet apni Nazia Maidam,” said Atul. They stood there waiting for a while after which the door opened and Nazia Hasan, tall (5'9" for an Indian woman is generally considered tall), in her late thirties, dusky, with a well endowed figure and dressed in a tight fitting kurta pyjama suit, which showed her ample breasts to advantage, stood before them. Nazia looked first at Atul, for a split second and then registering exactly what this visit was for, she looked Vijay up and down. “Hmmm . . . he doesn’t bloody look like your cousin . . .” she eyed Atul suspiciously. “Ma ke side ka hai, Maidam! He’s from my mother’s side . . . so then how can the thopdas bear any same to sameness?!” Nazia smiled; a smile which broke through the untrusting expression like a ray of piercing light through dense fog. Subtle humour was her kind and Atul’s spontaneous reply which was honest and funny because of the words he chose made her let down her guard. She opened the door enough for them both to step inside. Vijay looked around the small one BHK apartment. It was neatly furnished with one of the two largest walls of that rectangular drawing room coloured in a shade of sunrise red and orange. The curtains were matching yellows and oranges and so were the coushin covers on the divan, made simply by keeping two mattresses, one over the other, making an impromptu ground seating arrangement. After taking in the neat floor lamps which dimly illuminated the whole drawing room, Vijay turned to face Nazia and Atul. “All theek thaak hai na . . . No kam zyaada na Sahab?!” Nazia joked. Vijay smiled at her. “First class boy he is, Maidam . . . he doings all works . . . not like other regular Bambaiya kaamchors . . .” said Atul, like a sales agent, making a sales pitch about a lawn mower. “Bartan, chai, dusting, jhaadoo, pocha, he’s got to do it all . . . kapdon ke liye there’s a machine and for the khaana there’s a cook. You’ve got to do all the rest . . .” said Nazia. “Ji bilkul. Absolutely,” said Vijay. “Chaar hazaar, 4000 is your pagaar. Added to that, khaana, peena, rehna, all muft,” said Nazia.
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Vijay wagged his head in that most Indian of styles meaning a gamut of emotions and expressions which Nazia understood correctly as a ‘yes’. “Maidam . . .” said Atul, following it up with a coy smile which Nazia understood only too well. She turned, walked up to her purse kept on a side table and rummaged through it to find a hundred rupee note. Then she walked over to Atul, unfolded it along the way and gave it to him. “Thank you,” said Atul and left with a slight wave to Vijay. For the rest of that day Nazia took Vijay through all the household chores informing him of her specifications at every point—how she liked her tea, how much water, how much of tea leaves, how much sweetener, how she wanted her clothes ironed, how the dusting was to be done covering all the small crevices in the paneling of the chairs, book shelves, etc. For Vijay, this was the first time he’d have to do all these chores. He wondered how his mother must have felt doing all this the whole day, everyday. Thinking about her brought tears to his eyes. What lives some women had to live! Was there a way out? The answer came to him in flashes that night. He tensed his breath as he controlled the warm liquid burning in his eyes and fighting to come out. A tear rolled out of each eyelid. Then Vijay managed to rein in the flow. Vijay’s place in the house was in the kitchen, in a corner where at night he was supposed to sleep on a straw chatai. He had his Fashion Street clothes with him. Two T-shirts, one half sleeved shirt, and a pair of blue jeans, a comfort fit and Action Shoes, another one of his buys in the spending frenzy he’d gotten into during his first two weeks in Bombay. Later that evening, while Nazia read a novel, Vijay watched the television with the volume kept low. Nazia had allowed him to watch the television after he’d completed all his work. Next to the large reclining chair that went all the way down which Nazia used especially to read, was a small music system with a CD player and radio. Soft Jazz emanated from the speakers of the system. The contrast between the sounds and noises of the Hindi film which Vijay was watching and the jazz which Nazia was playing, was uncanny. Yin and Yang, East and West, black and white both fused together. From the photos, magazine samples, lots of writing paper kept on the desk in one corner of the drawing room, Vijay had figured out that his new employer was some sort of a writer. But what he didn’t know was that she was a columnist for Cine World, one of the leading film magazines of Bombay. She’d been featuring interviews of stars, producers, directors and camera men for the past twelve years and was now one of the most renowned columnists in the country. The hero in the film had just given a roundhouse kick to his tenth opponent in a row. ‘Dishum!’ The door bell rang. Nazia motioned from her reclining chair to Vijay to see who it was. Vijay switched the TV. off first and then walked over to the door to check, while Nazia went back to the world of her book, another intellectual account of another revolution in another third world country.
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As Vijay opened the door, in walked Inder Mehta, in the same stride in which a lion walks in on his kill, claiming it after his lioness has done all the dirty work. Inder Mehta was 5'8", approximately 80 kilos in weight with a wheatish complexion and lovely light brown eyes which betrayed a twinkle when he smiled. His head, full of graying hair had the salt and pepper hair look which had made Richard Gere famous for years. He used a soft L’Oreal water based gel every morning to put his hair in place, then combed it into that good boy kind of side parting which young British boys donned in the past eras. This was for him his lion’s mane and he took special care of it as if it was his crown! He always wore flat shoes which were predominantly meant for walking, in smart beige, brown, tan or off-white colours. In his hand he always carried a Nokia communicator. The communicator which was the size of a small pencil box, was the most preferred power tool of film-walas and corporates alike, not much different from a schimitar or staff which kings and noblemen carried as a symbol of power. On his wrist was a large dialed and very conspicuous Rolex all gold G.M.T. master and in the breast pocket of his always neatly tucked in Friday Dressing shirts lay a Mont Blanc ‘Meisterstuck’ or Masterpiece as it was known outside Germany which got used only to sign cheques. The irony of true writing was that the writers like Nazia could only afford a Reynolds or at best a Parker Vector and the non writers like Inder brandished these masterpiece writing instruments. Vijay looked Inder up and down wondering what he was up to. Inder didn’t even give him a glance as he breezed into the house, passing by Vijay. Seeing him Nazia immediately got out of her nestling chair and almost ran towards him to give him a hug. They embraced for a while passionately, before Inder began to kiss Nazia’s full lips as he slowly ran his hand down the back of her kurta, reaching her well formed and abundant backside. She reached for his hand, just in time to stop him. Nazia then looked at Vijay. “Why don’t you go down and get me some cigarettes, then walk around for a while?” Vijay understood what was being asked of him. He wagged his head and left. The watchman’s cabin down in the building was a permanent cement and bricks structure with corrugated maroon clay tiles covering the top in an inverted ‘V’ shape. It had two windows on either side and a tall coconut tree whose bark arched almost dangerously as it rose standing alongside the cabin. Lokhandwala had once been a marshland, decades ago, and was akin to the mangroves in Bengal. Slowly but surely as with the other suburbs of Bombay, it too was reclaimed and more and more dirt was thrown into the swamp to make it viable for construction. Even today beneath all the land was the same soil which still helped coconut trees to grow in these parts and made a convenient nestling ground for hordes of the choicest of mosquitoes. Now, it was one of the most sought-after areas in the suburbs, thanks to the influx of the whole film industry which invariably settled down there. “Arre how are you so doodh ka dhula re Vijay . . . that Genda is thokoing this gori chitti, gol maal item . . . simple,” said Atul, irritated that Vijay hadn’t figured
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out such a simple thing. “At his age men prefer the more pakka hua aams, if you are getting what I mean,” he added, making a gesture which indicated ripe mangoes in the chest region. “Now you have to be doing some setting bhai,” he continued, scratching his balls as he spoke, “to do some time pass or the other in this timing, bhai . . . or you will get bored everyday. Dhoondo some phataka bai or some chodu memsaab or something, there are many such thoku ladeez around in this area.” “Wonder how much time they’ll take bhai . . . waise ye hain kaun?” asked Vijay, clearly not still at ease with the whole situation. “Arre this Inder Mehta, Bollywood hit producer . . . Santaan aur Saudagar, Loha Garam Hai, but nowadays uska time is kharaab, so he’s lying here only bajaoing this ladeez game.” “Pch!” said Vijay impressed by this bit of filmdom that he would now get to experience personally. Slowly he entered this new life which seemed to have small surprises for him at every turn. His village in Bihar seemed a long, long distance away. He turned to look out of the window at the busy road outside as Atul got back to chatting with the mali of the building. Over the days, Vijay got acquainted with Inder Mehta, for whom he pretty much did not exist. Producers had so many people running after them that they often developed this attitude which made them seem like they lived in their heads, in some other universe. Inder Mehta frequently came and stayed till late in the night. The apartment, as Vijay learnt, was his and Nazia lived there. They’d known each other for years now and Nazia invariably lived in his apartment. At the end of the first month, Vijay got his salary of four thousand rupees, of which, as promised, he gave Atul five hundred; an exorbitant amount, but one to which Vijay had readily agreed and so had to shell out for the next three months, as soon as he got his salary. Vijay liked it in ‘Homestead’. At the back of the building was a small garden with tiles pushed and set into the soil making a small pathway which led to nowhere. It just crossed the length of the small garden. In one corner there were a few coconut trees and thick, jungli grass grew all around the tiles. Vijay spent a lot of time there alone. He would stand and look out at the road and watch the double decker BEST bus, the ‘266’ go by, the same on which he’d first come to this house. He liked looking at the vegetable vendors right outside the back gate of the building higgling and haggling with the housewives, some stingy some more stingy, who came down every evening to buy their groceries and stock their fridges and kitchens. Watching all this, he himself became adept at getting the right prices for all the right vegetables. Vijay had a few hours every evening to be out and at night Inder and Nazia would shut their room door and leave him to be in the kitchen. He shut the kitchen door too every night, for fear of ever hearing another disturbing sound from behind closed doors. Then one night, three months after Vijay’s stay at ‘304 Homestead’, it happened.
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Vijay was fast asleep, the little kitchen clock said 5 a.m. Suddenly Vijay heard shouting followed by a bit of a scuffle and then screams coming from Nazia’s room. Fearing the worst, he began to look for the belan again. Right then the door to her room opened and Nazia, in her lavender silk nightie and Inder with a slight paunch and boxer shorts and a hairy chest, stormed out. “I thought you were over that bitch. How dare you two time me, you scoundrel!” thundered Nazia. “There’s no such thing happening, baby . . . you’re just flaring up over nothing,” Inder tried to reason. But Nazia would not hear a word of it! “SMSes and phone calls at two in the fucking morning! Nothing’s happening . . . sure thing!” “Vijay, pack my things. Main abhi isi waqt apne ghar jaa rahi hoon . . . Back to Napean Sea Road, away from this bloody marshland!” Vijay had hardly any time to react. Before he could register it, Nazia and her bags were packed and the house was shut. Sitting down outside the watchman’s cabin, Vijay saw the taxi leave with Nazia and all her luggage. She was still in a huff and wore her dark sun glasses which completely cut out all chances of anyone ever seeing what those eyes felt. She gave a quick wave to Vijay as he sat there glumly. Inder watched her leave too and then walked back to the other side of the building to get his car from the parking. He drove an automatic transmission Honda Accord which was greyish silver in colour. “Ye hai bambai, ye hai bambai, ye hai bambai meri jaan . . .” crooned Atul looking at a sulking Vijay. Little did Atul know that this was one of Vijay and Anand’s favourite songs; they often listened to it, at Vijay’s place with one ear plug in each one’s ears. As Atul finished his off-tune chorus, Inder’s car passed by the cabin. Atul got back into attention with a salute which was more a formality than anything to do with respect. Vijay looked into the car at Inder who probably, for the first time, made eye contact with him. Vijay’s eyes were pleading even though he didn’t know it himself. Suddenly his slow train which had taken off at Homestead in this city had come to a grinding halt. Inder stopped the car and rolled his window down. “Do you know how to drive?” he asked point blank. Vijay snapped out of his early morning daze, complicated by the sudden change of events that had made him homeless. He looked at Inder Mehta, taking a second or two to comprehend what he’d been asked. “Yes Sir,” he said. “Get in,” said Inder as if that was enough. No more explanation. Vijay looked at Atul, then back at Inder. Another one of those surprise hooks from the world above had come dangling in front of the fish within him and standing at another crossroad, he decided to take the bait, to choose a world above of which he had no clue as opposed to the calm of the water in which he was now. He walked over to the car.
5 O
nce Vijay sat on the cream leather seats, the door shut and another chapter began as the car moved out of Homestead, Lokhandwala Complex. Vijay had never sat or even dreamed of sitting in such a luxurious car. It was a first edition Indian Honda Accord. Spacious, elegant, and the smell of the superb quality Italian leather filled the cabin space. The Bose music system played old ghazals at a very low volume adding to the already enchanting ambience. Vijay had hardly any time to look out. His world for now was just the inside of the car and little did he know it, but his world was going to be the inside of a car for a long time to come, filled with experiences which his young, flowering mind would remember till the end of his days. Vijay noticed the graphic equalizer which in that particular model of the Accord was set right in the middle of the front panel and was brightly lit with an array of dancing LED lights. He looked on as the lights danced on in merriment, in sync with the music. There was a faux wooden paneling on the front, making it look even grander. Even the steering wheel had half its diameter in wood. Inder sat quiet for a while. Then he rolled down his window to have a smoke and send a couple of SMSes from his communicator which he held expertly. After a while he looked towards Vijay with the communicator still open. “I have a son, Shashank. He partys shartys late and drinks hard . . . age hai uski, I guess . . . then I get calls from people . . . middle of the night . . . “Sirji, your son has fallen off into some gutter shutter, or at some chuddi buddi’s ashiana or some disco shishco.” I had a driver for him but he’s left last month for his muluk . . . and I’m fed up of being his midnight knight in shining armour . . . picking him up from here and there. I need someone to be with him all the time, driving him around and bringing him back. About the food and staying, don’t worry,” said Inder. “Theek hai, Sir, no problem,” said Vijay. What Inder hadn’t bothered to specify was that Shashank frequently got drunk and fell off onto the road, puking his guts out almost every night and Inder didn’t want to give Shashank even that squeezed out bit of love and care which Shashank did all this for. Shashank’s mother had died when he was very young and he’d 48
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hardly had anyone to look after him in the way children need and expect from their parents. Shashank saw the world as he saw his father, ruthless, not worthy of trust, harsh, as something from which each morsel of love was to be fought hard for and pleased by loosing more and more of his own identity. Somewhere deep within, the little boy in the spoilt rotten twenty one year old Shashank, had these drinking binges and fell onto the road, only so that he could call upon his father, asking for help; only because he wanted his dad to come pick him up and take him home. A need so small, yet so powerful in the little boy’s mind that he’d have done anything to get it, be it in school, after the day was over, or at night after the alcohol was out and now was the turn of the bile, to come gushing out in spurts, onto the tarmac. Inder Mehta was a Hindi film producer and as such never had the time to give any attention to his only son. The more Shashank fell into his dark abyss of craving for Inder’s love, the more Inder moved away from him and gave up on him as a good for nothing, mishap in his life. After this trivial informational exchange, Inder got back to the world of his power tool phone, leaving Vijay gazing out of the window. From time to time, Vijay would steal a quick glance at the dancing mini LED lights on the graphic equalizer in the front panel, almost as if hoping that he wouldn’t snap out of this fantasy. Vijay looked at Bombay during the day, so much activity, so much speed. Everyone looked as if they were doing something really important and you could bet they believed they were. As Vijay was lost in his thoughts and an assimilation of the sights and sounds of Bombay as viewed from an air conditioned enclosed palace on wheels, Inder was busy on his phone; the Accord sped on towards Vijay’s new home and some more new unopened doors in the book of Vijay’s fate. Atithi Dance Bar was located in the famous Grant Road area, house to all of Bombay’s prostitution and soft prostitution rackets. Housed below Kennedy Bridge, on which the two hundred rupee for short-time kind of prostitutes with odd shaped bodies and tart like cakes of make up, stood. The door was more ornate than a Bollywood starlet’s mid-movie wedding dress. It had a sheet of Formica on it which had a multicoloured reflection, almost like a rainbow. On top of this was aluminum designing done by beating the thin malleable metal into various traditional Indian squiggles and designs. In the middle of this whole assortment of colours were small lights which were arranged around the designs. They flickered on and off in a set sequence and then displayed their seven different kinds of lights on and off patterns alternatively, and so on. On top of this door on the four corners of it were spotlights which illuminated the already dazzling illumination of the door, as if it didn’t already call enough attention to itself. A giant-size guard who was from Rajasthan, stood at the gate. He was 6'2" tall and broad shouldered, reminding one of the bulldozers which builders used to evacuate places that held thousand of debris on it. He had a thick black handlebar moustache with the traditional Indian curl at both ends which he kept twirling. His name was Radhesham Dashrat Falod or
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R.D. as everyone fondly called him at the bar. He was the Indian version of the American club bouncer and he did a swell job of it. In his seven year career at Atithi, not one man had been able to equal him in strength and he was the reason that peace prevailed in the bar in spite of it being the norm to get drunk and explore certain sides of men’s shallow selves. If any of them however did anything which R.D. considered lewd, he’d simply waltz up to them and haul them over his shoulders, almost like a dacoit hoisting his prize woman for the night from his latest plundering on a village, carry them and literally throw them out of the club! No man even in the remotest of senses dared take R.D. on. R.D. over time, had begun to be pronounced as ‘Aardi’. His tough exterior caused people to make the mistake of underestimating his mind, but Aardi knew his world well. He knew who he could touch, and who he’d get his brains blown out for touching; he knew, not surprisingly, the kingpins of every one of the industries of Bombay’s underworld, the black foreign currency market, the country liquor market, the foreigner prostitution market, the pedophilia prostitution market. Aardi knew them well and was tipped by them well. A hundred rupees on a good night every five-ten minutes, was a norm. Over the years, Aardi the watchman-cum-bouncer had earned himself a small permanent room, in a permanent slum nearby and an Enfield motorcycle which suited his XXL frame well. The minute Aardi saw Nikita getting out of the rickshaw and paying the driver; he couldn’t help but smile warmly. He’d known Nikita for the past seven years and was fond of her. She had that no nonsense exterior and never say die spirit which Aardi had come to respect over the years. Also she was a relatively deep person and quite introspective. Something she and Aardi, surprisingly, had in common. He’d seen her handle with impeccable political correctness, some of the toughest rejections to sons of famous and powerful people in that bar. She didn’t sleep with anyone, she chose not to. This attribute ironically made it even more difficult for her to say ‘no’ each successive time as news spread that she was one of the toughest of conquests of Atithi Bar. So it became even more of a challenge for the men to have her. Times had changed however and with the whole bar dancing circuit having been shut down with the imposing ban for the past five months now, most of the girls he knew and liked had had to get into some or the other form of compromise repeatedly to make their living. Nikita walked up to him. “Aardi, kasa aahes? Aani how’s Shreekant? And Rukmini?” Shreekant was Aardi’s three year old nephew who’d hit it off famously with Nikita on his last visit to Bombay a year ago and Rukmini was his sister whose son Shreekant was. They, in a way, were Aardi’s only family left in his hometown in Rajasthan. “Sab theek . . . Thenk you,” said Aardi. He was happy to see Nikita, who always had this pleasant aura about her. He didn’t want to ask her how she was as he knew things couldn’t be too good; else she wouldn’t be here right now. Many of the girls came back from time to time to check about the future of their bar.
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“So what’s going on ikde aaaj kal?” asked Nikita as he opened the thick, large, lit-up door for her to enter. “Welllll, better see yourselph!” replied Aardi and smiled as she went in and got lost in the world of Atithi. Entering inside, Nikita was amazed to see three young girls, obviously in their early twenties, dressed in flashy, silky, tight fitting evening gowns in the gaudiest of colours, maroon, magenta, and purple, all standing near a mike and singing, “Aap jaisa koi meri zindagi mein aaaye, to . . .” The lead singer had a reasonably good voice but the seconds’ singers were barely able to keep up the sur or melody. The three girls showed off their cleavages, some generously endowed, some almost non existent and propped up with whatever they chose, from scrap newspapers stuffed inside, to high class padded bras, desi versions of ‘Victoria’s Secret Wonder Bras’. The stage, the floor of which Nikita touched in respect each day before climbing it, was lying useless to the side with all its spotlights turned off. The mirrors had not even been cleaned. Earlier when the Bar was in its element they were cleaned twice a day, with old newspapers to keep them squeaky clean. After all, these were the mirrors which showed off the Bar’s prized possessions, the glances of which earned the Bar its millions. The singers stood instead in the center of the room and the patrons instead of their usual way, sat on chairs, almost as if they were sitting for a musical concert. They had drinks in their hands and they threw their usual lecherous stares at the women in front of them. But something about this whole thing didn’t quite seem right to Nikita. She felt that feeling of something not quite right with the world nowadays, as old people felt, when they saw the changing, inexplicable face of the world around them. Sharan Arasa sat in his trousers and white shirt, his standard dress code, at a table which had the ‘galla’ or cash stock in the restaurant. Nikita noticed the numbered boxes, which at one point had swelled with the money that each of them earned in one night, now lying empty. She was reminded of how waiters like Shreepal collected it from the floor and put it into the respective boxes, depending on which customer was in eye-to-eye contact with which dancer. “Arre Nikita, kashi aahes re tu? How have you been?” asked Sharan. Over the years he had learnt Marathi as he believed in a motto similar to HSBC’s, the world’s local bank advertisement, according to which, to live in a place you had to know its local language. “Chhaangli re . . . But what is this bhunkas you’ve started?” questioned Nikita. Sharan smiled a generous smile. “What to do . . . the ban says, ‘No Dancing’. So I’ve brought in some singers. But they do sound like someone’s strangulating the cat and as you can see, there are not many customers interested in looking at them, no matter how revealing the dresses.” Nikita sat beside him on a stool which was almost a permanent fixture beside his table. Sharan Arasa had a thick neck, a round face with a crisp slick French beard
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made across it that his local barber carved out for him with panache and a sense of pride, every weekend. Around it grew his regular thick stubble. He had two deep dimples on either side of his generous jaw and when he laughed, his pearly whites stood out against his dark skin. He had a magnanimous smile which all the girls of the bar had always loved. Sharan looked at Nikita and he didn’t need to ask or wait for her to begin the conversation he knew she’d come here to have. “That Phatil isn’t going to let the ban be lifted. We (all the bar owners) got together and tried to get every newspaper in the country to publish articles about how the dancers are adversely affected, how the waiters are affected, but nothing concrete is happening out of it yet. By the way, I got to know about Shreepal.” he said and then kept his large hand on Nikita’s head for a split second in a fatherly gesture of love, before removing it and putting it back on the table. “I’ve been trying new things time and again but nothing seems to work like what we had. Nobody knows what the future holds for Dance Bars anymore. It’s a bad time, but what to do?!!” he said. Nikita nodded and then turned her eyes down towards her toes. She often looked at her feet when she was introspecting. Right then someone came up to Sharan Arasa and began to talk to him about something. Nikita walked up to the stage which sat alone and quiet in a corner. She touched the old wood, the olden day’s good quality wood as she knew it. She looked at the spotlights which were resting; some broken, some with the brass plating fading, and flashes of the earlier life pounded in her mind. The music, the colour, the gushing, pounding beats, spoke of life and now all that was dead. She then turned around and walked back to Sharan Arasa who had just finished with the man who was talking to him a minute ago. Arasa looked at Nikita. “Ayyo, if you want to try your hand at singing . . .” laying out his joke, he pointed towards the ladies singing away. He smiled that smile. He was making it easier for Nikita to handle this situation and he succeeded. “Yes sure . . . Kahi tari bhaltach! If I sang, what little we still have left here too will shut down. Her usage of the word ‘we’ warmed Arasa towards her even more as he laughed his throaty laugh. It sounded fake, like the kind which the page three politicians belt out when a reporter asks them an embarrassing question which they don’t want to answer on camera, but it was the original Arasa laughter. “Call me if there’s any news,” said Nikita as she walked up to Arasa and gave him a hug which he sincerely returned. This was one of those heartfelt hugs in which Nikita didn’t let the conscious thought of her having big boobs come in the way of a genuine embrace. Unlike her otherwise ‘bend forward and then hug with your arms’ style. Then she left. I.C. Colony was one of the oldest settlements in the suburb ofBorivili. Located on the west of the railway tracks, it had that small town feel as the buildings, especially the older ones, were all only three storeys tall and had equal spaces between them. There were small bungalows and villas around, with their small gardens and
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picket fences. On I.C. Colony Road itself, was Sunset Building, a three storied building that had been there for the past thirty odd years. This lane, small but alive, had housed the most important and well known shops in the colony. Style Hair Dressers, Wine Port, the wine shop which nursed most of the Christian men, like mother’s milk right through their childhood, Kerala Stores, which had more of Bombay in its daily provisions stock than Kerala; Vailankanni Driers and Cleaners, which did most of the dry cleaning jobs in the colony even today and Louis Cold Storage, the best stocked general store and cold storage for miles around. Mr. Louis, hefty and easily mistaken for a sea faring captain with his salt and pepper French beard and large belly, sat at the cash counter. People came from great distances to his store for the frozen mutton, pork, chicken, prawns, bacon, Goa sausages and last but not the least, the fresh cut ham, a species almost extinct as most stores had begun to keep the packaged ham and almost no other cold storage in the area had the ham slicing machine. The shop to his right in that fabled line was also his. For the past thirty years he and his father had been renting out that shop to various restaurants which had tried their luck. It had over time acquired the label of the ‘jinxed eatery’ as no restaurant that had rented the place had been able to stay afloat in the market for over a year and were soon forced to shut down for making only losses and almost no sales. Coffee shops, Indian food restaurants, a small pasta joint, a pizzeria, and a burger joint had all come and gone but no one had survived the jinx. It was a surprising phenomenon as the ‘Ma Ka Paos’ in the area were famous for gobbling down any form of meat, in any quantity but this one place just didn’t figure in their lives. They came to Style Hair Dressers for their hair; they came to Louis for their monthly meat ration; they came to ‘Vailankanni Driers and Cleaners’ for their laundry needs; but they didn’t sit at Mr. Louis’s restaurant. Never. Mr. Louis now had two tenants ready to try their hand at breaking the jinx, Nikita and a Nitin Desai. Nitin Desai was a middle aged man who lived in Kandivili and wanted to start a restaurant in Borivili. He’d come to this restaurant after going through many other plots which didn’t suit his budget and this was his last resort. He’d worked at Birdy’s of the Taj as cash counter boy, then moved up over the years to manager and held that position for years. It was always his dream to begin a restaurant of his own. And now finally, this was the only viable option left for him. Nikita had seen this place five years ago; over time she’d visited every restaurant in that area and eaten there. She knew Mr. Louis. She knew about his family house at Benaulim in Goa. She knew Mrs. Briganza who lived down the road in Mi Casa. She knew the local joke that outside Mrs. Briganza’s house the gate said, ‘Mi Casa Mi Casa’ which meant ‘my house is my house’ as opposed to the popular phrase ‘Mi Casa Su Casa’ or ‘my house is your house’. Timothy, Mrs. Briganza’s son had painted ‘Mi Casa’ on one half of the gate and then ‘Mi Casa’ on the other half without realizing what it meant in totality. Above all, Nikita was set to move into
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the not so distant, Manasi Paradise building, two lanes down, so she would not be just a neighbour but a customer and a client. So Mr. Louis preferred to rent it out to her. But as for everybody who made an honest living in Bombay, the money was important and Nitin Desai was ready with the money, at this point, Nikita wasn’t. “Whaaat men, thet Nikita’s again late re. 2.30 she said, no? Becoming evening now,” said Mr. Louis, to his aide in the shop, Martin. Just then, out of a rickshaw stepped Nikita. “Sorry, Mr. Louis. Sorry! Mi kaay karu? That Mr. Bhave of Peerless Builders took up all my time. I have to make payments to him also for the apartment in a few days.” Manasi Paradise was a building which was still under construction but was almost complete, the painting jobs and the inside tiling jobs were all that was left for completion. Nikita had chosen it even though it wasn’t a very good construction, even though the finish of every bit of work was bad, even though its outside walls were painted in the most garish parrot green, because it was near Sunset Building and was in one of the quieter lanes of I.C. Colony, very close to her dream restaurant. “Sawlright men, sawlright! Just like dat I’m asking haan, how much you paid for dat flet?” he asked. “15 lakhs,” replied Nikita. “My God! Prices gone up na . . . heard dat, Martin? 15 lakhs!” said Mr. Louis. Nikita removed an envelope from her handbag and passed it on to Mr. Louis. “This is the deposit. Can I pay you the remaining in a week?” asked Nikita. She had already been late even with this token and she knew that Nitin Desai was waiting with the full advance payment of one lakh seventy thousand, fifty for the deposit and a lakh and twenty thousand for the advance monthly rent for a year, at the rate of ten thousand a month. “E girl, already you made me wait re . . . what dat Mr. Desai will think, I’m giving attitude what . . . not fair ya. Not fair!” he said, shaking his big head like the captain refusing permission to the crew for a leave application aboard his cruise liner. “Sorry Mr. Louis, I can do it earliest in three days, is that ok then?” “Hmmm . . . but please no making it late dis time haan . . . now soon you’re going to be neighbour men, dats why I’m helping out haan, love dy neighbour said Jesus, you know dat na?” “Yes, thank you Mr. Louis, thank you! I’ll see you in three days,” said Nikita as she left the shop. Many customers had begun piling up as the early hours of the evening had begun. Soon many people would throng this cold storage for the various frozen meats it held in its belly. She got back into the same rickshaw she’d come in and moved out of her favourite lane in I.C. colony. Turning left, she came
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into the lane which housed Mr. John’s fish shop which she always recognized by the cross that had, ‘Here Lies His Body’, written across its face. The words morphed into a shape which resembled the body of Jesus Christ in its original form on the cross. Only on close observation could one make out that this was not a picture of the body, but words which fused and were written in such a way that they gave the illusion of a body. She saw the turtle box which housed in a small glass aquarium six amphibian turtles, priced she knew at two hundred and fifty rupees each. She looked at them as she passed the shop, walking slowly around their mini world. She wondered if she’d live three hundred years too if she moved at that pace. Nikita had paid Mr. Bhave of Peerless Builders a sum of fifteen lakhs just last week and then spent one lakh on stamp duty, thereby finishing almost all her savings. She had disinvested the money from various mutual funds, fixed deposits and the likes which she had accumulated slowly over the years. While her friends lived it up, she chose to save; save for her dream and now, soon, she needed another one lakh twenty thousand to pay Mr. Louis. The problem was that if she paid him the full amount, she would have only three thousand rupees left in her bank account, after which, had she been in business, she could have legally declared herself bankrupt. She needed to make some money to at least buy her time to think. She didn’t want to pay Mr. Louis less than what had been agreed, promising to pay the rest soon. He’d already been kind enough and she liked the old man. He was to be her landlord for her new restaurant and she knew she would need him at various stages of getting her restaurant started. He’d had experience with helping twelve different sets of people over the years to start up a restaurant. This was one relationship she didn’t want to spoil, especially since most of the people in that area, including most importantly her target clientele, was his clientele too. Nikita was from Ratnagiri and a Brahmin and as such, wasn’t the fish eating kind. But Aslam had said that he was from Sindhudurg, a fish eating populace further down the Konkan Coast and loved the typical Konkani non vegetarian cuisine, fish curry being his favourite. So Nikita had learned the entire range of Konkani cuisine from her father’s sister, who’d married out of her cast to a Muslim, and who lived in Sindhudurg. Nikita had lied to her, telling her that she had tasted fish with a friend and had fallen in love with it. The aunt was happy to teach her. It gave her a sense of absolution from the severed relationships with her family, due to her inter-caste marriage. After the Bombay incident which had left its permanent scars in Nikita’s mind, she had nursed this dream of starting a specialty Konkan Food Restaurant in Bombay. To begin this restaurant Nikita knew she would have to first become part of the AAHAR association of restaurants, get the various permissions for the kitchen which would only happen after the following had been verified and certified: chimney smoke in the right direction, seating, ventilation and exhaust facilities. Then she would have to get a grading certificate from the food and beverage inspector who would have to send his report to the chief vigilance officer. And none
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of this would happen without greasing the palms of every man involved. Add to this, the haftas which she would have to pay to keep her restaurant open after ten thirty every night which was when the whole Ma Ka Pao crowd as she called them, would be ready to be fed. She couldn’t wait to see the board, ‘Jog Eating House’ which marked the end to her life in Bombay’s underbelly and her shining tribute to Aslam and her mother and father. Back onto the main road, Nikita held up a cotton handkerchief to her nose to be able to breathe freely in the polluted S.V. Road air. The atmosphere around her life at this point was stifling. She wanted to surge up from this large financial wave. She wished to overcome the currents that had pulled her down, lung into the clear free air, gulp it down into her thirsty lungs and then swim in broad strokes towards the island of her future. Back home, Nikita took a long shower. The lengthy day which had begun with a visit to Atithi followed by her visit to her restaurant site and the office of the builder, had only resulted in her feeling even more at a loss for options as to how to get such large sums of money suddenly. The shower was easily a design of over two decades old, the nozzle of which had rusted with age. Nikita stood facing the wall of her four by nine feet bathroom, surprisingly large for the size of the apartment. This was something Nikita had insisted on when she’d taken up this place on rent. Her shower was like her moment of meditation, when she tried to just remain in the present. Once into the bathroom she saw to it that she forced all thoughts about the past and the future, out of her head, though many a time she had to try really hard to do so. She always had to have a bath with steaming hot water. She loved to make designs on the condensed the bathroom mirror. For now, she was content looking at the green creepers which spiraled up each tile. They looked as if they were a bunch of creepers rising right from the floor and reaching upto the roof. She loved this design and looked at it admiringly every day during her hour-long bath. She then used, one by one, all three of the different fragrances of soap she’d picked up from Fab India at the recommendation of one of the girls at Crystal’s aerobics class. Almond and honey, apricot and peach and the third which she always used last was cool cucumber. She first smelled each of the soaps before working it up into a thick lather in her palms and then applying it all over. Having finished her ritual she wiped herself dry, carefully scrubbing the skin near her ankles and toes harder than the rest of her body, as Aai had taught her and then wrapped her large towel around herself and came out of the bathroom. Having come out she walked over to the Chip’n Dale wooden cupboard which she’d acquired with the apartment, opened it, and took out a small bottle of Johnson’s baby powder. At the back of her cupboard, which was full of her perfumes, deodorants, imitation jewelery which she’d picked up sometimes from Linking Road or any station, or from Colaba Causeway, was a picture. As she picked up the powder bottle, her eyes rested on the picture. She averted her gaze, but she knew it was too late. She reached out for the photo frame and pulled it into the light. It was that
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same picture, clichéd but extremely close to her heart, the one in which Aslam and she stood smiling like two star crossed lovers, arm in arm with the gay abandon of new love in front of the towering Gateway of India. She gazed at the photo lovingly for some time, looking at Aslam’s smile, his broad shoulders which she had loved to nuzzle into, the stubble on his face which had irritated her skin each time he’d tried to kiss her, the eyes which she’d looked into, felt safe, felt loved, felt alive . . . once upon a time. She stopped herself from thinking any further about a time long gone and put the photo back. She felt that all too familiar surge of emotion rise from her stomach right up to her throat. She tried, she tried hard to fight it down, but today it seemed like the adversary would win and she would loose. She tried some more to fight the feeling down; will power is all it takes, she tried to tell herself but then with the surge growing stronger with each passing moment, she gave in. She walked over to the bed and sat on it, as the sobs came up from her belly, first one gut wrenching sob then another followed by a barrage of them, knocking the wind out of her. She sat there and wept, wept till her eyes could burn no more, till her throat could contract no more, till her soul could weep no more. It had been an hour since she’d fallen asleep in that condition, with the tears having dried on her soft cheeks as she lay wrapped only by the white linen towel, when the doorbell rang. Immediately she remembered that she’d asked Renuka to come to her place at 5 O’clock. She got up and hurriedly changed into her casual everyday home jeans and T shirt and then rushed over to the door. The door bell echoed the irritation of the person outside as the button was pressed repeatedly. Nikita opened the door to an irritated Renuka. “Kaay re . . . kitti ved lagte tula daar ughdayla? I’ve been waiting here in this bloody dark corridor, in this bloody heat with my tits sweating like a jug of water, for the past ten minutes! What were you doing? Pleasing yourself ?!” said an irate Renuka “Naaahi re . . . jhopli hoti . . . had just dozed off . . . Sorry. Come,” replied Nikita. She let Renuka in and shut the door. Renuka was dressed in a much more showy pastel blue, tight fitting top made of ‘95% cotton 5% lycra’ as the new labels said, low waist Levi’s tight fit, with flared bottom jeans. She sat down on the small cane make-shift sofa in the hall. Nikita came up to her and sat down beside her on the adjoining cane chair which had a red cushion. Renuka was far less attractive than Nikita but the long list of parlour treatments which she’d gotten done to herself like straightening, protein treatment for her hair, bleaching, the frequent visits to the nail bar, French manicure and pedicure and the expensive branded shoes and clothes which she wore, gave her an ice princess like cold beauty. She was an inch taller than Nikita and wore stilettoes which accentuated her height even more. Her complexion was wheatish in colour and as opposed to Nikita’s softer features; Renuka had a chiseled jaw line, a sharp nose and eyebrows to match.
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“Toh kya chal raha hai? What have you been up to? How’s your money situation?” she asked candidly. “Arre yaar mat pooch! Got to pay off the owner of the shop, where I want to start my restaurant, the advance rent for a year. I’ve already paid the builder Maniklal an amount of five lakhs for the apartment I want to buy since the flats are almost ready for possession. If I pay the restaurant wala in time, I’ll have nothing left in my bank account and then I will still have to do all that bribing of various bloody BMC officers for the permissions. Oh and then do up the restaurant even if in the most meager manner! Itki vaat laagli aahe na . . . kai saangu tula?!!” “Baap re . . . five lakhs! The restaurant rent must also be quite a lot na? Which area are you finally thinking of starting it in?” asked Renuka. “Arre, I’d thought of Malad itself but atta paishe chi itki garaj jhaali aahe ki even Borivili seems like heaven. So Borivili it is for sure.” They spoke for a while longer. Renuka talked about Tara and Subhadra who’d come from Agra and how they’d gone back to their villages on the outskirts after the ban and the resulting three months of no work. In their villages their families needed money and so the two girls had tried their hand at prostitution in Agra and had gotten caught. As this was foreign territory now, not their turf, they were sitting in some lock up in God knows what state, under the lustful hands of the Agra police. Things just kept getting worse thought Nikita. She herself hadn’t been able to find a way out of this void; the vacuum seemed to just be getting stronger and stronger. “So what have you done for the past five months to earn money?” Nikita finally asked Renuka. “For the first three months, I also just kept thinking and then hoping that this whole ban thing would end. None of us really took it seriously na at first. Then I had to, just had to earn some money. It was Suresh’s turn to pay his next term’s fees, and so I just had to call up some of the old timers . . . purane aashiq . . . from the bar. It began with one offs and now I’m doing one job a week.” Suresh was Renuka’s younger brother who was studying Science at some college in Nasik. She supported not only him but her mother too, who had been widowed when Renuka was barely five years old. At Atithi there had been many men who propositioned all the girls from time to time for one offs in bed and were ready to pay huge amounts to them for the pleasure. Nikita stayed as far out of this as possible. Though she had had her share of one offs with people she just couldn’t deny, but for Renuka, this had been a steady source of extra income which she then spent on all the ayyaashees, that her monthly income which she sent back home, couldn’t provide her with. “Hmm . . .” said Nikita as she thought for a bit about this. “Why don’t you also try at least a one off ? It’ll at least buy you some time,” suggested Renuka. “Yes, honestly, I’ve been thinking about it re. Pan phone konala karu . . . hech kadat nahi. I just don’t know whom to call.”
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Renuka explained to her that from all the hundreds of men who’d propositioned her she should just list out a few who she thought were the safest of the lot and try them. They chatted about other things under the sun like that Matherchod Phatil and about the new stint which Sharan Arasa was trying to pull to keep the bar alive, the singing sirens; about politics and film stars and cars and jewellery and about other people they both knew from the past. Nikita served Renuka some chivda which was one of her favourites from Pune. Lakshiminarayan Chivda, was brought back by her friend who had gone to Pune for a one nighter with her yaar. They chatted, they laughed and for a short while, almost as if in a meditative state, they forgot the past and the future. They were at ease. Then it was time for Renuka to leave. “Tuhjakade konte numbers aahet ka re? Some guys you trust and are relatively safe with. It was different when we were at the bar re . . . Aasra was always there to look after us and we were attached to the bar so no one could mess around. But otherwise you know na . . . kahitari hou shakte . . . anything can happen,” said Nikita. “Ho . . . I understand . . . see, I can’t give you my business . . . but there are these two guys who I’m not in touch with. Te majhe reserve hote . . . You can have their numbers,” said Renuka smiling. Nikita knew the rules of the trade. Of course Renuka couldn’t give her the numbers of the clients she was servicing. Else she’d be creating direct competition for herself. Aa bail mujhe maar, or inviting the bull to thrust its horns into you. She was happy that Renuka was ready to part with her even reserves. She gladly took down the numbers on her mobile phone—Krishna Ahuja, a chartered accountant and Romulus Fernandez, a pilot. Renuka embraced Nikita at the door and Nikita could feel the slight bit of extra tightness in that hug, the tough times always brought their fraternity, like any other, together and a tough time this was, indeed. They’d all worked hard and they’d all made plans and now the future was a road completely different from the one they’d been treading carefully on. After Renuka left her house, Nikita watched her leave in her white Maruti Zen. The restaurant and Nikita’s dream to buy a small house of her own meant that she still used public transport as opposed to Renuka, Tara and all the other Atithi girls who lived in rented houses and had a number of things on loan, but had expensive watches, phones, cars, television sets, music systems, DVD players and very well furnished houses as opposed to Nikita’s simple affair. She knew that these one offs could be very dangerous. She also knew that when a bar dancer said ‘yes’ to sex, it could just be a short, fifteen minute sexual act. But if she called anyone for a one-nighter, then she’d have to do everything which any other one night prostitute would have to do to satisfy her client. There were no more privileges left for her in this game anymore. She was once used to flying high in the Bombay underbelly sky, but now she was fast descending towards its murky bottom like a parachute with a torn chute. She sat at her window, looked out and mentally prepared herself
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for the path that lay ahead. Probably, the only path. She thought she’d give it a shot at least once. In the meanwhile she’d try to look for some other way to earn a little money. It was just a few yards away in her dream run towards her restaurant business and to leaving the world of Bombay’s underbelly for good. Now she thought she’d do anything to get across these last few yards. The finish line, she thought, was in sight. th Krishna Kunj was one of the buildings on the 8 Road in the suburb of Khar West that had come under the T.D.R. scheme under which builders were allowed to build three more floors above an already existing building of four floors. The add-on construction made the new building look like a frog had positioned itself on top of a lotus, in a hideous concrete monster sort of way. So the boom had begun and the city was suddenly covered in layers and layers of cement dust. Slowly the layers of each Bombayite’s intestines and lungs reflected the condition of the city, a mirror image of the cement dust and smoke outside. Krishna Kunj was a forty year old building, only four storey high. It had been Inder Mehta who, with his amazing business acumen, had struck the deal for his society, making a good amount of black money in the bargain, under the table. The building people respected him for this when the deal was struck, but then slowly, with each cement dust covered day, as the grime level in their bellies and houses grew and grew, they secretly cursed and cursed the old time film producer. When Inder’s car neared the building, the watchman stood up, something he didn’t do for any other building member. No one knew whether this was out of fear—he’d seen Inder returning home in some of the flashiest cars, in the company of some of the most sinister looking people—or it was just because he too, like every Bihari immigrant here, was deeply attracted to his own regional cinema, The Bhojpuri Film World, which Inder had just recently gotten his hands into. The word had spread since the time one of the up and coming Bhojpuri actors, Ravi Kishen who had had two massive hits in the Bhojpuri film circuit, had visited 4/B Krishna Kunj. Inder got out of the car and behind him, a timid looking Vijay. Vijay looked the building up and down. Scores of workers worked up and around the building, resembling a colony of worker ants around an ant hill, rushing about in a flurry of activity. There was a pulley system saddled to one side of the building which was used to haul bags of cement up and down. And workers in nothing but a dhoti and a tattered banyan tore up and down the building, lost in their routines. Vijay found their way of working very interesting. This was the first time he’d seen a big building being built with such a frenzy of activity. He also found the method they used very intriguing. They built huge pillars outside the basic structure which then rose up to support the next three floors above the existing four! He looked up again to notice clearly the large expansive nets which they had tied up from one side of the building to the other to prevent heavy objects from falling on the residents as they entered. It almost looked like what Vijay had seen in the Gemini circus in Patna one summer when the high jumpers and trapeze artists
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had set up an expanse of nets to break their fall in case of an eventuality. Inder had stopped to answer another call on his power tool. When he looked behind he saw Vijay looking at the building, lost in thought. “Oye kya kar raha hai? Chal . . . let me show you your kamra,” said Inder. Vijay followed him into the right side of the building. At the end of the compound was a small garage which was the only closed garage in the building and was set aside from all the other garages that were right under the structure of the building itself, and so seemed special. It had a regular folding door which had broken in some places. Inder opened the old Navtaal lock on the front door and pushed it open with a thrust of his well padded palm, releasing thousands of dust particles which revealed themselves in the daylight. Being used to these levels of dust, Inder calmly walked in leaving Vijay furiously waving his hands in front of his face, trying to wave the dust off. As Vijay went into the 8x12 ft. garage, he noticed first of all, the same webbed wall pattern he’d seen in the first house he’d gone to, in search of his cousin, Praveen. This thought triggered off a small sudden bout of nostalgia. Vijay then went back to the origin of his journey, that one fateful night. Flashes of that gory night began to come back into his head and began to haunt him; he pushed them aside and focused on the present with all his grit. ‘Don’t go there . . . don’t go there,’ he told himself. Inder meanwhile picked up the top of a large tin trunk kept on one side of the garage and revealed a lot of bright coloured T-shirts, trousers and underwear lying in a huge heap inside. “Pick whatever you want. These are Shashank’s old clothes. There’s everything you need here. Be ready by 7 O’clock. That’s generally the time he leaves.” Saying this, Inder Mehta left Vijay alone to explore and settle into his new home, a small, dusty garage. Vijay finally had the time and space to look around. He looked up his new abode with some interest now. One sidewall of the garage which spanned its length was full of the webbed squares that were open for air, but a blue tarpaulin sheet had been hung there to prevent more dust from entering the garage. This caused an absolute lack of ventilation in the room. Vijay picked up the tarpaulin to peer outside and decided that he would open up this sheet when the workers stopped their work for the day and then shut it again as they resumed work in the morning. To the right of the webbed wall which formed the backside of the garage and also the compound wall, was a partition which had two posters of Inder Mehta’s older films, one of a Punjabi film called, Sade Naal Reh, made in 1982 (what immediately struck Vijay about the date was that it was made in the year that he was born) and the other, of a film called Khooni Darinda, a more recent film that Vijay recognized immediately as a hit. On the poster, a Punjabi lady in full Punjabi folk song posture and attire, had her hands together towards her head, facing a man who was holding a sword and looking directly at Vijay with fury in his eyes. Behind him, almost out of the blue, were many men whose faces appeared on the
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poster out of thin air in close ups. These men were obviously the villains and their expressions made them look like they’d never had a happy day in their lives. Vijay read, PRODUCER: Inder Mehta, in the credits below the visuals on the poster. Against the third wall which was also across the length of the garage and part of the compound wall, was a broken old sofa covered with rexine which had torn in places and the soft foam was showing its discoloured face from the tears. Liveable, thought Vijay. He then walked up to the trunk, opened it and started looking in it for things he could use. There were loads of XL sized T-shirts which were made of some synthetic material that Vijay didn’t have any name for, but looked very similar to what Vijay had seen the football stars wearing on the sports channel back home. As he rummaged through the colours and folds, his hand felt something solid under the soft contours of the synthetic materials. He dug deeper to fish out his find. As his fingers got a grip over the solid object, he began to pull it out. Recognition slowly dawned on him. When he pulled it out completely, he was sure. It was an old walkman! Vijay was thrilled! The first thought that flashed through his mind was of many Kishore Kumar cassettes. He decided right then that he would go and buy as many as he could at the first opportunity. He hoped against hope that this walkman was here because Shashank had got some better one or a newer form of technology, instead of it being here for some breakage. Vijay had sub consciously kept the thought of his walkman out of his head just as during his escapade through Bombay, he had sub consciously kept out all thoughts of that night back home, as he pranced around in his world of fun and make-believe, enjoying the sights and sounds of his dream city. The building of Vidya Mandir-Juhu was a huge structure made sometime in 1988. The front of the building faced another open ground. The building itself had a fairly large ground in front where the children played cricket, handball, dabba I spy or Dabba ice spice as some of the kids mispronounced it, chor police, langdi and the likes in their one hour lunch break and short recess of fifteen minutes. On the first floor of the building was a large basketball cum tennis court. This was located right above the assembly hall on the ground floor. The whole building stood out because there was no other such huge building in the immediate vicinity as this was a predominantly residential area. Night had fallen. Shantaram, the night watchman sat just inside the compound behind the back gate of the building, the one which was most frequently used. Like most structures in Bombay, the architect had somehow not been able to anticipate where the maximum flow of people would enter the structure from and so ironically, most people came into the building from the back gate which was more easily accessible from the main road outside. Shantaram had been with the school for the past ten years, right since its inception, in 1988. He was a Maharashtrian whose family lived in Kolhapur. After
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about 11 O’clock he generally fell asleep, even though it was his night shift. There was almost never any activity in the school after 8.30 or so. After the teachers who sat back to finish off some pending work, left, he used to light a small fire in a metal bin near his khurchi or chair, to handle the mosquitoes that attacked him in hordes after sundown. Shantaram had just about fallen asleep when the golden Ford Ikon appeared from around the bend, its lights on high beam. The car approached the gate; Shantaram in his state of semi sleep heard the heavy bass, American style horn which was typical of Fords. Ponmp ponmp!! Stumbling out of his daze he somehow managed to half walk, half fall towards the gate, hoping that it wasn’t some trustee on some sudden check to see if he was awake. He then recognized the car and let out an angry but relieved smile. Shashank was smiling too, cigarette on his lips, eyes cringing from the smoke wafting near them. He turned the ignition off and got out of the car. He was tall and quite over weight. He had thick forearms and longish hair which always had streaks of some colour or the other and gave some shape to his otherwise oval face, plastered with rugged looking light wheatish skin with well-maintained and looked-after two day stubble. He generally wore party shirts with either a floral print or some other bold print at the back, and jeans. He had a huge collection of jeans and bought a new pair almost every week; Diesel, Levi’s faded variety, whatever was in vogue right then. He always carried a packet of Davidoff Full Flavour cigarettes. He took the vial of heroin and the disposable syringe and clumsily put them both into his shirt pocket. Shutting the door and stubbing out the cigarette with his pointed toe shoes, he walked over to Shantaram and shook his hand. “Arre bhai . . . I almost did peshab in my patloon, thanks to you! I though it just might be some trustee-vustee!” said Shantaram. “Aadha ghanta . . . switch the lights on . . . half an hour . . . exact!” said Shashank still smiling from his earlier mischievousness. Shashank was already drunk. He handed Shantaram a five hundred rupee note. Dispensing with this formality, he walked into the building compound and waited impatiently for Shantaram to first lock the main gate and then come and open the grill door which protected the building entrance. Shashank read the name of the structure while he waited. It was marked in bold, ‘Shreemaan Ramdev Sobhraj Bajaj Vidya Mandir Juhu’. Shashank walked in as Shantaram switched on all the lights of the inner building for him. One by one the lights came on, slowly illuminating the white building from the inside. Except the classrooms, all the corridors were suddenly bathed in bright white light, the kind which can only come from strings of tube-lights. Shantaram went back outside to his khurchi, pocketed the money that he still held in his hand and tried going back to sleep. He knew in half an hour or so he’d himself have to go and get Shashank.
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Meanwhile inside the building, before beginning his tour, Shashank fixed himself a syringe full of heroin. This was the best way to take it. The way with the fastest effect, as Yakub had told him. Yakub was Shashank’s closest friend at this time; the supplier of each and everyone of Shashank’s dark needs. What had begun with imported alcohol had progressed to Manila hash, the best weed, cocaine and now heroin. Yakub had taken care that before Shashank could begin to overdose on any of the coke he should shift him permanently onto heroin. This new addiction had begun just two weeks ago. Shashank carefully injected the syringe into his forearm which was slowly developing the tell-tale marks of an addict. He pulled his own blood into the syringe first letting it mix with the heroin. He looked at the mixture of his blood, crimson in colour and the heroin; how well the two of them mixed! The snakes of heroin weaving through the red blood and then forming their own bond, their own fusion, as they made love with the waves of his blood, spiraling, curving to form their own child, the potent mixture. He then injected the heroin into his blood stream. The white fog came over him soon. Heroin tremendously increased the amount of endorphins released by the body making the user feel extremely light and without a care in the world; little wonder then that it became the most preferred of drugs for millions around the world. His hit in place, Shashank now put the syringe into his pocket and began to walk towards the assembly hall. This ritual, walking through his school at night for an hour or less had become a monthly practice for Shashank. He paid Shantaram five hundred rupees to keep the lights on for half an hour or forty five minutes so that he could walk through the school and relive his childhood. It had begun when Shashank had started having dreams about himself walking through his school at night,weeping! Then one day he decided in one of his drunken stupors, to come and make at least this dream a reality. Shashank first entered the assembly hall from one of its side doors. The hall was huge with a raised stage in the front and wooden doors with squares of four cut into them at the top. Many such doors with these little square windows formed the back of the hall. These doors all led into the field out front. The stage had wings on the sides, connected from behind. Shashank remembered himself as a student performing the havan on stage; he remembered sitting right in the front throwing the samagri into the fire. His Dharma Shiksha professor, Ram Narayan Prasad was a man with a huge pot belly, a man frustrated with his celibacy and the mischievous students. He had earned the stable title of Forever Pregnant, from his students. Shashank remembered how he had stood for the assembly in the same auditorium day after day. On hearing the announcement on the public address system in their classes, they’d assemble here as quickly as their little legs carried them. He remembered the P.T. (physical training) exercises here; he remembered how he always felt that Yadav Sir made the girls purposely do the ‘arms held together up
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front and then push all the way back’ exercise, to be able to see them propping up their newly forming breasts. Shashank always felt that Yadav Sir enjoyed his petty torments. He remembered how some girls went up to Yadav Sir and whispered something into his ear and he’d then excuse them from the exercises. Shashank didn’t understand till much later what a ‘period’ is. Done with the ‘audi’ as he knew it since his childhood, he now walked out of the hall from the entrance at the other side. From here he came out near the entrance to the canteen. The canteen was run by Roop Ras caterers back then. Shashank remembered how though he was skinny and frail then, he used to have competitions with the largest of boys during lunch to see which one could polish off the maximum number of chapattis. Shashank had once set a record of 18 chapattis with vegetable and then some rice; a record which remained undefeated till he was in V.M. Walking up from here, Shashank went up to the first floor which housed the main office and the junior or lower K.G. (Kinder Garten) classes. He remembered how he used to be terribly afraid of being asked to visit the Principal’s office; the first one, Mrs. Sahdev, was a very awe inspiring woman who lived and dressed with dignity and had seemed very intelligent to Shashank’s little boy mind when he’d heard her addressing the school during one of their assembly sessions. Over the years however, the Principal had changed and so had Shashank. The Principal, towards his latter years, was Mrs. Aakartik. Shashank recollected that she reminded him of Cruella De Ville from the 101 Dalmations whose cartoon video cassette he often watched at home. Shashank became thick-skinned, thanks to her constant reprimands and punishments. When she taught them Hindi in class, he was made to stand outside the library for three periods at a stretch at times. The deal was that the minute she entered their class to teach, Shashank would have to leave, no questions asked. Shashank therefore soon felt no fear or remorse at being summoned to the Principal’s cabin. Not having his father’s love or his father at home and the resulting attention seeking behavior which he exhibited at school, according to the remarks he was given by teachers in his handbook, made Shashank one of the picked on, generally disliked and not unoften, boycotted children in the school. His resulting streaks of deadly violence didn’t help much in getting him that necessary acclaim and acceptance from his peer group. Shashank walked past the office where the Principal’s secretaries, Hilda Didi and Sumedha Didi worked. He then crossed the lower KG classes. From these classes he could see the first floor basket ball and tennis courts through the grill. He remembered his tryst with basket ball for a short while and then his subsequent disinterest as the bigger boys never passed the ball over to him. He remembered
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running with tremendous vigour towards the ball and then towards the basket and then shouting “phek . . . phek . . . throw the ball na yaar . . .” several times till finally he grew fed up of never getting a pass or a chance to shoot a basket. The one time he’d got a chance, he’d missed the basket under that tremendous pressure of this being that one chance of acceptance into the hip group of sports boys, “Fuck yaar!” he remembered thinking to himself, “Fuck!!! fuck, fuck fuck!!!” as the ball touched the rim of the basket, but despite th his tremendous attempt at telekinesis, it didn’t drop into the basket, but fell to the ground into an opponent’s hands. “Kya re Shashi, what a chute you are man,” shouted some of the boys. Shashank moved on. The heroin was good. Despite most of his memories being ones he didn’t particularly like, the hit ensured that he viewed all of them as if in a movie hall, detached from the pain but attached to the lovely nostalgic value of it all. Shashank was about to move on, but he felt a hand on his shoulder. He forced some sudden motor movement coordination from his body to turn around swiftly; he saw Shantaram behind him. His time for this month was up. Shashank never really realized how time flew when he was under the influence. He had to check his watch to see whether Shantaram was pulling a fast one on him or not. He realized on seeing the watch that it had been almost an hour since he’d come up here. He smiled at the irony of it. Now time seemed to fly so quickly. When he was in school it always seemed to stand still or drudge on like a snail. ‘When the fuck will I grow up?!’ he remembered thinking repeatedly. He began to walk back down with Shantaram and the two of them didn’t engage in any more conversation for the night. Shashank went on to Fire and Ice after that to wallow in some more alcohol, some more Davidoff Full Flavor cigarettes and then some more heroin in the company of his friend, philosopher and guide, Yakub. Shantaram went back to his smoky sleep near the bin with the fire in it which he had to kindle yet again before dozing off, slapping various parts of his body subconsciously, sometimes even when there was no mosquito there.
6 V
ijay awoke to the sound of the cement machine grinding away as it rolled and rolled on and on like a huge stomach churning as it digested the mixture of cement inside, almost like the fabled churning of the ocean in Indian mythology. The workers, like the worker ants in an ant hill were all rushing about their respective jobs and constantly shouting at each other as they worked. Most of it was with a thick Bihari accent which Vijay understood only too well. The workers were the only people Vijay would ever find in the city of Bombay who were skinnier than himself. Vijay awoke looking at the whole mayhem through the web of square cuts in the wall. When he had just woken up, his frizzy hair looked even messier. He squinted. He’d slept really late last night. Though he’d gone to bed at around 11 O’clock, the stuffiness and lack of ventilation in the garage had made the air inside so thick and stagnant that Vijay almost felt out of breath all night. He’d pulled off the tarpaulin sheet which covered the web of squares in the wall which was the only place from where any air could possibly come in. He’d kept the old floor fan, probably brought home from some film shoot years ago, facing him at full speed, letting the constant whirring of the fan and the gust of air, though quite warm, hit him constantly, finally sending him off into dreamland. This must’ve been at around 3.30 in the morning. And the workers began work in the building at 7.30 sharp which meant that by 7.45, the whole atmosphere was too charged by their shouts and the cement grinder to sleep anymore. Getting off the old torn up sofa, Vijay noticed that it being the months of summer in Bombay right now, sleeping on the rexine sofa had given him prickly heat all across his back which was a little painful to scratch. He’d slept in a white vest and an old pair of shorts he’d found in the trunk. The first thing Vijay did was to go to the toilet which was attached to the garage in such a way that the workers could use it and so could the watchman, as it had a door which faced the building and only had a common wall with the garage. He had to wait in line for ten minutes as one of the workers was taking a crap inside. H waited as he heard the worker sing a song of the popular Bhojpuri 67
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film, Tu Hamaar Hau. This made him feel slightly at home and he sang along. When it was his turn to enter and he did, he noticed that there was no flush in the toilet and that a bulb of very poor watt had been used, giving it a sickly glow. The toilet was Indian style and the tiling or ceramic which formed the tank of the toilet into which one dropped their faeces was broken in so many places that the ceramic was wholly absent in those places and a crude mixture of cement and paint had been applied to those places making the whole thing look like it was lined with shit already, a dark yellow colour. Vijay felt like throwing up. Holding his breath for as long as possible he finished his work in the bathroom. Throwing in a quick bath, he got out, giving way to the three workers who were waiting impatiently in line for him to finish. They had to give him priority, just as they had to with the watchman, as these were the inhabitants of the building itself. As Vijay was walking the few steps back from the toilet to his new home, he met Inder Mehta again. Inder was on his way out and was dressed in a short, white kurta with shiny white embroidery on it, making him stand out like a model for a washing powder advertisement in that dust laden building. “Shashank will go out only after around 5 in the evening. He’s come home only at 4 O’clock so do whatever you want to, but be back here by 4. And get some sleep in the afternoon. Dopeher ko hi sone ki aadat daal le,” said Inder as he gave Vijay a pair of keys, pointed towards the golden Ford Ikon, and got into his car and drove off without waiting for Vijay to respond to him in any way. Vijay decided that he would go out for a while, get something to eat and then spend some time in the day practising to drive the car; or else he’d lose this job for sure. Putting on a loose but colourful T-shirt which was made out of a synthetic material and had a number emblazoned in the front and back with NFL above the number on both sides, Vijay set out to explore Khar as a locality. He searched for a cassette shop and found one close to Mini Punjab restaurant where Vijay thought he’d treat himself in celebration of his new job. Unlike most other drivers and watchmen in the city, Vijay didn’t have to send anything home so he could spend all of his earnings on himself. Picking up a choice of cassettes like, Kishore Lives On; Evergreen Kishore Melodies and the likes, Vijay then sampled the Prawns Koliwada, Kali Daal and Rumaali Roti at Mini Punjab. He relished the meal and vowed to come back here for more. Thereafter, he returned to Krishna Kunj. Once there, he went up to the car and looked it over. It was a golden Ford Ikon with thick set 16 spoke alloy mag wheels which glistened as the sunlight reflected off them. Vijay looked at the keys. There was a remote with two small icons on it. One was a small miniature picture of a lock which was open and the other, a lock which was closed. Vijay had seen Inder using a similar remote on his car the day he’d arrived with him. So he pressed the button with the open lock and the car uttered two beeps, indicating that it was now open to inspection. He cautiously tugged at the door handle, a little unsure of this minor witchcraft. The door opened with ease. As it opened Vijay could smell
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a waft of scented air. He wondered why it smelled so delicious that he wanted to open his mouth and bite into it. He stepped into the driver’s seat. The car seats were covered in lovely black leather trim and the smell of the top quality leather mixed with that extremely edible smell created a mixture of nasal magic which left him thirsting for more. He soon found the culprit. Hanging from the mirror was a thermocol leaf which was painted yellow and had ‘Vanilla’ written across its base. He moved close to it and took in a deep breath. The vanilla smell rushed into his nostrils like a tidal wave. He could feel his saliva being lured out with the fake promise of vanilla ice cream. He moved back. Vijay then noticed the music system. It was a shiny silver and grey one. It had a button on the right which when pressed, unfolded a split level playing console which Vijay realized, fitted neatly into a single level when pushed back into place, almost like those convertibles he had seen in Hollywood action films. Another button made the screen come to life. It buzzed suddenly with an animation in graphic form of Formula One racing cars driving at full speed through a race course! He was amazed! He looked for a button which said ‘chg visls’ which he thought meant, change visuals and pressed it. Suddenly the screen space came alive with dolphins swimming around here and there in a vast ocean of blue, his favourite colour! He slipped the key into the ignition and started the motor. With great difficulty and a couple of goof ups in which the engine stalled and he had to turn it on again, putting the gears into play like an absolute beginner, Vijay brought the car out of the building. It was actually easy to get it out because the building was on an incline and the back of the car was on the edge of that slope. When after repeated attempts Vijay could not get the car into reverse and get it to stay that way in motion, he just lifted the hand break and let it slide down, turning it to face the road. Now he put the car into gear and started his practice for the day. The only practice he’d had earlier on any car was on his father’s eleven year old Fiat with a gear shift system that grunted each time he so much as thought of changing gears and also the gears were right under his left hand on the steering wheel and not below like in this car. Vijay put the car into gear and slowly began to release the clutch as he simultaneously pressed the accelerator. The accelerator had obviously been pressed too hard making the car gave an enormous jerk ahead like a small boy being pushed by the school bully from behind as he roamed meekly eating his ice cream in the lunch hour. The car stalled. Vijay put the ignition off and tried again, and again. Within the next few hours, Vijay had got the hang of starting and shifting into second gear. But he knew that actual confidence would come only with time and today’s lesson would soon be forgotten under the slightest pressure from Shashank. Nikita sat in her house near the phone, apprehension written all over her delicate features. She’d worn a gypsy skirt today with frills and a lovely floral print in brown hues. On her feet she’d worn her Roman Soldier type sandals, the laces of which twirled up her ankles, onto her calves; white leather on fair, soft
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skin! She had on another one of her one word T-shirts, this time with ‘Butterfly’ emblazoned across it in a shimmering blue. She’d just come out of her bath and her hair had a wet, crumpled look. She picked up her mobile phone and searched for the number . . . Romulus Fernandez. Romulus Fernandez was a thirty three year old pilot for Air India with a ‘so what if our planes crash, I still get paid a bomb’ attitude. He had been with Air India for eight years now and had amassed an enormous amount of wealth in the black market trade. He picked up perfumes, wines, sometimes Rolexes and other such things which he then supplied to his regular chain of customs notified shops in Lokhandwala Complex in Andheri west where he lived in a sprawling four bedroom hall apartment which his dead parents had left him. Romulus was fond of all the good things of life and his Rs 75000/-a month pay packet along with the fifty odd thousand he made out of his under-the-table deals gave him enough moolah to ‘live life king size’ as his favourite beer brand would have put it. On his wrist he wore only Rolexes, on his chest only the finest Tommy Hilfiger shirts, in his hand was only the best mobile phone, mostly the latest O2 or communicator and on his feet the latest Bally or Ferragamo shoes. He used his Fahrenheit perfume generously, reeking of the smell even the next day before his bath. When Nikita called him, he was with an air hostess from a rival airline whom he’d just pataoed and was frisking almost in policeman style in the confines of his well furnished drawing room with Michael Bolton playing in the background on his Bose wave music console. Just as his fingers had gone up to the underside of Stella’s breasts as he stood behind her, his cell phone rang. Not a man at peace with where he was at the current moment ever, Romulus took the call, to the chagrin of a slightly infuriated Stella. “Hi, Romu here,” he said into the phone not recognizing the number. “Hi this is Nikita. Renuka gave me your number,” said Nikita with her put-on accent. When she wanted, her voice could sound like strawberries and honey and at other times, depending to the situation at hand, it could sound like a red Indian horse whip! “She said you were a man with good taste,” said Nikita. Hearing her voice Romulus was even more turned on than he was with his hand almost in possession of Stella’s ample breasts. “Hmmm . . . Yes she’s right. But how do I know if you’re good taste or not?” he said cheekily. “Let’s meet in the evening at the Café Coffee Day just under the bridge opposite the Barista in Lokhandwala, say around 9.30? You can judge for yourself,” said Nikita. “Hmmm . . . sounds good enough. I’ll call if there’s any change,” said Romulus, keeping his voice low so he could have his main course before proceeding to see whether the dessert was worth the effort. “Alright, bye hero. Be on time,” said Nikita disconnecting the line.
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Nikita had learnt a good amount of English over the years as she’d realized quite early into her life in the sex trade that English speaking maal was always preferred over the Hindi speaking variety. And her acquired accent would put a call centre accent training supervisor to shame. It had just the right amount of clip in it to sound almost originally American, just enough to sound provocative and she had just the right amount of music in her speech for it to be titillating. She’d put voice training almost down to an art form. Now it was time to get tayyar, time to prepare the fishing gear. Nikita sat in her small bedroom and turned on the mirror lights which were no less than the powerful lights which would have surrounded the mirror of any top actress’s vanity van mirror. She’d switched these lights on after ages. She opened the small drawer under the mirror and brought out her professional make-up kit. It had the best brands in the business under the cover, fighting for space. Eyeliners from Mac, lip gloss from The Body Shop, hair serums from Tigi’s . . . Nikita started with the eyes. These were the most important. Though her pushed up bust line and revealing neckline would get Romulus’s testicles and the rocket in between, it was always the eyes, Nikita knew which really did the trick as she rolled them, feigned anger, love, coyness, innocence, lust, desire with them, sending shivers of ego boosts to the men she sat across. She’d already tried the other name which Renuka had given her. Krishna Ahuja, a chartered accountant, was one of the two sons of Shyam Ahuja, a Shikarpuri Sindhi businessman. The other, Arihant, though the elder of the two, was a meek fellow. Since his childhood, Krishna had been the pampered one. His father always thought of him as the shining horse of the family and so his brother Arihant always got sidelined. Krishna did his Chartered Accountancy and prospered. He was good with numbers. But right from his first salary until his father finally expired twenty years later, he’d never contributed towards the household expenses. He amassed and amassed and amassed more and more money, sometimes stealing from the companies he worked for, and at other times, evading taxes himself. After all this was what he was paid his Rs 3,00,000/-a month salary for, saving his company crores in taxes! So while his brother supported his wife and daughter, Krishna supported none but himself and saved and saved and saved. He even managed to wheezle out his father’s house after his father died, leaving his brother Arihant homeless. When Nikita had called up Krishna, he was already doing Puttul, a Bengali 500 rupee a night randi. For Krishna, Puttul was a ‘once-in-a-lifetime’ find. A maid servant who was fair and big breasted whom his friend and client, Haridas had initiated into the world of prostitution, Puttul was well worth the price and for Rs 10,000/-a month, most of which he made his clients foot, Krishna could thoko her anytime he pleased. And at this time he was in no need of fresh skin. Even his dick thought in C.A. terms. So Nikita had lucked out here. And he didn’t even give her enough time to use her voice to lure him into her trap. He was one of those ‘satisfied with current maal’ kind of customers whom she knew she couldn’t rope in.
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Nikita had tried to contact all her old aashiqs also—Rohan, the college kid, Anthony, the loan shark, Rajiv Seth the cloth merchant—but none of them worked out for her this time. Though some of them were much kicked that she had actually called them up, since they had tried, time and again, to get her into bed at Atithi, most of them were already into some new maal or the other or were out of the country or weren’t doing well enough to foot her bill. When Nikita was finished with her make up and grooming, she looked like a million dollars! She had light blue eye shadow on and a slightly darker colour of eye liner. She’d done up her hair with the grunge look using a crumpling machine making it look like honey noodles in ice cream, and she’d worn a tight mermaid skirt which was in vogue. It had a slit on one side revealing her perfectly toned legs and she’d worn stilettoes, a good Roberto Cavalli copy which added to her allure. To complete her attire, she’d worn a lace top with frills and a plunging neckline. She’d worn her her favourite, Davidoff Cool Water for Woman perfume. She was now ready to go fishing! Café Coffee Day in Lokhandwala near the Millat Nagar Bridge, was the preferred hang out joint of every struggling actor, camera man, director, assistant director, script writer, producer and model in Andheri. At each table—the ones outside were preferred as they offered the best view—sat the strugglers, many of who were seductively dressed women and on each table, a film was being made, Khayali Pulao as they called it. At each table careers, dreams, the casting couch, gossip about each star and their private lives was being discussed. Everyone behaved as if they knew each star personally even if they’d just read their bit of gossip from a snippet in the morning glossy. Nikita was fifteen minutes late. She generally never wanted to be on time as being late and making the client wait a little would increase her demand. She knew the rules well. Under normal circumstances, she’d arrive exactly half an hour late, precisely planned and executed. She was as punctual as could be but always exactly half an hour late, not a minute more not a minute less. But today things were different. She was desperate, though she hated to admit this to herself. So she was a calculated fifteen minutes late. To her dismay, Romulus hadn’t arrived. She’d SMSed and told him which table to sit on, the one closest to Shiva’s Stylo haircutting salon for men. But the table was vacant. Niktia took a chair and taking out her vanity mirror, looked herself over. There were rickshaw drivers and roadside vendors galore selling everything from fruits to peanuts to channa chor, made of chickpeas. At a table very close to hers, Nikita heard the conversation between a girl who looked like she was in her late teens and a round, pot-bellied man. Her bust line looked as if it would flow over and her short tight skirt looked high enough to reveal her underwear almost any minute now. “Len den to hoga hi na . . . Now you just tell me when you’re ready to start. Give me your passport by tonight. My driver will come and collect it if you want.
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The schedule begins in Canada in exactly a week. Lots of goras in the crew. Second lead isn’t all that bad for your first film. Outdoor shooting ka chance bhi to mil raha hai,” said the wannabe producer. “See Mr. Bajaj, paise bahut kam hai. Sixty thousand for a full film is too little. If you shoot for six months, that’s ten thousand a month. Peanuts! And you want to haath phero and all also . . . not good enough,” replied the actress. At another table a cinematographer was looking through his hands at the vegetable vendor’s cart nearby. He then picked up his camera and began to use the same framing to take pictures. Right then Nikita saw the man whom Renuka had described as Romulus. He was built like Salman khan; bulky but with bulging biceps and tight arms and no stomach. He wore a pair of Oakley spectacles which had a Bluetooth mobile device attached to their rim. Obviously the phone was somewhere in the pocket of his jeans. He was wearing a tight white shirt with lapels on the shoulders with a print of a black pair of sunglasses splashed right across the front of the shirt. He definitely looked very trendy thought Nikita and he showed off his money. His hair was short and his jaw line pronounced. “Sup? You’re looking hot Miss Moffat,” he said, sitting down next to Nikita with ease. Too much ease. This guy would be very difficult to intimidate at all, thought Nikita. She had developed an understanding of men over the years. “You’re late.” Nikita tried to see if it would affect him at all. “Ma style,” replied Romulus without a moment’s hesitation. He was taking in Nikita with the ease of a pro. He looked at her face, taking in her eyes, her skin, her lips. Nikita felt his gaze over her body as it shifted slowly but firmly over her. He then took in her breasts, nestled in the lace top with just enough to bare all, then her waist which was in place and toned, and then her skirt. Nikita had sat in a way in which all of her was up for examination. She then threw her long hair, now in the grunge look, to one side with a flick of her neck, very subtle, just enough for it to look almost natural, and ran her fingers through her long, voluminous hair. Her neatly manicured nails with silver nail polish were a pretty sight and nothing went unnoticed by Romulus. For a split second he imagined them on his back as he drove into her, then he wiped the thought from the windshield of his imagination. “So where did you work before this? If you’re a friend of Renuka’s I guess you got to know her at one of the bars she worked at before the ban.” “Atithi,” said Nikita. “Hmmmm . . . and going by the looks of it, you must have been pretty hot property . . . It’s interesting how life deals its cards . . .” Romulus’s thick lips now broke into a slight smile. “ . . . one day at the top of the food chain . . . and then . . . whoooo . . .” said Romulus as he made an action of a person falling off a cliff with his hands flailing for support. “Suddenly there’re so many girls on the market. It’s like chicken during the bird flu. More supply less demand.”
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Nikita realized this wasn’t heading in the right direction. She tried to act coy. Her face betrayed the absolute understanding of the situation which she saw presented before her. Romulus had that smug smile which brimmed with the absolute confidence of pure fact. “As in?” she asked. “Now don’t act coy with me, sweetheart. That golden rear end of yours suddenly isn’t such prize catch anymore, is it honey? Look, I’ll give it to you straight. You’re good stuff but good stuff ain’t sellin for a premium anymore angel, so I’ll give you five grand for a night. If you keep me happy, I’ll pass you on to more of my kin, the Air India pilots, some a bit frustrated, but loaded, none the less. And I’m not into bargaining, especially when it’s off season!!” Romulus was smiling even more now with each successive dialogue which he delivered with the panache of a top brass lawyer at a hot shot law firm making his closing statement for a case he knew he was going to win. Nikita decided to stop playing the innocent card as there clearly wasn’t any room for it. “Listen, five grand is not enough. Why don’t you give me your best offer straight off ?” “That was my best offer doll,” replied Romulus. “Hmm . . . doesn’t work for me,” replied Nikita, moving her body into a position which indicated that this meeting was over. She pulled her shoulder bag close to her as another indication that she was moving towards closure on this one. “Think it over. We both know these are tough times. Call me if you change your mind,” said Romulus. “K.” Saying this Nikita stood up first. Her body suddenly wasn’t into the ‘I’m too sexy’ mode and she appeared more business-like immediately. She did a short cursory wave of her hand and began to move away. Romulus looked her up and down again. He too was playing a bluff which he’d played on many out-of-work dance bar girls over the past few months, finally getting them at a steal. He’d become a sort of specialist amongst his buddies for getting top class maal at great rates. He was quite confident of thokoing this one too. It was just a matter of time he thought, as she walked away. Nikita walked away from the café towards a rickshaw parked not too far away. She got in and telling the rickshaw driver where to go, sat down. On the way home she thought of what to do. He was right, these were tough times. And the supply was in great numbers making all these bloody chutiyas suddenly more powerful in this game. But Rs 5000/-was too little. In her days at Atithi not too long ago, she used to refuse offers of Rs 20,000/-a night! Nikita looked at S.V. road as the rickshaw sped off towards Malad. She looked at the Goregaon bus depot and some of the double decker busses there. The red BEST buses always gave her some peace when she looked at them. They seemed a little removed from reality, as if from a part-dream-part-reality world. Red and big like the elephants of this cement jungle. Things weren’t going well for her and Nikita didn’t like the way this feeling kept sinking deeper into her gut.
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Ramdeen was the old faithful servant of the Mehta house at Krishna Kunj. He’d been with the Mehtas for ages, ever since Shashank was born. But he didn’t have any attachment for anyone in that house. He lived ten minutes away in Khar Danda amidst the many lanes of fisher folk. He attributed this emotional detachment from the people he worked for to the fact that he didn’t live with them. In his late night beer and fried fish laden discussions with his neighbouring fishermen, he said that the regular servants had become a cliché, ‘chutiye saale!’ They lived in the house they worked in and then started thinking of the master’s son as their own and began to enjoy even their master’s beating. “They’re not our maai baap that we should sehen karo everything.” This was also the reason he didn’t have any feelings whatsoever for Shashank. Ramdeen walked towards Vijay’s new garage home and knocked on the door. “Baba raidi hain,” he said and walked away. The door of the garage opened and Vijay walked out dressed in an extremely loose fitting T-shirt which was made of a certain shiny material with a heavy dose of lycra in it. ‘Manchester United’, it was labeled in front and ‘Beckham’ at the back, neither of which Vijay knew the significance of. The gaudy colours and texture of the T-shirt made him look as alien as a gold fish at a dog pound. And below the T-shirt he had on an extremely baggy pair of jeans which could easily accommodate three of him in their long folds. He’d found a belt somewhere in the trunk and had somehow held up the jeans though they needed constant prodding and coercing so as to retain their current status. On his feet he had on an extremely old pair of Reebok pump sneakers in which, after some experimentation, he’d realized that he had to pump up the sole of the shoes and then they felt ‘As light as walking on air’, as the commercial had pronounced a decade ago. Another button released all the air. Vijay was quite kicked with this find. His stubbornly curly hair had been made to sit down using a lot of water and in these caftan-like flowing clothes he looked even skinnier than usual. He wondered what Shashank would think seeing him in his old clothes. He wondered what he himself would have thought of someone who’d worn his hand-me-downs, things to which at various stages of his life he’d attached an emotional significance. Even as Vijay was lost in thinking what he would have thought if he were in Shashank’s shoes, Shashank came out of the dusty entrance of the building. The entrance looked too short now for someone the size of Shashank as he was well over six feet tall and the builder and his architects who weren’t really well endowed with structural sense had increased the floor height of the small entrance and forgotten to do the same with the ceiling in their TDR efforts leaving this entrance unsuitable for someone of Shashank’s height. He had to crouch as he came out of the entrance. Vijay saw him look him up and down and then he saw what he felt was a wince. He moved towards the parked car opening it for Shashank with the remote. Shashank got into the back and Vijay got into the front, breathing in that now familiar vanilla fragrance and shut the door.
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“Look dude, I’m not too kicked with this idea of dad’s to keep a young tyke around as my nanny. To tu samajh le stud mera bas chale to ill kick you on that scrawny gaand and throw you out right now. Lekin dad ke instructions hain and I’ve got to follow some of them. I thought we should have this clear right from the start dude. Ab chal,” said Shashank. Vijay just nodded right through Shashank’s brief introductory speech. He then began to concentrate on the job at hand realizing that if he goofed up, he’d be shouted at more. He stole a glance at the walkman he’d brought with himself into the car. It had one of his favourite Kishore Kumar cassettes in it from the lot he’d bought in the morning. Just then Shashank used the remote control placed in the back cubby hole of the car, to start the music system. A clanging noise, which sounded to Vijay like someone was being forced through tremendous pain at the hands of someone else, emerged from the speakers. It was loud and metallic and had people shouting at the top of their voices all the time; that was all Vijay ever understood of it. It was only much later that Vijay got to know of it as Heavy Metal. Vijay put the car into reverse and used the brief slope of the building as he had in the day time, to ease the car out of the building. Just as he was reversing out of the gate, another car almost collided against his! “Eh chutiye, do you even know how to drive?!!” shouted Shashank. Vijay braced himself for more but just then Shashank’s phone rang and he picked up his communicator which Vijay observed through his rear view mirror, not knowing that this rear view mirror would play a major part in the days to come. “Carter Road dude,” said Shashank. Vijay sat still with the engine running not knowing in which direction to turn the car to get to this Carter Road. He sensed that Shashank was into an important conversation and expected even more rage to come his way soon. “Haan maine to usko wahi bola,now what can I do if . . . arre . . . you don’t even know the roads kya chutiye?!! What a dickhead man!! What a dickhead . . . chal I’ll tell you the way . . . turn around,” said Shashank, too busy in the throes of his conversation to vent some real anger at Vijay, of this Vijay was sure thankful! And in this way, continuing in the same vein with the bhenchods and maderchods and bhosdi kes, Shashank finally guided Vijay to the corner of Carter Road down the Olive Lane. With a motion of his hand he asked Vijay to stop the car right here. Vijay’s stroke of luck stretched on, for the moment Shashank’s call ended, he saw someone outside the car; someone whom he obviously was very pleased to see. He got out of the car like an excited child and embraced the man outside. “What’s up, bro?” said Shashank, as he gave the man a tight hug. The man, Yakub Sheikh was dark, of medium height and with rugged features. Above his right eyebrow, running right through it, was a scar which seemed too thick to be anything other than a knife wound. “Tu bata hero . . . you’re looking aur bhi shmaaart . . . ekdum cat lagrela hai . . . lost some more charbi or what?” asked Yakub.
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Yakub was the only son of Mustafa Sheikh, one of the current top shooters of the Basit Ali underworld gang. This gave Yakub quite a lot of power which at his young age of 22, he wielded with panache. Shashank and he had become friends when they’d appeared for their XIIth standard HSC exams together at Anjuman Islam School. Shashank and Yakub had both tried to help each other. When Yakub realized that he couldn’t really pass with his minor level of cheating, he’d asked one of his father’s friends for some support. They’d come into the class with knives and let Yakub and his new pal, Shashank, copy as much as they needed from the Guide books. No one had dared to prevent them. Shashank had liked Yakub’s style. They had hit it off like a house on fire and had separated only when Yakub had to go out of the country for a couple of years for some kind of training. He’d never mentioned where he’d gone or for what, but Shashank suspected that it was somewhere across the border and that it had something to do with the Basit Ali gang and it’s many businesses. When Yakub had returned three months ago with an upgraded sense of power and ambition, Shashank knew that his guess wasn’t too far from the truth. “Mbola kabhi aainga, kabhi aainga . . . I’ve done full setting for this place,” said Yakub, pointing to the empty shop at the corner of the line of shops. This was the last shop after which exactly at the corner, was a Café Coffee Day which looked out into the Arabian Sea, past Carter Road, where young men and women, dressed in the latest designer tracksuits and keds, walked or jogged everyday. This was one of the most prime properties in the suburb of Bandra and a lot of eateries which aimed at the 13 to 21 age group were scattered all over this block, making it even more of a sought-after shop. Yakub however had not much trouble getting it. He just waited for the opportune moment when the previous tenant left because of incessant rent hike every six months, and then Yakub gave the owner a ‘dose’ as he called it which consisted of every family member of his being attacked in such a way that they barely missed a tragedy. His daughter’s car’s windshield was broken by a soda bottle at a traffic signal by two unidentified motorcyclists; his wife’s shopping bags were popped full of lead as she exited the sabji mandi near her house; his car tyres were blown out at a signal by two shooters very close to his house. At the end of it all, the shop was his. Yakub paid up front in cash, half the market price. He had taken 40% of the money from his father and 60% from Shashank. Now all they had left to do was to furnish the shop and invest the working capital. This was a large amount. To furnish the shop would cost them a minimum of a lakh and a half apart from the additional working capital. Shashank and Yakub had planned to start a mobile phone shop. For Shashank this was a way to prove to his father that he was not as good-for-nothing as his father thought him to be. In his limited business sense, a mobile shop was a rockin’ idea; the disposable income in this locality for high end phones which went right upto Rs 35000/-a piece, was plentiful.
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For Yakub, this was a good way of laundering the money he got from his new partnership, though in a small way, with Maqsood Ali, Basit Ali’s nephew who now handled the smuggling businesses in Bombay. Yakub suddenly had a lot of money coming in and he didn’t know how to spend it. Raheem Chacha, the company’s head accountant of thirty years had advised him to get into some or the other small business so that he could account for all his money as coming through that business, knowing Shashank and Yakub could actually have full control of this venture and a lot of financial aid as well. Shashank walked up the six steps onto the raised shop floor which had a white painted iron railing around its periphery. He entered the shop a step behind Yakub, his chest swelling with pride as he looked at the shop up and down, not unlike a proud father who’d just entered the delivery room after his wife had been through the pain of labour alone, surveying the heir to his life, the new extension of his ego. “Mbola Shashank should also find it ekdum mast!! . . . isliye to that unkal also I said to maaro ek coat of rang himself, for fokat . . . whaeetwaash!!” said Yakub, as he led the way. The shop had a basement which went down into the storeroom and had an area that functioned as the back office. It also had a small bathroom in it, almost like a mini cubicle. As they descended the stairs, Shashank tapped Yakub on the shoulder. “Arre Diana kaisi hai?” he asked. “Arre mat pooch, yesterday I made her stand against the wall in my kholi and lifting her taang, gave her a shot like that only, against the diwaal. Ekdum class shot, ekdum class! That type shot sirp I can lagao, sirp I!! No one else has the gaand mein dum to lagao a shot like that!!” replied Yakub. They were talking about the airhostess Diana who was Yakub’s latest muse. Yakub for all his money, still lived in Dongar chawl in Andheri, alongside Bhawan’s College, the place he’d started from. He’d constructed a pucca kholi, or room in the midst of the basti. Diana was another one of the shooting stars of the same basti. She’d shot straight from the slum into the dreamy world of airhostesses after doing her training from AITA. She had worked doubly hard to get into this profession. She’d dreamed of becoming an airhostess since she was six when she’d come to know what an airhostess was. Now she’d begun to date the other star of their basti, the other star who’d shot straight to superstardom from Dongar. For Yakub, this affair, like all his others was yet another fortnightly one, nothing serious! as he proclaimed himself. “Waah mere sher waah! Keep it up! Keep it up!” commented Shashank. “Haan m’boloon kabhi kabhi to I think that my saamaan is like a screwdriver . . . even if there’s no surang, it’ll create it wherever it starts its drill. Kassam se!” he said, as he pinched his throat in a solemn vow. Vijay was watching the youngsters with fancy hairstyles, trotting along with equally fancy dogs. He looked at the names of all the shops around and
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tried to remember them. They were all of a culture which had no significance to him and so it was difficult for him to first understand and then remember them: Funky Monkey-Tattoo Parlor, Crepe Station Crepe corner, Movie Times DVD Rentals, Hakim’s Aalim Hair Stylist, and further down the road, Olive and Shatranj Napoli, were a few of the names he’d seen. Vijay had taken special care to try and remember the lefts and rights and where he’d taken them but after a while, turning time and again through the dug-up-today-fine-tomorrow, dug-up-and-shut-the-day-after lanes, he was so confused that he stopped trying any more. Even when Shashank would lead him down a particular lane, sometimes then they’d have to turn around and use another one, because at end of it, without any prior intimation, they’d see a ‘Road Closed’ sign. ‘Ruk jaana naheen tu kaheen haarke . . . ’ crooned Kishore Kumar, as Vijay looked at the latest young fashionista walking down the other side of the road in a mini skirt, while he waited on Shashank and Yakub. Every alternate girl on the road had the kind of hair Vijay had seen on Kareena Kapoor in the movies. Light brown with golden streaks running through them. Shashank had now come right up to the car with Yakub and Vijay could hear their conversation, “Yaar, any clue when this whole dance bar thing is going to end?” asked Shashank. “Idea nahin bilkul. Kyun you’re suddenly very bothered about the bar dancers, kya? Bahut dinon se lagayela naheen kya?” replied Yakub, making a close fisted thumping action with his right fist as he moved it towards and away from his chest vigorously. “Arre nahin re, yaar, I can’t get that Nikita out of my head man! She was a real hot fuck! I’ve been dreaming of doing things to her ever since we’d gone there. The other day I saw her on the street. She’s a real maal yaar, the best I’ve seen. She was sitting at Café Coffee Day and I was driving past it. By the time I could park my car, she’d left. Bhenchod parking nowadays is also a real pain in the ass,” said Shashank. “Arre yaar tu kaayko tension lerela hai . . . I’ll get you aisi paanch sau item from somewhere . . . why only that one?” asked Yakub. “Well I’d wanted her really badly the day we saw her at Atithi only, but the next week itself that ban came up. And I saw her the other day and my little brother did an immediate salute. She’s something else man, I tell you, she’s something else. Top class maal,” said Shashank “Aisa hai, to chal . . . we’ll do your setting abhi ke abhi. Let’s get your chota bhai some sukoon, said Yakub. “How’re we going to do that man, Atithi is shut,” said Shashank. “Arre chutiye . . .” began Yakub and then he stopped himself; his face revealed that he’d suddenly decided against any more talk. “Tu chal bas . . .” he said again as a final closing remark. He ushered Shashank into the back seat of the car and they both got comfortable.
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“Who’s this new punter?” asked Yakub seeing Vijay. “And why has he maroed your dressing?” he added. “Arre Papa’s kept a new nanny for me. I think the people at the disco and on the road called him up in the middle of the night one too many times after I’d passed out. He doesn’t want the job of retrieving me anymore so he’s hired this stud,” replied Shashank. “Naam kya hai re?” asked Yakub of Vijay. “Vijay.” “Vijay Dinanath Chauhan?!!” retorted Yakub and Shashank, going into splits for almost a whole minute after that. Vijay himself couldn’t help but smile at the pun. Shashank had to guide Vijay through every right and left and at one point, he reached over and cuffed him on the back of his head. Yakub calmed him down. Vijay was just about getting the hang of things and this was his first drive to Grant Road where Atithi Dance Bar was located. He enjoyed the sights and sounds; the part he loved best was the drive past Worli Sea Face. The slight smell of the sea’s salty mist which got thrown onto the promenade and road with each lashing wave managed to slip into the car in small wafts through the car air conditioner. Mixed with the Vanilla, it smelt even better. Vijay had never driven past nor even for that matter seen such a long road along the seaside except for when he’d watched Golden Eye, his first James Bond film, in the theatre in his hometown. He’d seen Bond driving across a stretch of road which like this one ran alongside the sea. For a few minutes he felt like James Bond. Amidst the throes of friendly banter, Yakub interjected the talk, suddenly remembering something. He then pulled out a small canvas folding case with a Velcro patch. He opened the case to reveal about two dozen or so syringes with a liquid in them. “Cool dude . . . that’s super cool!” said Shashank, with the excitement of a child being given a new toy. After taking the pouch, he removed two bundles of hundreds which Vijay guessed must have been approximately twenty thousand rupees which he handed over to Yakub who took the money and did a mock salaam. Vijay had been listening to their entire conversation right from the beginning. He realized that they spoke freely in English and restricted the amount of information they let out when they spoke in Hindi. Having observed this, Vijay decided not to disclose that he probably knew much more English than Yakub did. He steered the car to the side of the road. Yakub rolled down his window and so did Shashank. Then Shashank took a ‘hit’. The calm white spread over his mind like dense fog in the marsh. Vijay saw Shashank thrusting the injection into the vial; he noticed in the mirror that when Shashank rolled his sleeve up to take the ‘hit’, the inside of his elbow on that arm had a lot of syringe marks. A slight bluishness had appeared almost like blood clotting in that area. All this was very new for Vijay. He’d had no clue what was happening to Shashank but he could tell that he seemed to be in a state of bliss after taking that injection. Yakub seemed
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to derive some vicarious pleasure from the whole act in spite of not having taken the injection himself. “Chodu, don’t forget to keep having a lot of water with this stuff otherwise your gaand is going to get so bajaoed over the next few days that you’ll have to call a plumber to handle the choke,” said Yakub. Shashank was too high to take in anything. He was free of the suffocating lake he knew as his life. The heroin helped him to surge out of what otherwise pulled him into itself, that deep calm ocean which was scary because it was so calm, quiet, still. With the heroin he had that momentary strength to jump up and out of the water, back into the fresh air; his mind became like a swamp filled with fog in which nothing and nobody was visible anymore. It was all white and clear. Shashank’s mother had passed away when he was two years old and he had had to try very hard since childhood to gain his father’s interest in anything he did. Now their relationship had reached a point where his father saw him as a failure, a failed attempt at furthering the Mehta name in Bombay. Shashank hoped to revive the situation with this last effort, the mobile shop. Vijay started the car but he couldn’t get it going. Just couldn’t. He didn’t know whether this was because of what he had just seen, an act which to him felt evil; someone piercing himself with some chemical which made him behave like he was in an entranced state, felt very unnatural to him, or whether it was simply because Yakub was now seated in the front with him, while Shashank enjoyed his lunge into the abyss in the back seat. The only time Vijay had seen people behaving like this was in the film Hare Rama Hare Krishna, in the song, Dum maaro dum and that too was just an inhalation of smoke which to Vijay seemed more natural than this ghastly act! ‘Pch!’ said Vijay to himself, reacting not only to the act he’d been witness to, but also because the damn car just wouldn’t start. “Abe chodubhagat, don’t know how to start a gaadi also kya? Raise de na . . . chal chhod . . . I’ll drive,” said Yakub, exasperated after Vijay’s third attempt. This sudden change of direction in Yakub’s speech where he began a sentence and then decided on some other line of words instead, leaving the first half dangling in mid air, was a characteristic trait. Vijay moved out and walked around to where Yakub had sat, while Yakub took the wheel and started the car. Shashank was just coming to, enough to realize that now Yakub was at the helm and that Vijay was in the passenger’s seat, but he was too happy to react with anger at the moment. Instead he smiled at Vijay. The car took off. Aardi sat with his broad shoulders, his thick moustache in its full splendour as he saw the golden Ford Ikon approaching Atithi. He himself didn’t know how long he’d be able to sit outside here at Atithi, for without the extensive number of tips he used to receive when the bar was on, his salary had now dropped to almost one third of its previous aukaat. He’d been sending less money home and had even less to live on. He watched the car and its inhabitants carefully out of years of
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experience. A thin chap who looked very out of place in very hep Bombay boy attire, another man, probably a Muslim and a third at the back who, to Aardi’s trained eye seemed to be in some sort of trance. This sort of sizing up of the clients was his specialty and the reason why Sharan Arasa had kept him on with an appraisal in his salary every six months for the last seven years. The car stopped and Yakub got out and approached Aardi. “You a naya parinda or purana chaval?” asked Yakub. He wasn’t a frequent visitor at Atithi. His favourite was Night Lovers. “Bahut puraana,” replied Aardi. “One laundya, ekdum billi like eyes, gori, chitti, Konkani type . . . you know the woman?” he asked. “Depends,” said Aardi, relaying the information that he actually was an old hand used to the tricks of the trade. “Arre my yaar has lost his dil and his lauda both to her a couple of months ago and he saw her the other day somewhere and now his jawaani ka josh has clogged up his pipe again. How do we contact her?” he asked. “Leave your number,” said Aardi. “One pucca shaana you are, haan! Ok. The boy’s number is 9820633333,” said Yakub. Then he drew closer to Aardi. “I’m Yakub Sheikh Mustafa, Ghoda Sheikh’s eklauta kandil,” said Yakub, as he watched Aardi’s eyebrows go up just a wee bit on hearing the name. With just this much, Yakub knew that he had conveyed to Aardi that if his job wasn’t taken seriously, he could cause quite a bit of harm to Aardi and the girl both. Then letting his steady gaze linger on a second longer, Yakub turned back towards the car and got back in. He started the car and they moved off. “What happened, dude?” asked Shashank, now a little more aware of current events than before. “She’ll call you . . . soon,” said Yakub. Yakub entered Model Town, Lane No. 7, Gulmohar Cross Road, in Juhu. A quaint little township of bungalows built over three decades ago, Model Town was the place where Shashank’s friends met thrice a week for a card session. Though all of the players were in their early twenties, Shashank being the youngest, the stakes were high. The winner at the end of the night took home nothing less than fifty thousand to a lakh of rupees! But these were the professionals; the others made or lost anything between thirty to fifty thousand a night. Yakub parked the car under bungalow number A-10 and threw the keys into Vijay’s hands. He and Shashank started getting out of the car. “Eh Shashi, you’re an ekdum cat flush player you chodu, but please teach me also to win some maal, I don’t want to be the only chootmarika who’s losing every round,” said Yakub, as he took the bottle of perfume which Shashank had finished using and sprayed some under his armpits and on his shirt. Shashank had, at any given time, at least three different perfumes in the car. His choice was always
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perfumes that were light and cool, not musky or heavy with dense fragrances. His favourites were Clinique Happy and Davidoff Cool Water. Shashank almost always reeked of perfume and now in his company, Yakub had become quite the fragrant stud himself. He had begun to liberally spray Shashank’s perfumes all over himself before they entered any party place, friend’s house or a cinema hall. “Dude, chill out man! I’ll teach you every trick in the book and in a few days you’ll be the stud on the house, after all this is the only thing I know I’m good at! Trust me bro,” said Shashank as he patted Yakub’s shoulders in a friendly manner. They walked away from the car leaving Vijay behind. Vijay first tried sitting in the car for a while, but the hot and humid Bombay air got to him. He got out of the car, switched on his Walkman and listened to some more Kishore Kumar. In the first bungalow from the gate, he noticed a group of boys playing cricket. He switched off his Walkman and put it in the glove compartment which had become his locker, walked over to the building and began to watch the game. Juggy, Nishan and Puneet played a version of cricket which was very new to Vijay. As Vijay watched, the rules seemed to surprise him no end. Juggy was short, but his toned, muscled body together with the body fitting T-shirt he had on, said a lot about the power within that small frame. Puneet was the happy, wiry Sardar with a sports turban on his head. It was like the regular patta, but it seemed seamless, without any folds and had ‘Adidas’ emblazoned across it. Nishan was plump and had lovely hair which reminded Vijay of Shah Rukh Khan’s lustrous mane. Vijay watched on, remembering his days back in Muzzafarabad. He remembered cricket with Anand. In the school field, there was so much space. These three played as individual teams. When one batted, the second bowled and the third fielded. Their cricket field was a ten-foot by fifteen-foot gravel space which was actually the small area available for the parking of the cars of the bungalow. All along the periphery was a high fence. The stumps were a make-shift model made out of a thermocol box which at some point Vijay guessed, judging by its shape, must have been used to cover and protect a television set. The bowling was done with a weathered tennis ball which was thrown in the underarm style and the rules were the following: hitting the fence full toss was considered ‘out’. Hitting the ball before the first bounce or ‘tappa’ as they called it, was considered ‘out’. Hitting any of the many windows around was considered ‘out’. Hitting any part of the two cars parked a few meters away was considered ‘out’. The only way to get a four was to hit the ball in such a way that it would glide across the floor touching it a couple of times or slide across it till it touched the perpendicular wall behind. If it crossed the wall which wasn’t too high and went into the building behind, it was considered ‘out’. The only way to hit a six was to hit it straight into the 6 ft high wall behind, and if any of the 5'8" or more players caught it on it’s humble flight, of course, it was considered ‘out’. Vijay wondered how they could even play this way. But play they did and Nishan, under these unique circumstances actually scored fifty runs.
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Watching them play made Vijay more and more nostalgic; any kind of nostalgia eventually took him towards that night back home. He pushed the thoughts out of his mind, as of late even a second of remembering that night, began to give him a thumping feeling in his chest, as if someone was holding onto his air pipe and then his lungs. He didn’t know that this was what anxiety was all about; a feeling which drove quite a few people, in its highest stages, to even jump off buildings, just to escape it. Vijay turned away from the game and got back to his Walkman and happy music. But the batteries began to give way and Kishore Kumar’s voice began to sound like he too suffered from Vijay’s current constriction in the chest, only a higher degree. Vijay decided to go look for batteries. He remembered seeing a paan wala outside the main gate of Model Town. Walking across the road, Vijay came up to the paan wala and bought two Nippo batteries for his Walkman. He then replaced the old ones and threw them into the paan wala’s make-shift wastepaper basket. On second thoughts, he decided to have a Magai Meetha Paan as well. Just as he put the paan into his mouth, he saw a lady across the street walking towards the main road. There was no one on the road except for Vijay, the paan wala and some boys seated on two bikes parked parallel to each other. These were modified bikes with enhanced mudguards, thicker wheels and the works. The lady was wearing an exceptionally short miniskirt and her top didn’t do much to hide her ample breasts. She appeared to be a foreigner with an Oriental origin. She had red streaks in her wavy long hair which she’d left open. The minute the guys saw her pass by, they revved up their engines to life and approached her. One of them touched her behind; when she swung her bag at them, the other snatched it. They began circling her. Vijay began to grow more and more angry. He didn’t know why, but his blood was boiling. His knees began to shake from the intense activity going on within. The boys began jeering at the lady and touching her wherever they chose; she tried her best to get out of this circle of terror. even as she began to shout one of them slapped her. This was too much for Vijay to take. Without a second thought, his body became its own master and lunged forward. He ran towards them yelling, “Maderchooodooonnn!!” The guys were stunned with this sudden loud reaction which was attracting more attention to them than what they were doing themselves. Taking the chance of their momentary distracted state, the lady managed to squeeze through the circle and ran out onto the main road. The guys knew they couldn’t follow her onto the prime street, for fear of a passing patrol car or too much local attention. Instead they turned towards Vijay. Having let out his initial anger and having saved the lady, Vijay, now didn’t really know what to do. They approached him. One of them was larger than the rest and had a pony-tail, made only with the hair at the back of his head. The rest of his hair was short. He parked the bike. Taking the lead he slapped Vijay as he got off the bike. Vijay’s wiry frame couldn’t handle even this single slap and he fell to the ground. The others now followed suit and handed Vijay their own private special
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gifts for the intrusion: a wallop with a belt from one side, a kick from another and a box from the third. Within a couple of seconds, Vijay felt a burning sensation on one side of his body. Soon he experienced competing sensations growing in intensity across his entire body. The gang left, having had enough and not really enjoying this absolutely one-sided fight. Vijay lay there with blood dripping from his ear, nostril, cheek and his right eyelid. He wanted to get up, but he didn’t have the strength. He just lay there for a few seconds letting the swirling world stop its dance. He looked up into the sky, past the thinning Gulmohar leaves interspersed with the bright orange flowers. After he’d settled a bit, he got himself up and noticed the paan wala still just looking at him, his eyes betraying no emotion at all. Vijay somehow helped himself upto the car. The Walkman at his waist was the first thing he checked and was tremendously relieved to see that it was intact. Except for a few scratches, it hadn’t sustained any severe damage. Getting to the car, Vijay used the tissue paper from the tissue box and some water from the bottle Shashank kept in the car, to clean his wounds. Vijay realized that the burning would now only worsen for a few hours till it reached its peak, and only thereafter would it begin to recede. He decided to sleep it off. And he did.
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he Volvo careened into the ghats just before Lonavala at a speed of 40 kmph. The speed limit board said ‘30’. It was a large white and silver bus with Paulo Travels emblazoned across its sides. This was a four-year-old bus. The travel company had transferred it from its Mumbai-Goa route last year. They kept their buses in the Mumbai-Goa route only for the first three years of the life of the bus. Then they shifted it to their lighter routes like the Mumbai-Pune ones. Each fully equipped Volvo cost them Rs 65 lakhs and so they had to continue using the buses even after their stipulated three-year life was over. There had been a light rain due to the tremendous heat right through the day. The tyres of the Volvo sprayed water all across the tarmac and a mist accompanied them wherever they went, making the bus look like a magical demi God like figure that had descended from Mount Olympus itself as it glided along the road. In seat number 30, at a window, dressed in a loose pastel blue cotton salwar kurta with a moderate amount of chikan work on it, sat Nikita, looking out into the valleys of the ghats. She was looking at Duke’s Nose, a mountain which looked uncannily similar to a man holding his nose into the air. She had hoped that the Volvo wouldn’t be an old khatara which would give her a backache by the time it reached Bombay. But luckily the information which Renu had given her about Paulo Travels having better buses than the rivals, Neeta or Konduskar, was indeed correct. The bus was in a relatively pristine condition as it was just off the Mumbai-Goa track. She pushed her comfortable chair even further back by pressing a lever to her right. Rock Star Kareena, a VCD which contained every Kareena Kapoor hit song in Bollywood, played on the 21" screen at the front of the bus. She hated Kareena Kapoor. She felt that even she could pull off an acting stint better than her. She tried to block out the song ‘Aai Re Aai Re Khushi’ from her head, as she wondered yet again why the Volvos didn’t have sound controls to reduce the sound for each seat, just as they had for the air conditioner vents. To keep the horrendous sounds out of her head, she began to think of the day that had just gone by. At 10.30 this morning, Nikita had come by another Paulo Travels Volvo to Gokhale Nagar, a quaint little township ahead of Patrakar Nagar, opposite Symbiosis 86
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College, in Pune. The little nagar had row houses of which only the ground floor was legal; it wasn’t surprising for her to see that the average height of any structure here was two storeys. It had taken her a while to locate Meher Kripa, the paternal house of Yatin Kadam, the current food inspector of the suburb of Borivili. He was here on leave for his marriage which he’d just wrapped up two days ago. Under normal circumstances, it would have been impossible to get him for another month. She definitely couldn’t afford such a delay so she’d got Sharan Arasa to use some of his clout to set up a meeting with him right in his father’s house in Pune where he was on vacation. For government officials who didn’t like being disturbed even when they were at work, she knew he wouldn’t be too pleased with this intrusion in his well-guarded personal life. Nikita approached the gate and rang the small buzzer. She saw two young girls standing at the window of the first floor, staring down at her. They looked like they were south Indians, but not quite. Mr. Bhaskar Kadam came around the corner of the building with a water pipe in his hand. He walked slowly. Yatin came out of the front door which was ajar. Nikita noticed how father and son, despite such a vast difference of size, age and health, were still such spitting images of each other. Mr. Bhaskar Kadam was a short wiry man with a small round paunch which showed itself off from right under his white ribbed vest. He wore thick glasses and had a face which looked as if years ago, it had got stuck in a particular expression of disgust and shock and never got back to its original expression. He had thinning white hair which he kept combing, thus displaying his displeasure at it eroding day by day and his love of whatever was left. He was Yatin Kadam’s father, himself a retired Pune Municipal Corporation officer. Yatin, on the other hand was fat, darker in complexion and hairier. He also wore a white vest and a cream pyjama underneath. He sported a thick moustache and no glasses, unlike his father. “Are you Miss Nikita?” asked Yatin. “Yes. Mr. Arasa spoke to you?” asked Nikita. “Bara bara . . . generally I am not meeting anybody in my home . . . butt as speshall case . . . anyway . . . please take stool . . . !” Nikita lowered her gaze to notice the small lotus pond and four plastic Neelkamal chairs kept right next to the small pond which had four lotuses, of which only one was in full bloom. Bhaskar Kadam took out his comb again to comb back his hair as he left the hose which had lost all its force of water, into the lotus pond. “So tell me what is it? Mr. Arasa was telling something about a restaurant in I.C. Colony,” he added. Nikita decided to do it straight. “Yes it’s right next to Louis cold storage, the place which never runs. I plan to open a Konkani food restaurant there. And I need your help,” she said. Yatin scratched the two-day-old stubble around his chin as he thought or acted as if he was thinking. Then after almost a whole minute’s pause he said,
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“I’m tellings you all; then you decide . . . permissions are needed for keetchun, chimney smoke in right direction, ventilhation, exhaust. I will hau to geeu to you the grading certifikaate. I hau to be sending a report to the grading afsar.” At this he made a rubbing motion with his finger and thumb indicating an expense. “And many afsars on top” “Hmm . . . So what will the total cost be?” asked Nikita, again cutting through the chase. Right at this moment, a young boy crashed to the ground outside the building, as he had tried to jump across the fence surreptitiously and failed. The two girls standing on top were still looking down, worry now writ all over their faces. Nikita and the two Kadams all lost focus. “Eh bhenchod . . . come here you rascal! I wheel teech you all the lessons of your lives,” shouted Yatin, as he got up from his stool, opened the gate and ran after the youth who was much more agile. Turning round a bend, he escaped, leaving the newly married Yatin gasping for breath. Bhaskar then took things into his own shaky hands. He called out to the girls. “Eh, all of you, ikde ya . . . khaali ya . . . aatta ya!! YA!” he shouted, letting the last ‘YA’ sound like a war cry. The two girls from the window disappeared only to reappear downstairs again, with two more of their companions. “I told you no, no boys!! How many times I telling you re bavdat mulis?? No boys mins no boys!! Patla ka?!! Or I am taking you to making a call to your mothers in Colombo, aattach!!” said Bhaskar, his face now even more contorted than usual. Nikita looked at the four girls and now understood that they were all from Colombo which explained the slight south Indian features. “Should I call the mummys?!!” threatened Kadam senior, as junior also entered the threatening arena. “No uncle, sorry. Verry sorry. It was her birthday no, so her mu bola bhai had come from college to wish her,” said one of them. “Eh, Tarumini, now you please, that boy is your boyfriend, I am knowing that already,” said Bhaskar. Yatin being away in Bombay most of the time was obviously not so well informed about the sociological environment of the tenants at Meher Kripa. “Uncle, he is Venuri’s boyfriend and Lakshi’s mu bola bhai no . . .” said Tarumini, a thin, wiry girl with long hair which was extremely curly and had the luster of strength. Venuri was the tallest and the most curvaceous of the lot while Lakshi, a Tamillian as the name suggested, was short, podgy and the darkest of them. “Ok, ok, next time I am seeings him, you are makings the call to mummys! Don’t forget,” threatened Bhaskar, as he turned around to face Nikita. “Tarumini, Venuri, Lakshi and Savitri,” he said, introducing them one by one. Savitri was the quietest and she had a bible in her hand which she had obviously been reading. “Savitri Ludette Christi,” she said introducing herself to Nikita.
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“Ok, ok, aatta go back and do the studies, quietly, no noisyness!” said Bhaskar. The girls rushed upstairs to their abode above the Kadams. “Hmm . . . vicharle ka tumhi . . . what do you wants to do?” asked Yatin of Nikita. “Just give me the total figure. I’ll organize it and get back to you. I know it’s tough work for you. And you’re on shaadi leave so I won’t waste any more of your time. Your phone was switched off else I would have just called and spoken,” said Nikita. “Barra barra, it’s always off. Why anybody should talk business on phone? No problem. You came. No problem. Total figure, one lakh. Actually little more, but I am the roundings it off as it is speshall case, reference Sharan bhai,” said Yatin. “All right Kadam Saheb, I’ll arrange it and get back to you as soon as possible,” said Nikita. She then offered him her hand which he shook and then immediately Bhaskar Kadam also shook it, without being asked to. She then turned to leave. Nikita’d then taken a rickshaw to the suburb of Aundh, from where she’d taken this bus back to Bombay. One lakh was an enormously large amount! She was almost ready to file for bankruptcy and her dream of the restaurant which was so close, now seemed beyond reach! Not letting this thought bother her any more, she chose to let the sound of ‘Bhage re Man Kabhi . . . ’ from the film, Chameli, the only Kareena Kapoor film which she could tolerate, enter her mind. She felt that Kareena was absolutely out of her league even physically, trying to portray a prostitute who worked at the absolute lower rung. A bar dancer maybe, but a low rung prostitute, never! Nikita looked out of the window at the expressway. They were nearing the Food Mall after they’d come down the Ghats. Right then her mobile buzzed in her kurta pocket. She’d kept it on vibration mode as she knew it was no competition for the blaring speakers in the Volvo. She took it out of her pocket and looked at the tiny LCD screen; her face was a mixture of slight surprise followed almost immediately by happiness. It was Aardi! Vijay was just about getting used to the music which Shashank called Trance. For a long time, to him, it was just a combination of various beats and some shrill sounds put together. Dhak chik dhik chik dhak chik dhik went the speakers all day, as he developed his confidence with the gear, the clutch and the accelerator. He often used the rear view mirror to check what Shashank was doing. He realized that Shashank had been taking many doses of what he came to know of as heroin, through the conversations between Yakub and Shashank. Vijay had grown to love the car with all his heart! The vanilla which filled the air when he got into it in the morning, the bright lights of the graphic equalizer on the face panel of the music system, the soft thick feel of the cream leather seats and the basic musky eternal smell of the plastic in the car which set an undertone for the vanilla of the air freshener and the cigarette smoke and the various perfumes which Shashank used; this was Vijay’s world. Whenever he waited for Shashank
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outside a friend’s building, he replaced the Trance C.D. with one of his Kishore Kumar cassettes and then enjoyed the little LED lights on the panel dancing to his tunes as he reclined on the leather chair on the passenger side. He was used to eating from the roadside stalls and had saved four thousand out of his first monthly salary of seven. He was finally on the road to becoming what his mother called an ‘adult’ and he was happy to have realized it. Shashank was on one call with a Mr. Tripathi who supplied mobile phones as a wholesaler to the shops in the area. As he was busy in the conversation, Vijay noticed that Shashank suddenly seemed to have got another call in the middle of the first. “Yeah . . . yeah . . . Of course boss, of course . . . Arre, just a sec, I think I have another call on wait. Let me call you back Tripathiji,” said Shashank, as he disconnected one call and took the other. He too was eagerly awaiting the result of the other day’s conversation with the watchman at Aththi. “Hello, is this Shashank?” said Nikita from the other side of the eagerly held line. “Yes, it is . . . who’s this?” asked Shashank, the exitement growing in his voice. “Nikita from Atithi,” she said. “When can I meet you and where?” asked Shashank, trying not to get straight to the point, but not being able to contain his excitement at being able to finally see this woman who he’d dreamt about for months. “Umm . . . Green Fields Society, the first right, after In Orbit Mall on Link Road, Malad. Call me when you get there. I’ll give you the exact directions from there, so that it’s easier for you,” she said. “Done, dude, done! See ya a-s-a-p,” said Shashank and shut his communicator. “Oye Vijay, drive towards Fame Adlabs. I’ll direct you from there. FAST!!” said Shashank as he then dialed Yakub to give him the good news. Vijay drove on, letting Shashank discuss the possibilities with Yakub in the back seat. He watched the buildings pass by in a blur as he increased his speed. His confidence had grown in the past few days. Driving around with Shashank through the hot spots of Bombay, he now knew as much of the spiraling city as any newcomer could in a few weeks. On the way to Fame Adlabs, he kept looking at the signs, billboards and landmarks around for future reference. He passed Amitabh Bacchan’s two houses, Jalsa and Prateeksha, Aasaraam Bapu’s bungalow near Amitabh’s first house, then the Chandan Cinema Circle, and the Club, another place where Shashank would invariably end up coming once every few days. They reached the Indian Oil signal and Vijay noticed that this was one of those signals where due to road construction almost all year round, a sort of temporary village had come up on the footpath itself on all sides with make-shift houses made out of chunnis, sarees, pieces of cloth strung across thin twigs. Bamboo poles, iron rods, made thin wiry tents at various places. Men sat around in semi-broken chairs;
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women washed clothes removing water from the water manhole in the ground; kids wandered around, looking sometimes at the traffic with a mixed look of hope and anguish. In the midst of all this dust and commotion, stood the traffic policeman, right in the middle, directing traffic across a signal which was almost forever out of order. Vijay was beginning to fall in love with this ‘sweet mess’ called Bombay. It was sometimes coaxing, sometimes forcing him to grow up. He tugged at the curly mop on his head, trying to make it sit down but in vain, as usual. He took another look at Shashank in the rear view mirror, happily and excitedly chatting with Yakub about his soon to be heralded new venture. He thought that Shashank looked so much better when he was lost elsewhere. He looked almost innocent at times. Vijay laughed in his head at his own silly thought. He was now off the main Indian Oil signal and rushing towards Fame Adlabs. He’d never been inside but had always waited outside the humongous theatre. It was early evening now and the back-from-office rush hour had begun on Link Road causing a huge traffic jam on the already always-under-construction road. Vijay looked out at the tall glass covered buildings and tried to remember the names in his mind. Kailash Parbat, Crystal Plaza, Nautilus Gym, the lovely white petrol pump which looked like a lotus appropriately nick named Lotus Petrol Pump. He slowed down as he’d come to the end of the road he knew. This time Shashank didn’t lose his cool but began to guide Vijay in the middle of his call with an intermittent ‘left’ and ‘right’. The music system was now playing something which said, World Music-Karunesh, on the cover. Vijay enjoyed this kind of music, the only respite from the regular Trance. Soon they’d crossed the huge In Orbit Mall and it was time to take the right turn. As they reached it, Shashank called back the number he had received the call from and happily stored on his mobile phone as ‘Nikita Atithi’. “Hi . . . Nikita . . . this is . . .” said Shashank. “Yes I know, ok turn right, then take the second left and then wait outside the really small lane to your right. I’ll walk down. If you get lost, call again,” said Nikita before she hung up. Shashank relayed the directions to Vijay. Vijay brought the car to the lane and halted, leaving the engine on. Both Shashank and Vijay looked at the neck of the lane and waited. It was a narrow path leading to an older building which was housed behind two new structures that dwarfed the much older, shorter building behind them. After an anxious minute’s wait, Shashank finally saw Nikita, this time in her fully loaded avatar. A soft, almost inaudible whistle escaped his lips, making Vijay turn to look. Nikita came towards the car. She was dressed in a tight white top with a shimmering butterfly made on it with diamonets and an extremely high cut denim skirt with tattered edges making her look even sexier! Her hair was cut in the most fashionable style, straight from the front and the grunge look from right behind the front fringe which had been rebounded at a salon. Her hair had golden streaks in it and she had on large hoop earrings. She wore stilettoes
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which had a leather lace that snaked in a criss-cross pattern over her ankles, right up to her calves. The bulge of her ample breasts caught Shashank’s attention as she approached the car. He opened the door to let her in, noticing immediately the eagle tattoo right above her tailbone as she bent to get in. “Hi,” said Shashank. “Hi,” replied Nikita. She knew from this first excited ‘Hi’ itself that this was going to be relatively easy; that this guy was actually a kid, probably just out of college a year or two ago and that this would be much easier than her other experiences of handling men in the past. She’d been a bit skeptical when Aardi had called her. Approaching and accepting to meet a stranger was almost a sure shot career mistake. But Nikita had reached a point of desperation. Whether she chose to accept it fully to herself or not, this chance after all, had come right out of the blue, when she needed it the most. She was looking at this as a ‘one off ’; make as much money in this first and last meeting and then get back to searching for more. As she sat in the car, her years of experience made her immediately look around for potential threats—rods, a big torch, a spray, like the Mace she was carrying in her purse, a gun, a knife—then she noticed the driver, who immediately appeared like a harmless chap. Relaxing a bit, she looked back at Shashank who was stealing a quick glance at her bustline beneath the butterfly. As he saw her looking at him, he immediately shifted his gaze. His body language spoke volumes to Nikita. She’d been with men in the past who were so intoxicated with the influence of power and money that they blatantly stared at her even when they knew she was staring back at them. She however was being cautious with Shashank because Aardi had told her about Yakub. Vijay was looking at the picture behind in his rear view mirror. He could see a perfectly framed Nikita and an excited Shashank in one clear rectangle, seated on the back seat with the world behind them, through the rear windscreen. Shashank then turned towards Vijay. “Let’s go back, dude.” Vijay put the car into gear and the car moved forward. “I’d actually seen you at Atithi a few months ago, probably days before the ban and I’d been wanting to meet you but I didn’t know how to. Then I saw you at Café Coffee Day the other day, sitting with some body builder and thought, ‘man, I have to see her anyhow’, so . . .” said Shashank. Nikita thought how ironic it was that while she was trying hard to get Romulus to get into a deal, somewhere, something else was forming. She often thought like this. as if there was a larger system to the world which, if she tried, she could see. “Ho . . . the watchman just called me,” she said. “It’s really sad that the bars have shut down na?!!” said Shashank, trying to make conversation. “Hmm . . . ho ho, but . . . what is it you want exactly? Tell me straight,” said Nikita, choosing as always, to get to the point right away.
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Shashank was taken aback, but then his true nature also took over from the image he was trying to portray. “One night. Hotel of my choice. How much?” he asked. Vijay was really amused by this conversation and was intently looking into the rear view. “Fifteen thousand. No bargaining, haan!” said Nikita, her face taking on a stern look. “Done,” said Shashank, immediately removing his wallet and handing Nikita the money after loosely counting it once. She’d seen him count it and so she just took it and put it into her small purse. “I think we . . .” began Shashank. But Nikita put a finger on his lips stopping him from any further conversation. Then she slid her hand softly but swiftly down to his crotch which she began to feel up. Shashank’s face lit up like a Christmas tree, once again taken by surprise. In the next instant he lunged at her, kissing her wildly and pressing her breasts in a flurry of young energy, almost uncontrollable. “Mmm . . . easy mula easy,” said Nikita, amidst smothering kisses as she then took charge of him, leading the rest of the kissing. She kept feeling his crotch, as he pressed hard on her breasts. She then pushed him back and began to unzip him. Shashank suddenly remembered something; he reached behind the seat near the rear speakers to pick out the shades which had a suction device that held them on to the windows. He set them up to give them more privacy, though the sun was almost over the horizon and the increasing darkness was already on his side. She now unzipped him, pulled his white Calvin Klein underwear over his erect penis, fully exposed and mildly throbbing. She reached into her purse for a condom which she then expertly stretched onto Shashank’s eager manliness. This done she began to go down on him. Shashank, in a reflex action, felt his hand move towards her thick hair as he held it softly at first and then a little harder as the blow job took on its full fervour. Vijay was now virtually looking more in the rear view and less at the road ahead. “Abe chutiye Vijay, look at the fucking road!” said Shashank. Nikita went on and Shashank’s face became a flurry of expressions as he enjoyed his moments of bliss. A few moments and he couldn’t endure it anymore; he pushed her away and lunged at her, spreading her legs and getting whacked by her right stiletto. He just didn’t care; he just moved it aside and began to reach for her panties. She stopped him, gesturing with her swaying finger that this was not allowed. “No jaanu, no, patience!” she said. She had on her mask of the seductress and she played the part to the ‘t’. Pushing him back again, she began her second attempt at giving him oral satisfaction. Vijay was looking intently at Nikita and when her gaze, as she came up for air caught his, he immediately turned away and kept his gaze fixed on road ahead. He
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tried to concentrate on the hard leather of the gear knob in his hand, but that too reminded him of what was being held onto in the back seat. He shifted his attention to the steering wheel and the bonnet and the road ahead. The night had spread its blackness and the street lights whizzed past. Vijay now tried to block out every sound he heard. He knew he couldn’t change the music nor turn the volume up, so he quietly slipped on his earphones and let Kishore Kumar take him away from the ghastly but gravitationally powerful and attractive goings-on behind him. ‘Koi Ladki Mujhe Kal Raat Sapne Mein Mili,’ crooned Kishore Kumar. He was happy to have the music transport him to any place other than here and now. The Resort at Madh Island had over the years become a haven for people in search of a break from the looks and smells of the city to something more tropical, if only for a couple of hours. Set in an alcove right on the beach with rooms looking out at sea, the Resort was the preferred weekend get-away not only for people who lived close by but also for people from suburbs as far away as Bandra and beyond. Taking a breather from his new world of back seat pleasure, Shashank told Vijay in between slight moans and gasps, to turn around and head towards Madh Island and was even being civil enough to guide him in the right direction whenever he could. By the time they had turned off from the main road of In Orbit Mall towards Madh Island, Shashank was almost pooped. Nikita had enough control over her technique to keep Shashank throbbing for more after he’d experienced the height of arousal thrice. Now he desperately needed a break and he took it in the one only way he knew; out of the present and out of his life; with a shot of heroin. Nikita was surprised to see the case with the syringe and vials being brought out and used. Her hair was disheveled but she pushed it back expertly with her hands and set it in place. They arrived at the hotel with Vijay at the wheel, Nikita behind and Shashank hovering somewhere above planet earth. Vijay dropped them off at the lobby before driving back to the parking lot. Nikita helped Shashank up the steps and into the lobby. The man at the reception, Jaya Jose Raj C.L. knew Shashank well. He’d first seen him when he was fourteen and then at regular intervals. He always gave Shashank a special rate, slightly lower than the basic rate and always upgraded him to a slightly better room for free and included the breakfast, lunch, dinner combo buffet as a free add-on. The minute he saw Shashank with the ravishing Nikita, he pulled out the key to the honeymoon suite, from the stack on the board which housed the keys to all the rooms. Shashank was swimming in a wave of pure white light. Somewhere in his head he felt the ebbs and flows of the hit. He looked like a very happy man swaying to some internal music, with a silly loose smile spread across his thick lips. Nikita helped him walk as she reached the top floor with the liftman in the ornate lift. As the ‘ting’ of the doors opening rang out, the liftman pointed out the direction of the suite to Nikita. He was used to such awkward situations. She reached the room and turned the key to find a lovely sprawling room with a sitting area. A make-shift
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dining table, a bar counter, a sofa and television set, an attached master bedroom with a four poster bed and a huge tastefully done up toilet, adorned the suite. What caught her eye and made her almost smile was the large attached balcony. She dropped Shashank on the bed and helped him get comfortable. “I’ll just freshen up and slip into something more comfortable,” she said and left the smiling Shashank on the bed. She walked out onto the sitting area, letting her bag drop down, did a 360 degree pirouette towards the balcony, opened the glass door and stepped out into the air laden with a thick smell of salt, seaweed and wet sand. It filled her nostrils as it was swept up along the shore and wafted to their third floor balcony. The room was at a corner of the hotel and as such looked out over an entire sprawling stretch of the beach which in the dark looked inviting and dreary at the same time. There were two deck chairs on one side of the ‘L’ shaped balcony which she immediately made a mental note of; ideal to use the next morning to get a healthy tan! She stood leaning on the parapet of the balcony and took in a deep breath of the salty air. She let her gaze dwell on the waves as they crept up the shore, repeatedly followed by clones close at heel. She looked back at the room, now beyond the glass and let out a sigh as she brought herself back to reality. Opening the glass door, she stepped back inside the room and went straight to the bathroom. She passed Shashank who was still reeling under the hit. The bathroom was spotless; something Nikita loved about 5 Star hotels. It also had a corner square tub, big enough for two, the sides of which and the shelf near the mirror were stacked with expensive bath products, another one of her weaknesses. She made a mental note of using the tub and products also the next morning. The check-out time for this suite was 24 hours after check-in and she hoped Shashank had a life to get back to after their rendezvous this night. She then slipped into her sexiest lingerie which included a black lace bra. She noticed that black always looked sexy against fair breasts, just as a pure white lace bra looked ravishing against dark breasts. She could hear Shashank moaning outside. She left her purse and clothes in the bathroom, stacked in a corner and then walked out into the bedroom. The bed was of the four-poster variety with a sort of canopy over it, giving it that regal air. Shashank, now into a different zone of the heroin hit, was more in control of himself. He reached out for Nikita and pulled her towards him. Nikita had heard about certain actresses, who when the arc lights came on, instantly underwent a metamorphosis and became the character they were playing. So convincing was their performance that even the people on the sets could scarcely believe that this was the same person they’d seen just moments ago. As she crouched onto the bed, she underwent the same metamorphosis. She lay down next to Shashank who reached out for her and began to kiss her. Nikita generally stayed as far away from kissing as she could; she’d heard from other professionals that if there was an ulcer in the mouth which was bad and oozing blood and if a similar condition existed
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in her body, there was a minute chance of a transfer of the AIDS virus. The basis of her information wasn’t very scientific, but still she’d never taken a chance. “Unnhhh don’t do that . . . Get on top na you lazy man,” she said swaying her head while talking always in a sort of a sing-song manner, as she spread her legs to catch between them a slowly mounting Shashank. He began to take off his underwear exposing a thick hard cock. He pulled her panties off in a violent move, tugging them hard as they slid past the glowing skin of her long legs. He spread her legs holding her just below the buttocks, near the thighs and entered her. Nikita could tell that Shashank was one of those men who had no stamina at all; she also knew that the hit was making him enjoy every sensation much more. He began slowly and then picked up sudden speed, before reaching an alarmingly fast climax within a few moments. He then dropped his heavy body onto her, smothering her face as he made a loud grunting sound. Nikita remembered the article she’d seen printed on a magazine cover at the railway station Wheeler Bookshop one day which said ‘Indian Men Don’t Even Know What Foreplay Is’, she remembered asking a friend what foreplay was. She’d been told that it was the entire process of kissing, feeling, and building up to the actual love-making act. She understood exactly what the woman in the magazine, a blossoming new actress had meant. She felt at-one with that woman from deep within due to this shared knowledge which she seemed to exchange with her without any visible contact or connection. She suddenly felt connected with every Indian woman for a moment. At this time, in which she gasped for breath, in her momentary suffocating coffin, lying under the heavy, sweaty Shashank, she saw another one of those ‘women across India’ connections. The entire sexual act for which this man had paid fifteen thousand rupees and also the bill for this room, which was at least ten thousand, had lasted for not more than five minutes! Breaking out of her trance-like state which she often got into at the weirdest of moments, she looked back up at the mass that was Shashank. She turned herself, letting him almost slip off her, as she slid to one side. He was now back into that white foggy marsh in his head; he had that slight smile pasted across his face again. Nikita got off the bed and walked into the bathroom, picking up a towel and using it like a make-shift skirt. She then walked into the sitting room and past the glass door onto the large balcony. She’d always had, she realized, a liking for balconies, maybe because she was from Ratnagiri and these reminded her of her own backyard at home. She stood leaning on the parapet facing the sea and heard the familiar sound of the waves as they crashed softly into the white froth below. She shut her eyes and listened carefully to them. Right to left, left to right. She looked at them, running her gaze right along the entire stretch of beach visible from the balcony. A song came into her head, almost out of nowhere. She wasn’t too surprised, for this happened often. Suddenly in a particular situation, her mind would throw into her lap a song which then didn’t leave the cottage of her mind for a while and settled in like a visitor who,
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she felt, she had known from another life. “Tu hawaa hai, fiza hai, zameen ki naheen, tu ghata hai to phir kyon barasti naheen? questioned the male voice in the song. “Main hawaa hoon kaheen par thaherti naheen, ruk bhi jaoon kaheen to main rehti nahin, maine tinke uthaye hue hain paron par, aashiyana naheen hain mera . . .” the lines circled through her head for what seemed like an eternity as she looked at the black sea. She then moved back into the sitting room and lay down on the bed and dozed off. When Nikita awoke, she realized that it was 2 a.m. She remembered that Shashank had whispered as they’d walked up to the room, that he had to be taken back home, no matter how late at night. She went into the room and saw him snoring on the bed. She woke him up and somehow got him into the lift and down to the car in which a snoring Vijay lay sprawled across the front sear in a diagonal fashion. Even with Shashank’s weight on her shoulder Nikita noticed how soft Vijay looked in his sleep. Like a child! She knocked and woke him up. Vijay immediately opened the front door and got out. He unlocked the back door and helped Shashank in. He went back to the front and started the car. Nikita was still standing there waiting for them to leave, her arms folded between her belly and chest. Vijay put the car into gear and then turned towards her. He didn’t want to make any gesture that would indicate a goodbye or a closure to the night. He just wanted to get out of there and get back home. Nikita waited to see the car leave and then she went back upstairs. This time she tidied up the large bed in the room, undressed herself completely and got under the covers to sleep peacefully for the remainder of the night. Sleeping in the nude was something she did only occasionally, when she felt special for some reason. Today, this royal room somehow, made her feel different. Vijay drove the car at medium speed, though he was tempted to press down the accelerator and test his recently acquired driving confidence. The roads of Madh Island, right up to the main road from where habitation began, were winding and every party hopper, drunk teeny bopper, and couple returning from their cozy corner coochy-cooing at the beach and its by-lanes, drove and rode fast, so he had to be careful. He noticed that this was probably one of the best spots for a drive late at night. No traffic, so no botheration of touching another car. For the first time he felt the car gliding under him and the light soaring joy of a night time drive. For all practical purposes, he was alone. Shashank had passed out in the back seat. Vijay somehow gathered the courage to insert one of his Kishore Kumar tapes in the music system and keeping the volume low, listened to some of his favourites. As the rhythm of the songs fused with the slight twists and turns of the road ahead, the whole environment became one layered world of music. He began to drive fast, almost in a meditative trance with no conscious concentration on the road, with just the feeling of a bird soaring, not ascending, not descending, just soaring without a care in the world. The changing of gears, the turning of the wheel, the pressing
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of the accelerator and its rhythm with the clutch, all became like one sonata as the palm trees whizzed by. He glanced at Shashank and that brought back flashes of Shashank and Nikita and their explicit act in the back seat. ‘What kind of a girl is she . . . ’ he thought . . . ‘so beautiful, such lovely hair, big, round, doe eyes, such bright, radiant skin, a lovely face and a body to match.’ Thinking of her made Vijay slip into a momentary reverie of Nikita’s body which he then quickly shook himself out of. ‘Why then does she need to do all this? These girls . . . they just want easy money. That’s all. Hrrmmphh!’ he thought. With his opinion formed, Vijay pushed this chapter out of his head as he shook it slightly from side to side. He looked at the palm trees through the window. He played with his gaze; transfixing it first on a tree and then letting it become one whole blur, after which he repeated the routine with another. Within a short time, in this sweet mess of a city, this was the first time he’d fallen in love with driving. ‘Wah!’ he thought. The next morning Nikita woke up leisurely by early afternoon. She went out onto the balcony and lazed out on the deck chair, getting herself a tan. The chairs were placed perfectly. She called for the sun tan lotion from room service. Calling for room service gave her a strange kind of pleasure. She felt similar to what a raja may feel in his rajdhani or a zamindar may feel in his zameen; she felt feudal, getting a waiter to serve her, but she enjoyed it immensely. After she felt her skin had reddened just enough, she decided to laze around, watch some television and eat some of the fruits from the complementary fruit bowl. Lunch was on the house and she could order in from room service or go downstairs. This was a small relief from her daily life and its problems. As she stood on this pseudo tropical island of Madh, she chose to push aside all of life’s grievances for a while and momentarily ignore the Nikita she knew. She went to the bathroom and poured the electric blue bubble bath solution into the empty bathtub, letting every last drop of it ooze out. She started the gushing water on top of the solution watching as the bubbles began to form and gather together, like schoolgirls huddled under one umbrella in a torrential shower. Letting it prepare itself further, she walked over to the cabinet and pulled out whatever she could find. There was a small plastic case with three exotic mini soaps in it. ‘Calm’, ‘Vigour’ and ‘Sport’ spelled the text engraved on the label. Nikita put her nose to each of them separately. ‘Calm’, she agreed had a soothing smell; ‘Vigour’, was musky and dense and ‘Sport’, was fruity. She was happy. Different soaps with exotic fragrances were one of her pet spoils. She went to the bathtub which was almost overflowing and shut the tap. The bubbles were now big but they still stuck together; some of them had slowly and softly begun to pop. She sat on the clean fresh toilet seat which had a temporary slip across it, ‘Antiseptic, Disinfectant Plastic’, it said. The smell of the bubble bath and the soap made her crap smell heavenly. After she was done she used the flush which was another feather touch device. Then she walked over to the tub, tied her thick hair into a small bun and slipped in. As she felt the
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warm water touch the back of her neck near the spine and then slowly creep up to the hairline above the neck, she felt her muscles relax. There was a small rack of magazines kept nearby. She picked up the latest Filmfare and went through the pictures. She stopped at the centre fold and looked at pictures of Hrithik Roshan in his Greek God like semi-nude attire and her hand moved into the bubbly mire towards her vagina. She examined various parts of his body separately at first and then all of him. The green eyes, the sharp jaw, the bulging biceps, she played around with herself for a few seconds but then stopped as she thought she’d rather relax. She put the magazine away and slipped deeper into the water. ‘Aah this is life!’ she thought. She spent the rest of the day being an island, doing full ‘vasooli’ of the room. That evening she packed up and went for a walk on the beach.
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hashank liked to sleep in a room which maintained the temperatures of an igloo in winter. The air conditioner had to be kept running at its coolest temperature and the fan had to be spinning its blades off. Only then, in the sub zero temperature, could he get sleep. The room had been done up by a friend from school who’d now become an architect. He never really had a close friend from school and maybe compensated by giving work immediately, though he was overcharged, to this friend-turned-architect and interior designer, when he bumped into him at an airport a year ago. The room was painted in a light shade of orange and posters of films like Dil Chahta Hai and Munna Bhai, were put up in black and white, with coloured dots running all over them like a pixelization, as if the photos had contracted chicken pox or the German measles. The posters were in rectangles and squares, but of small sizes so that when they were bunched up together they formed another new shape altogether. Close to his bed stood a hi-fi computer terminal with a web cam and Harman Kardon speakers. Shashank invariably spent a lot of time at home on the net, chatting with other bored and frustrated, lost people like himself, online. He loved to listen to music which even at home was mostly, Trance. Shashank was having a nightmare; Inder Mehta sat astride a large golden chariot which was coming at Shashank from a distance. He had the feeling that he was not there in person, but as a presence in the sky. Then suddenly he felt some kind of a danger from the oncoming chariot; he started running, looking over his shoulder every few moments, to see how successful he’d been at averting the danger. Each time he looked, the chariot, magnificent in it’s fury, the sun glowing behind it like a fiery halo, seemed much closer till finally he felt like it was about to come onto him. He felt a vacuum in his stomach and then suddenly saw himself falling through the sky, as if he’d been on some invisible walkway and had now accidentally stepped off it and was soaring through the heavens which for some reason, had turned yellow. He awoke with a slight jerk of his head and almost instantly realized that he’d just experienced a nightmare! He pushed off his two thick razaees with which he used to cover himself till only his nose stuck out at the top. He was dressed in a pair of shorts which were 100
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white cotton with the sun and an advertisement for Los Angeles on them and a white T-shirt torn off at the shoulders, revealing his dark, thick arms. He stumbled over to the bathroom to relieve himself. He’d had an older set of speakers put up in the bathroom also as he sometimes spent hours there at a stretch, in the slim bath tub or on the pot reading Playboy and pleasing himself. He preffered having its trance around, at all times. Abstaining from the sins of brushing or washing his face, he walked out of his small bedroom towards the drawing room. As he entered the drawing room, he saw his father sitting at the dining table reading the newspaper while dialing a number on his communicator. Inder’s communicator was always a model ahead of Shashank’s no matter how hard he tried to catch up. He noticed how his father held the paper; how he turned the pages; how he said ‘hello’ when the call got connected. “Haan bhai, Mehrotra, how are you? Calleckshan Valeckshan kaisa chal raha hai, yaar? How’s your new baby faring at the box office? I’m just going through the latest trade guide . . . Adarsh sahab to is praising you to the skies and your Calleckshans,” said Inder. His eyes twinkled for a second like a mortar going back a slight bit before expelling its blazing shell with full force. In the next instant from the twinkling eyes came forth a burst of loud laughter which had the surge of the sea in it. Inder Mehta roared with laughter and as Shashank looked at his father chuckling; a smile came over his face. Shashank noticed the wrinkles around his father’s eyes and eyelids which nearly hid the eyes completely as the laughter rattled the face and jaw. He noticed the teeth and the lips as they parted to reveal their secret to the world. He watched the forehead as its waves grew and then subsided. He noticed the sound as it rose and fell rhythmically. Then the phone was put down. Shashank was still lost in his thoughts. “Yes, tell me Shashank, what is it?” asked Inder. Shashank had always yearned for his father to call him a pet name, even Shashi, a name by which the boys at school teased him. But there was never another name except the extremely formal ‘Shashank’ his father used whenever he addressed him. “Uhhh . . . dad, I’d spoken to you about that mobile phone showroom I was planning to open at the corner of Carter Road near the Café Coffee Day na?” said Shashank. “Showroom?! You’d said a small shop!!” said Inder “Yes yes sorry, it’s a small shop only, I just . . .” muttered Shashank. “Arre be specific. See, you’ve still not learnt how to take this seriously . . . it’s an investment after all . . . anyway aur bolo,” said Inder. “Yes . . . well, we’ve got the suppliers ready and we’ve got the shop ready and we’ve handled the rent also to an extent but now we’ve got to also shell out dough for the interiors!” said Shashank.
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“What is ‘dough’? Say money! Money!! . . . And who is this ‘we’? I hope you’ve not gotten into anything with that bloody Yakub fellow,” said Inder now moving onto the table and wagging his finger at Shashank. Shashank noticed the same face again. How the frown had acquired a life of it’s own now, the eyes sang a different song, the mouth had lost it’s secret to reveal an ugly truth already known and the voice which a second ago was so awe inspiring now shot through him like a poisoned dart! He felt the jab that the tone of his father’s voice brought about in him. Shashank did not even comprehend what his father was saying anymore. He could just see the face moving in a symphony of its own. “And furthermore, that rascal Yakub whom you consider a friend . . . you know whose son he is?! Mustafa Sheikh, the company shooter!” said Inder. Right then he got another call on his phone which he immediately picked up. Shashank noticed again how the face now told yet another story, from another land. Inder got up. “Haan, haan, Sirji, coming, coming right away,” he said and began to walk out of the room. “Arre bhai aa raha hoon, two minutes . . .” Inder’s voice trailed out of the room. Shashank sat there looking at the table. He felt the sting of tears in his eyes but he forced them down, staring continuously at the space just vacated. He began to read what was written on the bottle of water kept on the table. The bottle was brown and translucent and said ‘Pearlpet’. After staring at the bottle for a while, he got up and left the room. Back inside his room where the fan and the air conditioner had both been turned off by Ramdeen, Shashank sank on his bed. The room still retained its cool, the kind left behind after the chill of the night. Quiet and cool, like the sudden calm of a concert hall the morning after, when the sonata is still somewhere in whiffs and puffs dodging in and out of one’s head. He took out his case which he brought back from the car with him each night. This was one thing even his absent minded self couldn’t forget. He pulled out the vial of heroin and set himself up a large hit, more potent than his regular ration. He went into the opaqueness once more, leaving his worries behind on the shore, as he stepped off the cliff into the surging white, frothy surf below. Shashank knew that he had at least one thing he could depend on, one thing which would stand its promise in good stead, never letting him down from its promised glory, its promised flight; for once he felt he had control over his own happiness! That evening Nikita walked along the same shore line which she’d relished from the balcony of the hotel room. She was now much closer to the waves. She noticed some fishermen’s children using a plank of wood to surf the waves. They were as dark as soot and the contrast between the white froth and their lean, supple bodies made a pretty picture. The tallest, about three and a half feet in height, kept
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taking the board into the waves as deep as his short frame could carry him. He turned the plank in the direction of the shore and then looked over his shoulder for the next wave. The minute he saw it coming, he timed himself to lunge into it, at just the right second and then let it carry him, sometimes right upto where the froth made way for a few seconds of clear water as it dispersed just before touching the sand, or sometimes just a few feet away from the beginning of the ride, depending on his skill at riding it. Nikita stood there watching the kids for a while. The observation encouraged them; now even the younger, more frail ones decided to take the risk. Nikita moved on. All along the serpentine wall which separated the coast from the road, she saw lots of couples near and far, using the lovely surroundings to let their love bloom. Nikita was reminded again of Aslam and how she’d sat with him at the Gateway of India on a hot summer day. She realized the urgent need for a distraction. She began to walk into the water taking off her long laced sandals and holding them in one hand. Once the waves began lapping at her knees, she stopped. The grip over her chest began to get stronger as she tried hard to concentrate on the minutest details of the water around her, the white nano bubbles which turned into foam as they got smaller and smaller and then finally vanished into eternity, the large waves a slight distance away, but the feeling just got stronger. It felt like a constriction in her windpipe. At times like these, which had gotten rarer over the years, Nikita felt she would do just anything to make this pain stop, anything! She looked at the sea ahead and for a split second let the memories enter the recesses of her mind. Then she pushed the dreary and blurred thoughts which were fast gaining clarity, out of her mind and turned around to walk back towards the shore. Just then her mobile phone rang. She looked at the screen and saw Shashank’s name on it. Without a second thought, she answered the call. “Wanna do a repeat of yesterday? I really feel like. Same conditions,” said Shashank on the other side of the line. “Hmm . . . ok. Pick me up from my place . . . 7.30 or so. Call when you’re close by,” said Nikita. “K. Hey dude, we’re thinking of going partying tonight. Just letting ya know . . . just in case you wanna dress up or something . . .” said Shashank. “Ok. See you,” said Nikita and disconnected the call. She looked back up towards the shore, towards the hotel and moved on. Walking back to the hotel, she signed out of the room, got them to get her a rickshaw and went back to Malad, to her house. She enjoyed the rickshaw ride through the sights of palm groves and the seashore. This was the only place in Bombay which, ever so remotely, reminded her of Ratnagiri. Then the sudden swell of the city’s concrete jungle began and surged forth once she was back on the main road. The entire stretch of road to Madh Island was so relaxing she thought, almost as if it was part of a different country or world.
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Once at her place, Nikita took a nap for half an hour. All that soaking in the tub at the hotel and lazing around had warranted one, but she’d restrained herself from it, to enjoy the whole day and everything around. Now she could afford it. Waking up at the sound of her cell phone alarm, she decided to get ready. She had lined her small bathroom mirror with bindis making a full border or frame like shape with bindis of all shapes and sizes. She often re-used a bindi which she’d liked. Today, of course she thought, was no day for bindis, but she nevertheless stood looking at some of her favourite designs for a while. Going back to her cupboard, she opened it. There were two steel hangars which had been sawed off at one end to hang dozens of glass bangles—on one, gold and on the other, silver. She picked out a very modern looking, single, thick, heavy, square, silver bangle. She looked at her silver watch and felt that they made a perfect match. She put them on the bed. She rummaged some more to come up with a short, black satin dress which showed just enough of her back and cleavage and kept it aside. She then selected a pair of shoes. She wasn’t much of a shoe person unlike most of her friends. She had just five pairs of shoes—a black high heeled one, a light tan one, pair of flat heeled semi-formal variety, a pair of keds, and the latest addition of the lacy sandals which she’d bought only a week ago. She picked out the black stilettoes and kept them at the foot of the bed. She went into her bathroom and washed her face with an extra exfoliation strawberry face wash and reveled in the aroma of fresh strawberries. The cream was worked into lather on her cheeks and spread onto her forehead, nose, and chin. Then she washed it all off. Fifteen minutes later she was absolutely ready to leave. The black dress made her look like a Bollywood starlet in full splendor! She brushed her hair as a last minute job. As usual she realized that she’d been over cautious in getting ready on time and so decided to watch some television till Shashank called. When the call came, she went downstairs and met him at exactly the same place, right outside the narrow lane between the two posh buildings which stood in front of hers. As she got into the car, Shashank was again under her spell. She caught Vijay looking at her in the rear view mirror for a second. She sat in the car and smelt Shashank’s strong full flavour tobacco in the air. His stubble as usual was maintained at a healthy two-day length and given angles near his jaw with an electric razor. He wore a white shirt which had a small pair of sunglasses emblazoned near the front pocket. The shirt had ochre yellow lapels across the shoulders, faded to blend in with the white of the shirt. The hint of gel was also evident in Shashank’s hair which shone with the thick viscous wetness of wet gel as if frozen in time. Nikita noticed Vijay again in some kind of clothes which seemed like Shashank’s discards. Shashank had his eyes on her cleavage. She didn’t want to waste any time in contemplation of what she knew she had to do sooner or later and so she put her hand on Shashank’s crotch and squeezed lightly and then rubbed the thick denim around a bit, turning the already ‘on heat’ Shashank some more. He moved in to
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kiss her and as she opened her mouth to receive his kiss, she felt his tongue slide into her mouth. Suddenly the taste of smoke filled her tongue and mouth along with the after taste of whiskey. She cringed a bit but didn’t let it show and went ahead with the act. Then they both slipped into the usual oral routine with the condom firmly in place. Nikita had acquired a technique over the years to slip the condom onto men’s cocks faster, smoother and more painlessly than even the men could themselves. Shashank moaned and again, at one point through her performance, Nikita caught Vijay looking at her in the rear view mirror. Shashank began to get a bit violent and forceful and Nikita got into her element again, with her ‘jaanus’ and ‘sweeties’ and calmed him down. He then offered her a drink from his bottle of Black Label stashed behind Vijay’s seat in the elastic banded seat back pouch which Nikita turned down politely. Now that the preliminaries were over Shashank downed the first peg of the evening and turned towards Nikita. “Dude, have you ever been employed for a month at a stretch?” he asked. Nikita was a bit taken aback by this as it was absolutely out of the blue. “No . . . mmm . . . not really . . . why?” she asked. “See man, I want you around for more time but this daily thing doesn’t quite cut it with me. Too expensive! How about, I give you one lakh fifty thousand for a month from now. No short time, no one night, straight one month.” Nikita looked at him with as much of a poker face as her mind took in and digested the sudden offer. “Look babes, we both know the bar business is over and out. You need the work. And this will keep you rocking for a while after,” said Shashank, hard selling his deal. “Hmm . . . thought Nikita. “I’ll pay you ten thousand right now.” “Ummm . . .” she pondered. Right then they reached the place from where they were to pick up Yakub, McDonald’s, on Linking Road, Bandra. Vijay stopped. He had been listening in on this conversation. Yakub and his fuck for the week Shabana, got in. Shabana was very clearly a five thousand rupee a night kind of whore. She had on a thick layer of make up on her average features and wore thick block heels with red nail polish colouring her toes. The tits and ass however she had in absolute abundance and could put any of the Latin or South American pop stars out of business, especially with her backside. Nikita thought about the offer. She’d been trying unsuccessfully for a while now to get work like Shashank’s. The car started its journey towards Prive, a discotheque which had replaced the legendary Athena. Nikita looked on at the well lit Linking Road with the dozens of shoe shops lining the streets and the familiar street side dhaba, Jai Jawan with its skewers of kababs and tandoori chicken hung almost onto the street. The strong aroma began to slip into the confines of the air conditioned car. She knew this was a good deal, one deal which would take
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her across that last leg of her tiring swim against the raging waters of the ocean, towards the shore of her dreams! With this money in her bag she could wrap up all the formalities she needed for getting the restaurant started. She would never have to do this job again! Yakub and Shashank chatted about various things ranging from Abhishek Bachchan’s new rise to real recognition to the success and failures of various Bollywood releases over the past week. Shashank, thought Nikita, was a much safer bet than many other unknown clients she might have to face over the next month and not only face, but more importantly, find. She shut her eyes and let the sounds of the chatter fade as she thought about the sea and the past few days. When she opened her eyes again they had reached Prive. The sea with its dormant surge was to one side and the discotheque to the other side of the thin curving road which had sufficient space for parking some of the most extravagant cars of the city especially on nights like this which was a Saturday. Shashank’s Ford Ikon looked like a peasant’s car in front of the glitz and chutzpah of the Rolce Royces and Hummers and the yellow Ferraris standing right outside this high profile hang out. Vijay parked the car in one of the parking lot very close to the entrance as a car was just leaving when they arrived. Shabana and Nikita got out and Yakub held Shashank’s shoulder motioning that he should wait for a second. Then he took out a vial from his shirt pocket. It was thin and almost like a sealed test tube. “Dekh hero, m’bola tera nasha is getting really fultoo nowadays, so I’ve brought you this Nalox . . . nala . . . read it, yaar . . . cover pe likhela hai. In case overdose ho jaye, take a shot of this with the syringe. Use a fresh syringe. Isko ekdum serius leneka, kya . . . two of my punters have had an overdose last week yeichh maal se. Dono became ekdum badheer and one almost ludkoed right then and there,” said Yakub. “Chill, dude . . . no stress. Got it covered,” said Shashank, as he kept the vial carelessly on the back seat of the car and got out. As he left, Vijay took the vial and placed it safely inside the glove compartment, tucking it between some car papers for added protection. The two couples walked out towards the club and after paying the hefty entry fee, got in. As they were walking past the entrance fee booth, Nikita held Shashank’s hand for a second to get his undivided attention. “Three weeks,” she said to him with a look in her eyes which said ‘no bargaining’. “Done,” agreed Shashank. “Now lets party!!!” he said, letting the word ‘party’ come out almost as a scream as he ran onto the dance floor with Nikita firmly in tow. The crowd engulfed them like a storm. The music at this point was House which was another one of Shashank’s favourites, second only to its faster, more popular cousin, Trance. Shashank actually seemed happy and Nikita began one of her performances for him, ‘the sexy dance floor seductress’ number. Nikita began
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to dance, her supple body convulsing in various gyrations, using every move she’d learnt over her painstaking, sweaty hours at Crystal’s aerobics class. Nikita and Shashank now became the center of attraction as people around began to stop their own moves and concentrate instead on Nikita’s superlative dance steps. Shashank moved in closer now and then from behind, touching himself to her backside, and gyrating in rhythm with her. The only person not too happy with the situation was Yakub who was standing at the bar with a stiff whiskey on the rocks in his hand. He decided to do something about it and walking over to the stars of the night, pulled Shashank away for a drink towards the bar. Nikita continued dancing almost as if in a trance, happy to be left alone. Soon many men were upon her, asking her through their body language if she wanted to dance with them. By the time Shashank got back with his drink in his hand, leaving behind a visibly upset Yakub, he saw a man trying repeatedly to get close to Nikita, dancing now with her eyes closed to avoid any more lines for the night. The man tried to touch Nikita’s butt and Shashank saw him right in the act. He walked up to the man and pushed him back with all his might. “Aye you bastard . . . what the fuck do you think you’re doing?” shouted Shashank as he went up to throw in a punch. The man had many other friends with him, dancing with their women in the club and the moment Shashank went in to give him a blow, four men stepped out of nowhere to stop him. Two of them were well built Punjabi patthas probably in the city from the north for a weekend or for business. “Oye, what’s the matter, haan?” “Stud banria aae, hain?” one of them asked Shashank in a menacing tone. Yakub came in at that very moment and stopped Shashank who was seriously contemplating taking them all on. Stunned into silence, Nikita was just taking in the scene unfolding in front of her. “Aarram se boss, aarraam se! No problems, no problems,” said Yakub as he pulled Shashank out towards the bar counter. “What the fuck are you doing, dude?” asked an infuriated Shashank. “Arre badheer, not now, later . . . trust me,” said Yakub. “Trust me,” he repeated again as he handed his drink to Shashank who slurped it down greedily. Nikita hated this kind of violence. She had noticed the violent streak in Shashank’s interaction with her but this was way beyond her understanding of the situation. She began to walk out in a hurry towards the main entrance. She hadn’t noticed Yakub seeing her leave. She sped out past the oncoming rush of designer clothes on perfectly toned bodies at the main gate and crossed the road to the opposite side which looked out onto the black sea. Vijay was sitting on the perimeter wall looking at the sea, all by himself. As Nikita approached the wall, he looked back and saw her. A roaming cigarette vendor walked by with his thela of channa and his small supply of Gold Flake and Classic Milds. Nikita bought a cigarette and lit it up. She took a deep breath
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sucking the smoke and letting the nicotine plunge her veins, helping her to get that momentary calm which she needed right now. She then let the smoke out slowly but steadily, letting it hover around her face as more of it came out of her pouting lips. She glanced at Vijay who was looking at her. The moment she looked at him he looked away. She thought he looked quite funny and out of place in Shashank’s baggy jeans and football jersey. Right then Nikita felt a tap on her shoulder. She turned around to see Yakub standing very close to her with a slight smile on his face, promising evil. “Dekh re, I’m telling you ekichh last time. I know how you hi-fi randis make a living, fishing for taaza machli like Shashank. I also know he’s too much of a chamdi to be able to handle your randigiri charms. But if you try to chooso too much out of him, I’ll fix your bill for good so that no more rich choohas can enter,” threatened Yakub in a voice as steady as a rock. Nikita was surprised, though not enough to scare her. She’d handled men like Yakub in the past with too much power from their guns, making them think they had the biggest cock in the world. But she certainly didn’t want trouble. She didn’t know whether Yakub was already aware of the new deal between her and Shashank, but she did know that Yakub could probably make true his threat and so she chose to just avert his gaze and go back inside. As she moved past him, he touched the exposed part of her waist to the left, near her midriff. She didn’t turn back, though she felt like hammering him right then and there. She didn’t even allow herself to frown, not even the slightest. She just walked on as she visualized that evil smile still lingering on Yakub’s face as he eyed her moving body. Vijay had heard the whole monologue as he was within earshot. Yakub ignored Vijay’s presence and went back into the discotheque. Vijay turned back and looked into the mass of swirling black below. Things obviously weren’t as simple as they seemed for these high-class raands, he thought. He sat looking at the sea and occasionally he looked back to find the same mass of fragrant, stylish bodies muttering away as they walked in their swaggers in and out of this hall with blaring music. ‘What do they get by coming here and drinking so much and dancing to such loud music?’ wondered Vijay. In the half hour that he’d sat on the wall, he had seen two people—a guy and then a girl coming out from the discotheque and puking their guts out all over the pavement and then being carried away by friends. The swish of imported cars as they rolled away on designer wheels and the glitz and glamour of this night club bored Vijay. Not once did he want to know what was going on inside. What he’d seen was enough. Back inside, Nikita danced with Shashank but her heart was no more in it; even Shashank noticed it. “Wassadamatter dude?” he asked her time and again, as he tried to get close to her on the dance floor. Nikita was in no mood to perform and her movements now mirrored the grace of a middle-aged actress who’d crossed her prime and couldn’t fake it anymore. The guy who’d tried to get fresh with her, kept his distance, but
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time and again passed by and glanced at her. Shashank noticed him once, but when the guy averted his gaze immediately, he let it pass. After spending over two hours in the club, at around 2 a.m., Nikita finally saw Yakub motion to Shashank that it was probably time for them to leave. Shashank had taken two hits in the meanwhile and was extremely high and happy. He relented after a little persuasion from Yakub, accepting that it was probably a good time to leave. The four of them left with Yakub already feeling Shabana’s taut large breasts with his hand. Nikita felt even sicker now looking at Yakub. Vijay saw them coming out and brought the car right upto the entrance. He looked into the rear view mirror as the four piled into the car with Shashank sitting in front and Yakub, Shabana and Nikita sitting at the back. Shashank began to fiddle around with the C.D. as the car left the seaside road and began to head back home. Yakub had begun kissing Shabana right in front of Nikita and the lusty passion had the flicker of a full-fledged romp, right there in the back seat. Nikita looked out of the window. She looked at the other cars with Pirelli, Nos, Repsol, painted across their sides, and shiny thick blazing wheels spinning out of control, speeding past with with blaring music and teens holding cigarettes in their mouths. At various places there were policemen stalking the streets, waiting to catch a fat bakra to fleece for the night through a fat bribe. A few nights ago another drunk teen had crashed into the slumber of four vagabonds bred on the dusty streets, killing three and leaving a lone young girl to fend for herself amidst the storm in her head. Nikita thought about that girl. How devastating that night must have been for her! Nikita didn’t want to let the sounds of slight giggling and moaning enter her head, but knew they were seeping in like a thick green blob of mucous, the sounds of Yakub and Shabana. How different it sounded on the other side, thought. Then again she looked back into the car, averting her gaze from the road and caught Vijay looking at her through the mirror, just for a flash of a second. Instantly, the gaze was averted. Nikita looked to the right of the mirror and saw Shashank fixing himself another hit. How a drug took over the role of a dependable companion in the lives of the addicts, she thought! Shashank was soon headed for what Nikita knew as an overdose. She’d seen people do heroin before and after that happy elation, she knew came the dependence and then the dark mire in which the only release was more and more. Yakub had begun to get a blow job and Nikita could feel from the seat, the vibrations of the action she’d herself performed just recently. She didn’t have to look to see the images of the throbbing muscles flash into her mind. She fought them off, surprised by how sick it made her feel when it was someone like Yakub. Shashank suddenly cried out, “Yakub, look bhenchod . . . look . . . look it’s that son of a bitch . . . maderchod! Vijay stop that fucker, stop him . . . NOW!!” shouted Shashank, looking at the car which was being driven almost parallel to theirs by the man with whom Shashank had had a scuffle in the night club some time ago. Vijay clumsily nudged their car closer to the other, almost ramming the other car,
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forcing them to stop in the middle of the road, with Vijay’s car cutting them off from the side. Yakub had been shaken out of his sexual playground and now even Nikita who was in a reverie of her own was on alert. Shashank got out of the car and walked over to the other from which the driver, the man from the club had also got out, clearly with the intention of teaching Shashank a lesson for this misdemeanor. The street was quiet and dark as it was a by lane on Tulsi Pipe Road which at this ungodly hour, slept like a baby in a cradle. Shashank didn’t wait for the other man to react. As he began to open his mouth to say something, Shashank used his bulky frame to push the man back with all his might, sending him sprawling against the side of his own car. His girlfriend began to shriek from inside. “Maderchod! I’m gonna cut your balls off tonight, you son of a bitch bhosadchod!!” shouted Shashank, almost auto suggesting his own anger and propelling it to higher planes, as he then went for the almost fallen man and began to kick him in the stomach, making him fall flat on the dusty roadside. The street in the day time seemed to have witnessed some kind of celebration and festivities as the ground was coloured with the crimson of vermilion, especially on the sides of the street. The sprawling man’s face was now picking up the same pink, as the pink dust rose up into the air around the fighters. Shashank now used a kick which began straight up towards his own waist in the air and then came crashing down sideways onto the other man’s patella on his right knee, cracking it on contact. “Maaaaderchodddddd!!!!” screamed the man as the pain shot up his entire body. He then took out a Swiss army knife from his pocket and opening it in one swift move, fuelled by the intense adrenaline release which his broken knee cap must have caused, sliced Shashank’s ankle with it! “Aaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhh!!” shouted Shashank as he backed off. In the mean time the man’s girlfriend came up to Shashank and sprayed her deodorant in his face with the zest of an alley cat in mid fight. “You little whore . . . what the . . . !!!” shouted Shashank, as he reeled further back. Yakub now got into action. His pistol was drawn and held in his hands as he used the butt of it to hit the woman who was still ardently protecting her man, using all her power to spray more deodorant into Shashank’s cringing face. The hit sent the woman onto the floor, her broken nose and the leaking blood creating a thick crimson patch on her otherwise beautiful, sharp featured face. She lay on the ground whimpering like a fleeced sheep while Yakub went over now to the man who’d managed to stand himself up using his own car for support. Yakub used the butt of his revolver and hit the man thrice in quick, precise moves ending all hope of the fight in him and almost rendering him unconscious. “Ehh bhen ke laude . . . badheer . . . if you move another unnees, bees here or there, I’ll blow the chithde off your gaand!!! Lie there quietly like a spent randi, maderchod!!” shouted Yakub in a whisper which had all the credentials of a shout.
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Shashank too came over and kicked the man blindly and violently a couple of times. Nikita was horrified by the extreme violence that she’d been forced to be witness this night. Something within her, an old wound, the scab of it beginning to peel off, was hurting like mad. She walked up to the front of their car, away from the action and began to smoke one of Shashank’s cigarettes furtively. There was aggression in every drag; she pushed the smoke out of her lungs and mouth with great force into the cool night air. Vijay was watching her from the car. It seemed like she was a bit too affected by the happenings of tonight. A randi who gets affected like a little child by violence, thought Vijay, how surprising! Yakub was holding back Shahsank, preventing him from inflicting any further injury to the already severely beaten up man on the roadside. “Rukja chutiye, or you’ll kill him! If we let the chodu go now, he’ll live . . . any more beating and his jaan is going to exit maaro from his gaand, any minute now! It’s time to go, chal!!” said Yakub, pulling Shashank away with all his strength. Shashank finally let go and the two came back into the car. Nikita also got back and Vijay started the car, wanting to leave this scene before any patrolling police car got here. He’d already noticed that on Saturday nights, as they drove away from the club, there were patrolling police jeeps and check nakas, where they hoped to arrest any drunk drivers and this car was full of every possible offence, drunken people with bloodstained faces and clothes; drugs in their back pockets and guns under their shirts, topped with a dash of serious prostitution! The five occupants barely had the time to get comfortable when the tires squealed and the car lunged forward. “Ladka seekh gayela hai re . . . The boy’s learnt his job!!” said Yakub, trying to lighten the mood. He said this looking at Shabana who was not in the least interested in this night anymore. “Mereko ghar chod do, I want to go home,” she whined. “Eh Meena Kumari, you’re coming with me for some thokumthaaki tonight. Home is something you’ll see much later, maybe sometime tomorrow re, abhi leave this randibaazi nautanki and get into an accha mood,” said Yakub, ordering Shabana who knew better than to argue with him and immediately began her act with the caressing and smiles. Shashank on the other hand was still not happy with the mild beating he felt he’d rendered to the man on the road. “Kya yaar, Yakub are you my friend or that bastard’s? Why the fuck did you stop me dude, just when I was beginning to have some fun?!” he asked. “Arre chodubhagat, any more maar from your saand sa frame and that chutmaarika would’ve been having a cutting chai with Yamraj by the morning!! You’re more fucking khatarnaak than I thought, saala!! Chal chod re abhi . . . daaru peete hain yaar . . . take out the bhenchod botal!!” said Yakub. Shashank took out the bottle of whiskey and they poured each other a glass. Nikita was watching the whole thing and as soon as Shashank looked at her, she
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got into her acting mode instantly, almost like a car starting with a jerk as it was being pushed by four people to start up without the starter. “Hope you didn’t get hurt much, jaanu!!” she said, as she touched Shashank’s sweaty cheek, tenderly. She knew that she’d just entered into a three-week contract and she needed this money, so the best alternative for her was to remain in character. Shashank continued to drink and Yakub used one hand to feel up Shabana and the other to down the expensive smooth Black Label whiskey. Nikita kept up her act and an amused Vijay spent half his time looking at the road and the other half looking at Nikita’s brilliant acting abilities, as the car rolled on towards Shashank’s house. They dropped Shabana off first at a hotel which Yakub frequented, with him giving her instructions for what to do till he got back. Then they moved on towards Shashank’s house. “Let’s leave this chap back, then I’ll catch a rickshaw and get back to the hotel . . . you go leave madame back home!” said Yakub. Vijay wasn’t too happy with having to drop this chameleon back home all by himself, but he relented all the same. They dropped a now completely drunk Shashank back home and Yakub went inside with him to settle him into bed, asking Vijay to carry on with Nikita. Vijay had made a note of the route to Nikita’s house and so had no trouble getting onto S.V. Road from Khar and then driving straight towards Malad. The night cleaners with their orange sleeveless jackets cleaned the roads of all the day’s accumulated dust. Vijay wondered what happened to the lungs of these poor people who spent all their working hours in the midst of the very thing which Mumbaikars avoided all day—cement dust, cakes of it, lining the roadsides. Most of the cleaners didn’t even use pollution masks. Vijay’d seen the masks only on a handful of cleaners over the past few weeks at night while he drove Shashank around. Vijay drove on past Asha Parikh Hospital and its night time chemist, the only neon board which threw its fluorescent light onto the grey city street at this hour. It was already 3 a.m. The grey buildings and the glass ones began to speed by in what looked like a continuous train of grey cement and occasional shiny glass, as Vijay sped up a bit wanting to get home to bed as soon as possible. He then slipped in his Kishore Kumar cassette and began to listen to ‘Musafir hoon yaaron.’ He was surprised to find Nikita smiling now, as she looked out of the open window. She also seemed to be humming along. Vijay kept noticing her for a few moments then she stopped humming and began to just stare out of the car blankly at the roads. Her face was now calm like the sea on a hot summer day, with the invitation of a cool jump into its arms. Vijay looked at her in his mirror and thought what a different person she was in the day as she performed and what a different side to her this was, a quiet girl looking out of a car window, contemplative, lost in her thoughts, as opposed to the animated seductress he saw earlier! He continued to divide his attention between gazing at the road and then at Nikita, always watchful that she should not catch him watching her.
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Nikita looked at the bus stops; some with benches for seating, others with just the small boards which mushroomed out of the earth at regular intervals. Seeing the stops empty, she felt a little empty herself. The bus stops looked as if they were sad and missed company. She then looked at the remix of old architecture from the pre-independence era and the new age tall buildings, all replete with glass façade. She could never get enough of this city, she thought. She’d fallen in love with Bombay over the years, especially Bombay at night. ‘What a funny chap this driver is,’ she thought, ‘he must be listening to that Trance all day and then this sudden, personal touch at night, in the form of Kishore Kumar . . . ’ She remembered the fight after the club and her face turned serious. The mere thought of violence and specially an ambush of a couple in their car, gave her the creeps! The incident and its gory memory was lurking within the deepest recesses of her mind; an old memory which she’d pushed in, deep into her sub conscience, stuffing it down like the clothes in a badly packed suitcase, for years! She knew that if the skeletons in her closet came up now, she wouldn’t be able to come to grips with them. She tried as she did, ever so often, to push the painful thoughts out of her head by concentrating on something in the immediate present. They were now nearing In Orbit Mall and she looked at the big showrooms and supermarkets which lined S.V. Road. She wondered how a mall would look in the dark and quiet of the night, after the hustle bustle and noisy commotion of the day. She projected herself mentally, into the mall for a while, letting herself glide over the shut escalators, past the dozens of shut shops which were vivid in her imagination as she visited the mall often during the day. She felt herself glide towards the Australian cookie stall she loved, past the in-house theatre and its colourful film posters, the shut box office with no activity, the various restaurants in the food court, Bread Talk, Rajdhani and all her other favourites. When she mentally got back to the car, she noticed that Vijay was looking at her intently through his mirror. A bit upset at this voyeuristic intrusion into her private melee, she gave him an acid stare causing him to instantly look back at the road. “Lagana hai kya tereko chaave?” or, “Do you want to have a go at me?” she asked, back in character again. Vijay didn’t respond at all. They’d reached the small lane of her house and the two new towering buildings stood at the threshold, guarding her small building, fragile with age, standing behind at the end of the little lane. Vijay stopped the car right in front of the lane. Nikita got off and didn’t even glance at Vijay as she walked back to her house. In the background, she could hear the car start and leave. She walked through the tiny, narrow lane. Many a time, if a really fat lady came through the lane from the other side, Nikita would have to backtrack and then re-enter the lane! It was that narrow! She looked at the chipped walls of the lane as she passed them by. She climbed the three floors of her building to her house, removed the keys from her purse, opened the door and went in.
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t 6 O’clock next morning, Nikita arrived at Crystal’s Aerobics Class. The morning batch was usually filled with housewives and now over the past few months, with middle aged men who’d suddenly realized, thanks to the growing health awareness in the metros across the world, that their paunches and love handles and triple chins weren’t so cool. Nikita changed into her aerobics clothes, a leotard and relatively loose and comfortable T-shirt and keds. Crystal D’mello announced that they’d begin today with their regular 4-5 minute jog-on-the-spot routine. Ik pal ka jeena phir to hai jaana . . . from the film Kaho Na Pyaar Hai, began to pour out of the speakers mounted at the four corners of the relatively small aerobics class. The song as many others before it, had been modified to 16 beats and was part of another special Aerobics Mix CD which Crystal D’mello had bought from Hiro Music Store nearby. Nikita began at a slow pace and worked herself up to a fast jog-on-the-spot, swaying her arms and trying to raise her knees as high as possible as she’d been taught. She noticed the flabby men trying hard to keep up. Most of them came for a few days and then disappeared, no doubt vanquished by the Herculean effort it took to lose weight, especially when it was in tens of kilos. Nikita looked around the class and then her gaze settled on a woman jogging to her absolute right. “H . . . i . . . i . . . I . . . m . . . Pri . . . yank . . . a,” said the girl, huffing and puffing as she spat the words out through a friendly warm smile. Nikita noticed that she was tall, fair, good looking and quite in shape already, obviously here for toning, and in all likelihood, a Sindhi or a Punjabi, from her appreance. “Nikita,” said Nikita, a warm smile spreading across her sweat beaded face. She wondered sometimes why she used the alias even with people she met outside the line of work. Maybe it was the new identity Bombay had given her, or maybe, a way of escaping further from the dark, all engulfing mist of her rural past; she could never be sure which, and so she left it at that, as usual. The session of on-the-spot-jogging got over and Crystal came closer to Nikita and Priyanka saying, “Alright ladies . . . oh, and gentlemen . . . ha ha I’ve got 114
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something new for us to try out today. It’s called Masala Bhangra. It consists of six steps put together which we’ll repeat in cycles once we’ve got them down pat . . . I heard of this from a friend who lives in the States and she says this rocks the party at her aerobics class and so she couriered me the C.D and sent me a video to understand it better . . . So whaddaya say . . . should we give it a shot, women?” “YEEEEEEESSSS!!!” cried out all the women present in unison, leaving the few men feeling a little out numbered and out of place. Nikita and Priyanka looked at each other whilst shouting out their fraction of the loud class shout. “Ok, here we go . . .” said Crystal, as she used the remote control to start the C.D. Malkit Singh’s ‘Punjab Mera’ started pelting out of the speakers in a new remixed 24 beat style apt for the class. Crystal started showing the girls the moves, one by one, as she swayed and jiggled her body perfectly and in true Bollywood Punjabi style. She began to incorporate small jazz dancing steps along with the typical bhangra gyrations and Nikita and Priyanka, along with the rest of the class, began to follow. After a while Crystal asked the girls to team up with the lady to their left. Nikita and Priyanka became a couple for the day, as they began to do the bhangra together, slowly moving into not just the dance steps but the loud, histrionic Punjabi expressions along with the dance steps. Priyanka thought Nikita was quite a cool cat and seemed to be really letting her hair down! They danced together for the next fifteen minutes, with the full vigour and madness of two women possessed by feminine aggression and female bonding on the dance floor. When the number came to an end, their sweat soaked glazed bodies were testimony to the amount of fun they’d had in class today. The next session was the circuit training one which involved the stepper and some weights. Nikita and Priyanka again assumed their solo positions on the class floor, albeit close to each other. In another half an hour, the session for the day came to an end and Nikita noticed Priyanka slink off towards the changing rooms, as if hurt by something. She followed her there and as she got closer, noticed that Priyanka was sobbing, standing next to her small locker, with her towel draped over her head, giving her the privacy she needed for a good cry. Nikita waited patiently behind her, noticing the supple shoulders and fair arms and neck vibrate as the sobs shook them vigorously at first, then slowly like the last ripples of a stone thrown into an otherwise quiet pond. She noticed how innocent a woman looked when she cried and enjoyed the moment, looking on. Priyanka had long, dark brown, thick hair, full of the kind of natural volume which women paid a bomb for at parlors and still couldn’t acquire. She had on a pair of small gold earrings which were beautiful in their simplicity and looked perfect for her fair skin and brown hair. When she was finally finished with her private cry, she slowly turned around to find Nikita looking at her affectionately. “Ahhh . . . I didn’t know you were here . . . I . . . ah . . . I . . .” She said, fumbling for words.
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“It’s alright, we can all use a good cry every now and then re, no problem,” consoled Nikita. “Want to go for a walk?” suggested Nikita, “I generally go for a half an hour walk to Band Stand after class. Since I already come this far for class, I don’t like to miss the chance of experiencing Band Stand as an added bonus,” she said. “Ummm ok sure . . . half an hour seems possible,” said Priyanka. Nikita moved towards another changing room and entered it. She loved the way she could see herself in multiple images, in the four mirrored walls of the tiny changing room. She moved her arm and saw the hundreds of Nikitas moving their arms simultaneously, almost as if it were an army of Nikitas in there. She then looked over her back and admired herself in that pose across Nikitaland. ‘Wonder ti mulgi kashi radli, what made that girl cry,’ she thought as she put on another T-shirt and stuffed the foul smelling sweat soaked one into her duffel bag. She used soft floral talc on her underarms and packing that up, left the cubicle. They met up outside and catching a rickshaw from outside the class, wended their way through the small by lanes of the heritage Bandra village, exiting it close to Cheap Jack, leaving Crystal’s Aerobics Class behind. In the rickshaw, they spoke of mundane things like the magnitude of dust in Bombay and how almost every traffic policeman must be suffering from some respiratory disease or the other and the condition of the roads. They finally reached Band Stand ten minutes later at 7.30 a.m. The weather was just perfect with a cool breeze blowing, touching the surface of the deep warm Arabian Sea and then whirling in to caress the walking gentry on the promenade. Nikita and Priyanka entered the promenade and walked at a leisurely pace, in no hurry. “I love the sea . . . and specially Band Stand . . . and the rocks. We used to come here from college in the evenings, the whole gang of girls, and just sit on the rocks and enjoy the salt spray and peanuts,” said Priyanka gazing out at the sea. “Oh . . . kiti chhaan! I love the sea, too . . . Though I didn’t spend any of my youth here, I spend a lot of time near the sea now,” said Nikita, her face lighting up, realizing that she was talking to another sea lover. Priyanka looked back from the sea and down at the broken tiled flooring. She looked as though she’d been suddenly pulled back from her lovely state of reminiscence to the present by a painful thought. “I did my MBA from Narsi Monji in Vile Parle, one of the best colleges. I always thought my parents were liberal . . . Then it was time to find a boy . . . They preferred it done the arranged way and I hadn’t fallen in love till then, so I relented,” reminiscenced Priyanka, pausing to kick a stone on the road. “We found only two kinds of rishtas: ‘O good, your daughter wants to work and has an MBA, good good, then she can help us pay off our loans, or contribute to buying a car or whatever’; and ‘O, your daughter is an MBA . . . but she cannot work after marriage in our khaandaan’ . . . We looked high and low but found only these two kinds . . . in this modern city called Bombay . . . So my father made the
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choice . . . a family in which I couldn’t work after marriage . . . and all along, I’d thought he was liberal and modern! Anyway, I conceded . . .” said Priyanka, again breaking into a spell of weeping, as she uttered the words, choosing them carefully sometimes and at other times, letting them come out with full freedom. “But this house . . . it’s a cage . . . My Mother-in-law . . . Mrs. Lalta Bhatia . . . doesn’t even allow me to go out of the house alone . . . I had to beg and plead for two months just to be permitted to come for the aerobics class. I couldn’t control my tears in class as I hadn’t had so much fun dancing since college days, and remembered and missed those days terribly,” sobbed Priyanka. Nikita put a hand on Priyanka’s shoulder. “Tujha naura . . . your husband, what does he say?” she asked. “O he says the home is my area which I have to handle . . . He listens to me patiently but he doesn’t take any stand against his parents,” said Priyanka. “Tchaila . . . halkat! Oops, sorry!” said Nikita slipping into the language she was generally comfortable with and then realized that she might’ve just crossed the line. “No, no, actually . . . that’s the most perfect word used for him,” said Priyanka, unable to hide a smile. “Oops, in talking to you, I almost forgot about the time! I’m going to have a tough time explaining why I’m half an hour late. I’d better rush . . .” she said. “Sure, sure, I’ll just thamb ikdech for a while,” said Nikita. Priyanka began to move away and then turned her head. “May I have your number? Maybe someday we can meet up for coffee,” she said. Nikita smiled and gave her mobile number. Nikita watched as Priyanka walked away. She wondered how women could live with someone else making their choices. What they did each day, who they met, how they behaved, all decided by someone else! How crazy! She strolled at an easy pace up the promenade. Joggers with colourful wires dangling from their ears, connected to even more colourful music devices strung either at their waists or on their arms, jogged about. An elderly lady was jogging with running shoes under a cotton saree and seemed oblivious to the fact that she’d become the centre of attention for her East-West fusion attire. Nikita walked up to Camps Juice Centre and had two glasses of mosambi juice at a go. Then realizing that the sun had begun to push its heat into her clothes and hair, she stood standing staring at the far out horizon for a few minutes, soaking in the warmth of the morning sun for a while before hailing a rickshaw to take her to the bus stop on Linking Road from where she’d catch the bus home. The room was again as cool as an igloo with the air conditioner which was an older assembled model, rattling on with the vents spewing out wafts of cold air at full speed. Right under the ceiling, the fan whirred with all its might making a slight creaking sound with each rotation. In the centre of this icy mayhem, slept Shashank, with the thick blanket covering every inch of his lethargic body right up to his nose. Two crows came and perched themselves on the outer protruding
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part of the air conditioner, outside of the building. Their claws rattled on the steel of the air conditioner and they both began to squawk in unison, at full volume. This continuous squawking and rattling was too much for Shashank to bear. He opened his eyes to the rough and loud sounds, wincing. His face steadily became a mixture of anger and frustration as he leapt off the bed and banged the window hard, right behind the two birds. In a split second they were away flapping their wings as they let out some combined squawks of terror, proceeding to settle on another floor of the opposite building, one higher than the other, to take in their oppressor. Shashank stood at the window and glared at them. “Fuckin’ chutiyas . . .” he said, giving them one final look before walking back to his bed with the intention of getting back to sleep some more. He cast one cursory glance at his Black Omega Seamaster lying on the bedside table and almost jumped out of his skin! “Oh fuck . . . oh fuck . . . oh fuck!” he said running out of the room. He entered the hall in his torn-at-the-knee shorts and torn-at-the-shoulders, ‘I love Bangkok’ T-shirt, just as Inder Mehta was about to leave, having finished his breakfast at the dining table. The crumbs of his toast and jam breakfast and an empty glass of orange juice sat on the table giving testimony to the fact that Shashank was indeed late! “Aur south ki territories ka kya hua bhai? Has there been any recovery or not, Gujraal sahab?” asked Inder Mehta, speaking into his thick slab-like communicator. Shashank stood near the door of the house as he watched his father approach the door without even acknowledging that he was there. “Arre, tell those behenchods that we have to recover from that territory . . . Get the behenchod film dubbed in three south languages . . . Kaise bhi ghusna hai humein into this territory . . . Maine kaha tha . . . ‘Bobby, keep some thick jhaangon waali actress in an item number in the film’ but he wants to concentrate more on his art-fart!” said Inder, as he approached Shashank, now only inches away from him. “Dad . . . dad . . . about the money for the mobile shop . . .” said Shashank interjecting between the talk, realizing that this was his absolute last chance for the day. “Arre yaar, can’t you see, I’m on an important call, ullu?! Business karna chahta hai . . . You don’t even know when is the right time to talk business! And you want to start something on your own?! Dafaa ho jaao, bloody . . .” said Inder, getting back to his conversation over the phone, striding past the dejected Shashank. Shashank looked on through the shutting door and its wooden grill at his father waiting for the lift and continuing to talk into his phone about money, territories and recovery. He continued to watch his father through the slits in the wooden door till he entered the lift and he heard the lift doors shut. Looking at the space outside on the landing near the lift, he remembered the days years ago when he was in the
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fourth standard in school and used to play cricket outside on the landing, between the four apartments on his floor, with the two kids who lived on rent in the house across them. Lost in the memories of the cries and excited shouts of the kids at play, he remembered the one thing which had ended the play for that season. “Eh Shashi, who was that woman in a short skirt who came home last night, your new mom?” asked one of the two brothers in the middle of a game which Shashi was winning. Shashank had used their own bat to beat the daylights out of both of them, till finally their father had come and given him a sound thrashing before taking his sons home and barring them from ever playing with him again. Shaking the memory out of his head with a slight shiver, Shashank walked back to his room. It was time to lean on that one thick white wall which he knew would be there to break his fall, time and again. He slid open the dark wooden drawer and reached in for the needle. Nikita walked over to the waiting golden car. Today she’d worn a pair of dark navy blue harem pants which rippled in the slight breeze giving her the look of one of the apsaras from the tale of Alladin. On the top, she’d worn a shimmering black, figure-hugging T-shirt with short sleeves. A light golden pair of mojris, and a light golden simple shoulder bag completed the ensemble. As she got into the car, the faint smell which arose from the car told her that Shashank had been drinking heavily and smoking and had already had a good amount of heroin. The skin and muscles under one of her eyes flinched, betraying a dislike for the situation as she slid into the seat behind. The door shut and Vijay put the car into gear. Shashank looked Nikita over. “Nice babes . . . niiiicccee!! Hotel Jaal, Santacruz, near the domestic airport,” said Shashank, first to Nikita and then to Vijay. He pulled Nikita towards himself and placed his hand on her pants, starting at her thigh and then moving towards her crotch, his thick fingers gently pressing her thigh and the skin under them as they glided over her. Nikita hated this part of the whole paid sex routine; men behaving as if they owned their muse’s bodies. She fought back a slight shudder. She let her fingers linger on Shashank’s face and then brought them down towards his chest and then his crotch. “Jaanu . . .” she said as she began to caress his crotch feeling the thick denim under her fingers. This was the quickest way to get him to stop touching her, giving him what he wanted without letting him enjoy the dirty foreplay. Shashank moved in towards her letting his right arm move in from behind her and curve around, letting him use his hands to fondle her breasts through the black top. “Mmm . . .” said Shashank through a sigh. Nikita unzipped his jeans and parting his underwear, began to give him a hand job. Shashank tried to draw closer to her and kiss her square on the lips but Nikita shut her mouth as tight as she could, giving him just a peck, not letting her lips linger for even a nano second longer than needed. The car was at a signal and Nikita
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was getting a little nervous as even through the dark tinted window glass, people could look in. Vijay took the wrong turn and realized almost immediately. “Why you bastard! How many times will you keep fucking up . . . maderchod!!” said Shashank and cuffed Vijay hard on the back of his head. “I didn’t see,” Vijay attempted, in vain, to explain. “Don’t you dare talk back to me . . .” threatened Shashank, now lunging forward, hitting Vijay hard on the back of his head, sending his head onto the steering wheel, the car almost veering off the road. Vijay stopped the car to the side. But Shashank hadn’t had his share of violence yet. He reached for Vijay’s T-shirt and pulling him back with it began to hit him. Vijay was trying his best to stay away from Shashank but in vain. Nikita couldn’t stand it any longer and caught onto Shashank’s arms. “Jaanu, ja . . . aanu, listen, cool down . . . Chod na use . . . He’s just a driver. Forget him . . .” she coaxed, holding him back physically. Shashank stopped the beating and moved back a bit, looking at Nikita now. “Arre, let him be. Why do you want to dirty your hands with this veda?” she said trying to handle the situation without any further violence. Shashank shook his head to one side indicating that he’d left the issue, but only for now and settled back into his seat. Vijay looked at Nikita, hurt by the entire sequence of events, both physically and mentally. He stared at them both through the rear view mirror. “My own fucking father doesn’t give a shit about me,” complained Shashank. Nikita suddenly experienced a feeling of deja vu as she remembered handling a similar situation in the morning after her class. “He never has . . . ,” he whined, removing another vial of heroin from his little box and setting up the hit. “At least he used to come and pick me up from wherever I fell off . . . in whichever part of Bombay at whichever disc . . . now he’s hired this maderchod villager for the job . . . Fuck you!!” he said lunging for Vijay again. Nikita stopped him midway and brought him back to his original position. She then moved in close to him and pulling his already half open trousers she plucked out a condom from her purse, ripped open the wrapper and slid it onto Shashank, and then went down on him. Vijay looked on at the back of her head with the thick golden streaked hair bobbing up and down in a steady rhythm and then going up in pace. A while later the car had reached the lobby of the hotel. Nikita and Shashank got off to go upstairs. Vijay as usual, stayed back. The room this time at Hotel Jaal which had a huge statue of the Buddha in the lotus position up front was a much smaller one, facing another building instead of the road or the swimming pool, making it obviously cheaper than the other rooms in the hotel. Nikita knew these things from her years of hotel room experience, especially around Bombay. As Nikita entered the room she noticed the
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smallness of it, and it felt smaller thanks to the immediate mental comparisons she began making looking at each and every small feature of the room, the lamps, the bed, no balcony, the smaller windows, the toned down tapestry. Nikita was quite disappointed with the change of setting. “Kaay re . . . have you gone bankrupt, suddenly?” she asked. Shashank was a little taken aback and his adolescent boy ego did take a beating as Nikita intended it to. It showed in his expressions. “Aur, what about my money? I hope you’re going to give it to me today . . . at least, the amount you’d promised,” she continued. “Very sorry babes, give me one more day,” said Shashank. Nikita just stood near the bed looking at a sprawling Shashank with a fixed stare. “Tell you what . . . why don’t you keep my watch. It’s worth the same amount. Then tomorrow you can give it back when I give you the money,” he suggested. Nikita thought for a second and then held her hand out. Shashank quietly slipped his watch off his wrist and handed it over. Nikita put it into her purse. “Tomorrow is your last chance! Theek hai?” she said. Shashank nodded. He then took out his small bottle of whiskey which he’d brought up on the sly. He asked Nikita if she wanted a drink. Thinking that this certainly would make the night easier to bare she took a couple of swigs neat. With the slight lilting lightness of the alcohol in her veins the next couple of hours passed by with more ease for her. She knew now that Shashank hardly had any stamina in bed and would be out of her in ten minutes maximum. So she lay down and shut her eyes, while he grunted and moaned on. As usual, Shashank after his extremely short span of sex, rolled over to one side and went off to sleep, letting the alcohol win its battle with him. Nikita lay there looking at the ceiling. It was a false ceiling. She wondered what kind of ceiling her restaurant would have. She reminisced about all the small restaurants she’d visited around Bombay over the past few months, checking out the interiors. The Irani cafes had marble top round tables and black wooden chairs which at this point were not replicable anywhere in the city. The other small joints were done up in very lavish ways which Nikita couldn’t afford. She’d initially thought of simple, sturdy, long lasting interiors which were just basic and functional, a prime example was the Cafe New Martin off Colaba Causeway near Strand Cinema where she often ate steak and onions or their spicy pork vindaloo. The thought of the pork put Nikita into a deeper fog of thought as she savored the heavily spiced tough pork surrounded by the white fat, almost as if she were at the cafe right now. She licked her lower lip subconsciously as she dreamed on. At this point however, she wanted to add a touch of her sensibilities even to the furniture and so she’d ruled out the Cafe New Martin look. Aslam had taken Nikita there the first time on their holiday in Bombay. For a second she saw a flash of New Martin as they were leaving it, hand in hand . . . She again pushed the thought out
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of her head. She let her mind wander from city to city, restaurant-to-restaurant, and then onto other things like the access road to her building and the patches of old worn out film posters on the wall. She tried to sleep by shutting her eyes and trying to keep her mind clear of the thoughts but she couldn’t. Two hours later she looked at Shashank’s watch and realized that it was time to leave. Vijay lay sleeping in the front passenger seat of the car. He’d made the chair recline almost to a complete lateral position and he had his feet up on the dashboard as he snored away. He was woken from his slumber by a quick knocking on his window. He awoke with a start. He rubbed his eyes and then looked out to see Nikita and Shashank standing outside. Shashank, thought Vijay, still looked groggy and so hopefully there would be no more conflict on the way back. Vijay opened the car doors from inside and let them both in. He was surprised to see Nikita also ready to go home instead of staying back as she had the last time they were out. Shashank went back to sleep as the car took the turn out of the hotel gate. Vijay had been looking forward to the drive back home, as the city with its large doses of grey asphalt and endless roads now beckoned Vijay every night when he felt the urge to take the car out by himself but abstained from, for fear of being caught. The drive back reminded him of countless Hindi films he’d seen since he was four; of heroes driving their cars along the ‘as deserted as Bombay can get’ streets. He remembered the film, Tezaab and the song, So gaya yeh jahaan, so gaya aasmaan . . . Visualising Chunkey Pandey driving the large white car, Vijay hummed the song in his head. He then took a chance and stole a glance at Nikita and Shashank, who were both fast asleep now; Shashank leaning on Nikita and Nikita leaning on the opposite door. On reaching Krishna Kunj, Vijay took the car up the slope to the building a tad too fast. He noticed Nikita waking up in the back seat disturbed by the sudden jerk. Shashank however lay fast asleep. Vijay stopped the car close to the building entrance, helped Shashank out and then into the house. He walked a groggy, drunk Shashank who kept falling onto him, over to his icy cold room, thanks to the instructions which Shashank had left Ramdeen with. He needed the room to be absolutely chilled when he entered. Seeing his bed, Shashank sank into it, turned over to his side and almost immediately, was fast asleep. Vijay watched him as he lay there. He wondered how someone like Shashank could also look so calm, peaceful, almost innocent in his sleep! Watching Shashank snore for a few minutes, Vijay returned to the waiting car outside. Nikita was now wide awake, like a cat on alert. Vijay got into the car, reversed out of the building and drove off towards Nikita’s place. Vijay drove past all the night time landmarks like Asha Parekh Hospital medical store which was open all night, all the petrol pumps on S.V. Road right upto Pavan Hans which were all night petrol pumps; the scores of prostitutes standing outside the public toilets around the road from Rasraj restaurant, past Amar Juice Centre, the favourite night time pav bhaji and juice
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haunt for every Gujrati and then over the years, non Gujrati in the neighbouring suburbs. Vijay then got onto the D.N. Nagar Road and looked out at the marshlands which still reigned and held testimony to what was originally Bombay. He drove on at a good speed, enjoying his growing control over the car. He stole a look at Nikita and saw her sitting quietly, staring out of the window, into the night. ‘How calm she looks now . . . wow . . . what a change!’ thought Vijay. Just then she caught him staring at her. Irritated by this happening repeatedly, she glared back at him with ice cold eyes. “Eh . . . hero . . . do you want me kya? Haan? Want to lagao kya?” she asked, a slight anger flaring through her voice. Vijay just kept his gaze fixed on the road, not daring to look into the mirror for the rest of the journey, not even for keeping track of the vehicles behind. They reached Nikita’s building lane at 3 a.m. and Nikita got out of the car. Vijay didn’t even dare look at her! She walked over to his window. Taken by surprise, he turned to look at her almost afraid of what was to follow. “Kaay re, do you want to do some chodumchaadi, haan, just so that you know . . . You won’t be able to afford even a short time with me in a million years!” said Nikita. “So don’t ghooro all the time in the rear view mirror. If I tell your sahab he’ll shove a bamboo up your gaand . . . Patla ka?!” she continued before turning on her heel to leave. Vijay was shocked out of his wits with the language she’d just hurled at him. His mouth, he realized after Nikita left, was still slightly open. Shutting it, he put the car into gear, and then looked at the haughty Nikita walking with gusto towards her lane. ‘What does she bloody think of herself ?’ thought Vijay. ‘Is she Miss India? Or Miss World?!’ Suddenly he felt the anger rise in him like a hot ball of gas rising up into his throat and fast. He rolled down the window. “Oh, Miss India! I hate the very existence of women like you who sell themselves to lives like these . . . No bloody respect . . .” he shouted. Nikita was startled and turned back immediately to face him, a mixed expression of anger and disbelief on her face. “I’m from a small town in Bihar so it took me time to understand you . . . but now I think I understand your jaat!! Patle Kaay??!!” he said, with his garbled version of Marathi and quickly rolled up his window as he saw Nikita approach him at top speed, ready for a fight. He put the car into gear and began to move away with an exasperated Nikita, trying to catch up with him. She only managed to swing her purse onto the back of the car as it drove off. “Maderchod!” she exclaimed under her panting breath. Vijay was looking at her in his rear view now, a smile on his face. “Aur dikha nakhre. Serves you right!” he said to himself. Just then he noticed in the rear view mirror that two men on a motorcycle had come up to Nikita and shouted out to her whilst passing by. He slowed the
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car down almost to a halt and continued to watch. Nikita hurled abuses at them, challenging them to come back. And they did, to her dismay. One guy got off and began to touch her. Vijay pressed on the accelerator so hard that a shrill screeching sound emanated from the rubber and startled even the two offenders. He spun the car around and approached the scene of the crime. By now even the other man had gotten off the bike and they were both onto Nikita. One man slapped her hard. Seeing this Vijay got out of the car and ran towards the two men. “Madddeeerrrchooooooooddd!!” he roared, almost as a war cry, giving him the much required energy to plant his strongest blow on the back of one of the men’s heads, sending him almost to the ground. But the other man was upon him in almost no time at all, delivering killer punches and kicks, one of which caught Vijay so hard that he stumbled and fell to the ground. Now the first man whom Vijay had hit, was also back in this one sided fight and kicked Vijay like a maniac. Nikita came into the fight and tried to pull one of the men off Vijay. “Maderchod bloody top class randi,” he said and slapped her. “Who’s going to bachao your chikni gaand now haan?” he sneered. “Bastard!” shouted Vijay, getting the man’s attention away from what he was about to do to Nikita and attracting it back to himself. The man now moved towards his bike removing a thick steel rod to inflict more pain upon his helpless adversary. Realizing that this was getting more deadly by the second, Nikita ran up to the parked car and pressed the horn hard and long. ‘Pooooommmmmppppp!! Pppppooommpppp!!” rang the horn. She went on and on honking till a couple of people in the two new buildings came out into their balconies and windows. Lights had begun to come on here and there. The two guys stopped short of using the rod and took off before the odds were evened leaving a bloody faced Vijay on the ground. Nikita walked up to him and quickly and carefully helped him up from the ground as he moaned and groaned. She hurriedly helped him into her small dark lane trying to control as much damage to her reputation as she could, though she knew that the damage had in fact already been done. This had never happened before. She could smell the blood and sweat emanating from the dark bony figure she now helped over to her building. Vijay’s arms were so bony they cut into Nikita’s neck as he used her shoulders for support. She somehow helped him up to her house, opened the door and slipped in before any more neighbours could come out to witness the night’s events. As Vijay entered the small hall in Nikita’s one bedroom hall apartment, he stumbled and fell onto the floor. Nikita noticed that he’d been kicked hard on the knees also and there might have been a chance of some bone or cartilage tear. She felt lucky that Vijay was a feather weight. She helped him up. “Arre baapa re . . . You’ve gotten hurt really badly . . . my God . . . !” said Nikita. “Aah . . .” moaned Vijay.
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Nikita helped him to the cane sofa and got him to sit on it. She then walked over to the light switches near the door and switched on both the tube lights in the hall to examine the seriousness of the injuries. She asked Vijay to roll up his trouser sleeves so that she could check for bruises there. She got him to stretch and then bend both his legs one by one, followed by his arms, checking for fractures or sprains. When she was satisfied that there were no broken bones or serious injury, she began to examine the bruises. She checked all over and realized that there were wounds and bruises everywhere, on his back, head, face, arms, legs and feet. The assailants had kicked him mercilessly. She asked him to take it easy while she went inside to fix him some Glucon D. With Nikita inside the kitchen, Vijay looked around. The small hall was done up in cane, consisting of two chairs and a sofa set. The centre table was also made of cane. Vijay didn’t know this yet but cane furniture had for decades been the choice of many of the immigrants in Bombay who lived on rent and didn’t want to invest in something more expensive. He could hear a distinct hum which came from very close to where he was sitting. The sound frequently became an audible clicking almost as if some small thing was hitting against the cane repeatedly. When Nikita came back into the room from the kitchen, she noticed that Vijay was craning his neck to try to figure out what the sound was. “Arre, that’s some kind of termite or white ant or something which is eating away at the cane. I bought all this kabada cheap from a sale in someone else’s house, another tenant going back to his native place leaving this city of dreams forever.” “Going to shift to my new flat soon, done khoop planning to do tichi sajawat with proper furniture . . . not this bhaltach . . .” she said as she gave Vijay the Glucon D. “You live here alone?!” asked Vijay. “Yes . . . why some problem?” questioned Nikita, momentarily getting back to her guarded position. “Naheen bhai, nothing like that at all . . . just surprised . . . you see, I’m from a place where women don’t live alone . . . so I though maybe . . .” explained Vijay. “Oh . . . ok, ok, chook jhaali . . . was just caught off guard by your question!” replied Nikita. Nikita looked at Vijay as he greedily slurped the remaining Glucon D from the glass and kept it on the table. He was so thin, thought Nikita, that in a fight, there would be neither skin nor flesh to protect his bones, leaving them exposed to the threat of complete and irreparable damage! Why then, did this scrawny little fellow take on those two men for her; someone he was abusing only a few minutes before the incident? “Come, let’s go inside. I have a proper first-aid kit in my cupboard. We’ll sort you out,” she said. “Naheen naheen . . . dhanyavaad bhai, I’m absolutely ok now . . . no need!” said Vijay.
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“Arre bavdat . . . atta, will you please stop this veda formalitygiri, if you don’t attend to those wounds and recover fast, you’ll have to suffer another beating from that Shashank. So now stop doing jhig jhig like a nayi naveli navri and come,” she said, leaving almost no room for opposition. She helped Vijay, who by now had relented to her will, into her bedroom. He noticed the long dressing table mirror decorated with bindis of all shapes and sizes around it, the simple bed, this one, made out of wood, not cane. He also noticed the simple, single Godrej steel cupboard taking up the only remaining space for furniture in the small room. Nikita got him to sit on her bed, noticing that he was feeling very uncomfortable sitting on a lady’s bed. “Kaay re, never sat on a girl’s bed before ka?” she teased. “Actually, no,” replied Vijay in all honesty. Nikita smiled. Moving towards her cupboard, she opened it, affording Vijay a glimpse into a few of its contents. He noticed how neatly she’d arranged her clothes in sections for daily wear, the home wear variety, and obviously the wear to work sexy clothing, set aside separately. He also noticed the scores of bangles hung on sawed hangers and a small locker with a turning dial code number safety device on it. Nikita got back to him with her first-aid-kit. She opened it up on the bed revealing the gauze bandages, dozens of band-aid strips in all shapes and sizes, the three different types of creams and two small miniature sprays inside. The complete range of first-aid casualties from burns to fractures were covered in the assortment of creams and sprays. She removed some antiseptic cream and some antiseptic powder. She then asked Vijay to spread out the cream on all his wounds, one by one, and follow it up with some powder sprinkled on top of the cream patches, forming a super antiseptic mixture. Vijay obeyed her commands, thankful at heart, for the feeling of being at home, after sustaining such injuries and going through the ordeal of the night. After fifteen minutes of careful painting of each and every wound, some even under his shirt, Nikita wrapped up the kit and shutting it, walked over to her cupboard. This time she opened one door a little more, revealing a photograph of Aslam and herself at the Gateway of India which Vijay hadn’t seen yet in person but recognized from numerous film posters, on television and from photos of relatives who’d gotten themselves immortalized in front of that gigantic monument which symbolized Bombay, just as much as the statue of Liberty symbolized America, specially in Vijay’s store house of knowledge acquired through films. Nikita placed the first-aid kit in its rightful place and shut her cupboard. “Sorry . . . but . . . who’s that in the photo with you?” asked Vijay in a quiet, almost inaudible voice which Nikita heard, nice and clear. She turned her head around and looked at him with a cold stare, making him feel almost sorry for having asked, then almost immediately, she regained her normal composure and turned around fully to face him.
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“It’s a long story . . . and a personal one!” she said with calculated words, moving to sit on a small wooden stool near the bed, at a little distance from Vijay. “All I can say is, nobody gets into this profession by choice . . . It’s mostly circumstantial. Though in the long run of course, the money and other things make us all stay on . . .” she added. Vijay nodded. “Hmmm . . . I can understand,” he said. “By the way, what made you get into a fight like that for me? I’m sure you knew that you didn’t stand a chance, even before you got into it . . .” asked Nikita. “Wellll . . . it’s a long story again . . . very long . . . very painful, and too personal . . . But all I can say is, it wasn’t about you!! I can’t see violence being inflicted on any woman . . . that’s all I can say now,” he said, getting up from the bed. “I’ve got to be going. It’s really late. Thanks a lot for the care and help.” he said, as he began to move towards the hall with Nikita getting up and following him. “It’s nothing. And thanks . . . No matter what you did all that for, you barobar ended up helping me! Thanks again,” she said, as she opened the door for Vijay who turned around, smiled at her for a brief moment and then moved towards the stairs, disappearing down the first visible flight. Nikita shut the door and walked back in, putting off the hall lights and retiring to her bedroom. She sat in front of the mirror and used a deep cleansing milk lotion to remove the light make up from her face and eyes. ‘What a strange fellow . . . There’s obviously so much more to people than we think at first sight,’ she thought, giving the topic no more importance than that for the night. She slept well that night, with no dreams to entice her and no nightmares to plague her. The future held a lot in store for her of which at this moment she was blissfully unaware.
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oday was the day Nikita was to meet both Mr. Louis and Yatin Kadam and give them their money. She’d promised them payment on this day as she’d expected that the money would surely arrive by now. She awoke with the sinking feeling that today was not going to be a very cheerful day. This kind of postponing of due amounts was exactly the sort of thing she’d hate herself and which would make her lose confidence in a particular relationship or person, at least to an extent. She knew how she felt that dirty feeling deep within, when people didn’t pay her on time and kept asking for more time and avoiding the issue; that swelling anger which she’d have to control just to be able to maintain the relationship and the following inexplicable feeling of avoiding that person’s company, she felt deep within her gut, each time they made an attempt to stay in touch after the deal had been closed and the money finally paid. She wanted and needed Mr. Louis to be on her side and the last thing she wanted was to hamper relationships with him even before she’d set up shop. Mr. Louis was an amiable, middle aged man. He and his wife were both fond of Nikita. They often invited her over for their Sunday roast when their son Michael set up Mr. Louis’s old electric barbeque in the back yard of his row house, Mi Casa, one of the oldest and most quaint houses in I.C. colony. She’d thought sometimes that Michael had a crush on her and that someday the topic would be broached by Mr. Louis himself. Nobody knew exactly what she did for a living. She’d given one answer to everyone that she worked as a partner in a travel agency. She’d researched enough to keep up the façade. Another important factor was that Mr. Louis in all probability would help her out in acquiring both, a stable clientele and the raw materials for the restaurant. After a short and quick bath, she went up to her cupboard to make her choice of dress for the day. She decided to wear a lovely cotton salwar kurta, one of her Fab India collections. This one was a mixture of grey and brown and had embroidery done all across it. The fit was tailored by her local tailor perfectly for her body, not too tight but not too loose to conceal her figure, either. She chose the right set of glass bangles and a lovely round, textured Bindi from the thick wad of bindi sheets 128
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she’d kept held together with a rubber band in her dressing table drawer. Slipping on a pair of light brown leather Kolhapuri chappals to match the salwar kurta, she left the house with her purse. She dialed Mr. Louis’s number and he was only too happy to have her come over. He of course was thinking that she’d be coming with the money, thought Nikita. She hoped that things wouldn’t go too badly. In the bus to Borivili she sent Shashank an SMS, ‘Need the money today as promised, else will have to sell watch tomorrow morning. Have found buyer.’ Within the next minute she received a reply. ‘Ha ha. Don’t worry babes, will give d dough today!’ She figured that ‘dough’ meant money. She reached the familiar lane when it was almost noon. She stopped the rickshaw right in front of the shop. Just as she was alighting and paying the rickshaw driver, Michael came up to her. “Hey Nikita what’s up? How are you?” said Michael. “Fine, how’s everything at the shop?” asked Nikita, as she could see some commotion inside the shop. “Hey man . . . the electricity wires been cut by a rat or something . . . dad’s blowing his fuse . . . All the cold storage is being shifted to the large back up refrigerator at home men,” said Michael. “Oops!!” said Nikita. “Bye men . . . come home for the next roast haan!” said Michael as he left. Nikita walked up to the shop amidst rushing employees who held dripping frosted packets of ham, sausages, salami, frozen chicken and burger patties in their arms as they rushed to the house above the store, in the same building. They looked as if they were transporting live fish which would die and had to carry them in a hurry to a water tank, thought Nikita. “Ey Nikita how you, men? Doing all fine and all, I hope . . . brought de check no?” asked Mr. Louis, shaking his head at Martin who was holding a wet bag of cold meat asking him if he could transfer that too to his house? Nikita approached the counter. “Well actually Mr. Louis . . . I wanted to ask you if I can give you the money tomorrow morning. I came here all the way just so that I could ask you in person . . . didn’t want to ask you over the phone.” Mr. Louis was already shaking his head in a different motion, almost as if in some sort of heady dance step, moving from one kind of movement used to convey his feelings to Martin about the bag of cold meat and at the same time conveying his disappointment to Nikita. “I’m really sorry Mr. Louis, I know you’ve held on for a while now . . . really sorry . . . if you want, I’ll apologize to Mr. Desai on your behalf.” “You know thet man’s going cuckoo trying to call me et de shop . . . All de time he’s calling and calling . . . ‘now wat is dis Mr. Louis? How much time you taking jest to decide men?’ He’s askin’ me . . . and now after all dis you come an’ ask me dis men . . . How you doin’ dis men, Nikita? How re baba?” asked Mr. Louis in a rather disappointed, moaning tone. He tried coaxing himself and calming himself down by stroking his thick salt and pepper coloured French beard.
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Nikita looked at the counter and then brought her head up to face Mr. Louis with her most innocent and child-like look with which she had worked wonders with the most hardened of people. She’d used this look with her father when she was a kid, rubbing her little nose into his thick arm and then bringing her head up in much the same fashion to look up at him, revealing her face slowly as it emerged from his shirt sleeve. “I’m really sorry, Mr. Louis. I also didn’t want to upset you. You know how it is na? Someone owes me money and I’ve just deposited the cheque yesterday so it’ll take till tomorrow to get cleared it and credited into my account. Really sorry, Mr. Louis,” she appealed. The age-old charm and method worked again. Mr. Louis’s hardened face relaxed into a slight smile. “Ok, ok, men . . . take it easy . . . no need to get so dejected men . . . Jesus is great! No problem . . . You tek your time men, tek your time . . . tomorrow you’re sayin na? So give it tomorrow re girl,” he conceded, magnanimously. “Thanks a ton, Mr. Louis! Tell Mrs. Louis, I said ‘hi’,” said Nikita as she left the shop, her face brightening with a smile! One down, one to go, she thought as she dodged a frantic Mr. Martin entering the shop with some more bad news. She got out onto the road, hailed a passing rickshaw and got in. “Bandra East, Kalanagar!” she said to the driver and they sped off. In the rickshaw she tried Yatin Kadam’s cell phone number many times but she couldn’t get through to him. He’d asked her to meet him at his place today in Kalanagar but now he himself wasn’t answering the phone. She couldn’t just land up, unannounced. She looked back out at the road and realized that she’d just crossed the Santa Cruz subway exit on the highway. Just then she got a call on her cell phone. She picked it up without even checking the number, almost sure that it was Mr. Kadam. “Hello Kadam Sahib, I was trying your number, parat parat . . . But aaplya cell was busy only,” she said into the phone. “Hi . . . This is Mrs. Kadam,” said a voice from the other side of the line. “Huh?” said Nikita, wondering what was happening. Then she looked at the mobile screen which said ‘Priyanka Home’. “Arre Priyanka! Saang re . . . I was actually trying to call someone for quite a while . . . that’s why . . .” “Where are you? Do you want to come home for some lunch? My mother-in-law’s gone out to a friend’s place,” said Priyanka. Nikita paused for a second and thought that this would be ideal. To go to Khar and be with Priyanka till Mr. Kadam called back. “Ok tell me the address,” she said. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.” Vasu Bhavan was one of the older buildings in Khar but also one of those few which had still not got sucked into the dusty vortex of the TDR scheme which had almost taken over all of S.V. Road of late. Situated right opposite Hinduja
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Hall, a small place rented out for marriage functions, Vasu Bhavan was a six storied th building, nestled on the side of 10 road which was just behind Sheetal Bukhara, the restaurant which was famous for its mouth watering Indian cuisine. Priyanka Chhabria had married Kunal Bhatia and now lived in the large two BHK apartment on the fourth floor of the building in a house that said ‘Bhatias’ on the door. Nikita waited at the door for a minute without pressing the bell, taking in the ornate door, not very different in appearance from the kind of doors used at dance bars; garish and too ornate. Two swans facing each other held a bright gold placard that read ‘Bhatias’. ‘Yuuccckkhh!’ thought Nikita. She pressed the doorbell which also had a song-and-dance ring-tone. A screechy Yanni composition pelted out from a small speaker underneath the doorbell that had a camera attached to it. ‘Please wait a minute,’ said a computerized voice from the small speaker. Nikita had half a mind to leave and catch up with Priyanka some other time when the door opened and Priyanka’s smiling face greeted her. All thoughts of jettisoning the meeting faded from Nikita’s mind as she stepped in towards a side stepping Priyanka. “Hi!” greeted Priyanka. “Hello,” said Nikita, as she entered the spacious drawing room. On the wall was a carving of Krishna etched out of white Plaster of Paris, as if he was emerging out of the wall, surrounded by gopis painted all around him, in vibrant colours. He held his flute and his head sideways as he stood in his typical cross legged position. A large part of the outside passage of the building had been smartly and surreptitiously included into the drawing room, making it even bigger. A large plasma television was fixed on one wall and a curved ‘L’ shaped sofa was placed in the opposite direction, it’s rich brown leather resplendent in its dark hues. The floor was a splendid, white, shining marble. ‘Richie Rich’, thought Nikita. She turned to see Priyanka shutting the outer door and motioning towards a brilliantly transparent glass topped dining table and thick dark wooden chairs which looked like regal viziers seated around a round table at some royal meeting. She pulled back a chair and faced Priyanka who was just getting comfortable on another chair. “So where’s General Maaji Pratap?” quipped Nikita. “Ummm across the Line of Control in a neighboring aunt’s house!” replied Priyanka smiling away. Just then, the door bell rang and Priyanka walked over to the door and opened it and in walked her Mother-in-law, Mrs. Bhatia, looking grim as ever! She was indeed, surprised to see an unknown person at home. Nikita looked Mrs. Bhatia up and down just as Mrs. Bhatia studied her. She was of average height but extremely large in size. Thick spectacles and a very gaudy, ill-fitting, multicoloured salwar kurta, Scholl’s sandals, a thick large brown purse which didn’t have anything in common with her clothes or shoes and a thick gold Cartier watch on her wrist completed her ensemble. She wore diamonds everywhere—in the ears, large solitaires; on the
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fingers, even larger solitaires and a few more thrown into her bangles! ‘Hmm,’ thought Nikita. “Mummyji,” said Priyanka, uncomfortably looking at the ground near the lady’s feet and with obvious effort, “This is my friend, Nikita, from aerobics class.” “Ta kaidi vadi gaal aai? Good that you’ve brought a friend home,” said Mrs. Bhatia, walking up to Nikita and shaking her hand. “So nice to see you, Nikki! What do you do?” Nikita knew enough of Sindhi from being in Bombay for years now and having interacted with as many frustrated fat Sindhi husbands at the bar as the Gujarati ones. She understood that the first part of what Mrs. Bhatia said meant, ‘so what’s the big deal?’ She was surprised by the sudden familiarity which she’d not expected at all, and more so, she was taken aback by the sudden shortening of her name to ‘Nikki’, without permission, followed by an inquisitive question. “I work at a travel agency . . . actually I’m a partner.” “Oh ho . . . how nice . . . how nice . . . daadho sutho!” “Sheetal beta, go get her something to drink . . . orange squash or something . . . added Mrs. Bhatia as she moved into the house towards her room, past Nikita. Priyanka moved into the kitchen to oblige while Nikita sat and looked around. Priyanka had hardly entered with two glasses of orange squash when her mother-in-law returned with her face dripping with water. She’d obviously not bothered to wipe it after washing it. She seemed to be in a hurry to come back to the pair and not miss out on any of their conversation. The three now sat together at the table. “So Sheetal, you never told me about Nikita. When did you’ll meet?” she asked. “Ummm . . . just a few days ago, Mummyji,” replied Priyanka obviously uneasy at this intrusive questioning. “O, daadhi suthi gaal aa! And you’ll are aaalready best friends, haan? Chango, chango . . . very good, very good,” she repeated. Just then the phone rang and Priyanka went to answer it. From near the phone she looked back at Nikita and her mother-in-law. “It’s for you, Mummyji,” said Priyanka, getting her Mother-in-law to leave the slightly irritated Nikita. Mrs. Bhatia walked over to the phone, giving Priyanka a chance to get back to Nikita. “Is she always so obnoxious?” asked Nikita “Absolutely!!” confirmed Priyanka. “Can’t we go out for a coffee? I think we’ll get more privacy at a noisy coffee shop than here!” said Nikita moving closer to Priyanka, so she couldn’t be heard by Mrs. Bhatia, just two feet away. “Mmm . . . I don’t think Mummyji will allow it,” said Priyanka. Right then the devil was back proving that thinking of it did help to bring it back.
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“Haane what’s your plan, Sheetal?” asked Mrs. Bhatia “I wanted to take her out to help me with some shopping. It’ll only take half an hour,” said Nikita, getting up from the table and pulling Priyanka by her hand. Mrs. Bhatia looked at Priyanka who couldn’t even bring herself to look her Mother-in-law directly in the eye. “Cha thi chanvi, are you going along?” “Just for half an hour aunty, it won’t take longer than that, promise! Chal, Priyanka. Don’t waste any more time or we’ll get late,” said Nikita pulling Priyanka out of the trap. Priyanka looked at her Mother-in-law who nodded her head. “Come back soon, beta, there’s lots of work to do before the cooking of the khaado begins,” said Mrs. Bhatia. Priyanka nodded fervently and moved out of the table area with a fast disappearing Nikita. They almost fled out of the main door, shutting it behind them. Just as they reached out, Nikita turned towards Priyanka as they moved onto the stairs which led down. “Why the hell does she call you Sheetal?” she asked. “Well in our caste of Sindhis, the girl’s name is changed after marriage,” replied Priyanka. “Atrocious!!” said Nikita as they continued downstairs, at top speed. Just-Around-The-Corner was bustling as usual with activity. A flurry of summer colours hung around the waists, necklines, collars, sleeves, ankles, wrists, and heads of a bevy of pretty young girls, accompanied by chiseled hot, fresh, gym baked tough male cookies. They strutted their stuff all over the place. Even the corner itself from which the name was derived was crowded with the Indian Harley Davidsons—The Enfield bullet in all its various modified and original company made avatars, along with a few other fancy two wheelers. The solitary pan wala across the street was busy supplying some more Look-I’m-Cool gear like Risalas and single Davidoff Full Flavor cigarettes to the bubbly young people crowding his small sole trading concern. Every wannabe model and television actress with booty to boot was here. So was every college nobody who thought he/she was somebody, making Just Around The Corner one of the most visited coffee shops in the suburb of Bandra. Nikita and Priyanka decided to sit outside next to the fountain where they could have the best of both the worlds, the one inside which served fresh salads in numerous varieties and the one outside which provided steaming coffees within a wide range. Nikita gazed at the college and model crowd for a minute and then avoided the glare of a young macho college kid sporting a bandana from a table not too far away. “Yaar, it’s unbelievable, the way you let your mother-in-law treat you . . . Or shall I call her MIL?” said Nikita. “Let Me???!!” questioned Priyanka completely taken by surprise by Nikita’s choice of words.
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“Ho re, let her!!” said Nikita. “You teach people to treat you. It’s your allowance which creates a particular way of behaving . . . kharach re!!” “I don’t understand how you can say that when it’s clear that she’s the one who dominates me!” said Priyanka, her voice rising to a hysterical pitch. “Bagh re, nobody gets their freedom assach. You’ve got to fight for it. Whether it’s from your own parents, or your boss at work, or your spouse, and by fight I don’t mean Fight FIGHT, I mean it’s always going to be a struggle to get your space and always uncertain, but that risk of breaking the normal state of things is a call each person has to take,” said Nikita. “Means . . . ?” asked Priyanka. “Means, why do you always ask people for their permission or approval . . . mhanje . . . may I go to the market, or for coffee, if you’re alright with it? Or if you’re not going yourself . . . etc. etc. Why not just say, I’m going for coffee, I’ll be back soon,” said Nikita. “Hmm . . .” said Priyanka. “Why do you look at the ground while talking to her? Why do you keep using asa veda kokadu saarkha language like, ‘mmm, mmm, and hmmm’ all the time? Lack of confidence!! Basically you’ve got to begin with these small things and then work up to the larger things like your own space, a job and then maybe even living separately from your in laws . . .” Priyanka was speechless this time. She was looking down again and then almost as if realizing what she was doing, she looked up straight into Nikita’s eyes. “Why do you even call her ‘Mummyji’ when it doesn’t come to you naturally? You need to start living your own life and the struggle begins with hech sagda small things re!” said Nikita. “Hmm . . . I mean . . . what you say makes sense. I can see that I actually do all these things. Actually, I’ve been like this since childhood. My father is actually my step father so I’ve been sort of like this with him ever since childhood . . . somewhere grateful for everything,” said Priyanka. Nikita just looked at her with a smile. “But you’re right; I’ll begin making the changes myself. And the ‘Mummyji’ thing is really awkward, but it is scary . . . even thinking of so much change!” said Priyanka. “And what is your great husband’s take on this whole jhamela?” asked Nikita. “O, he chooses the easy way out! He says that because he comes home late from work and he handles the expenses of the whole house, his department is the office which he handles and mine is the house so this, I should handle!” said Priyanka cupping her chin into her hands, her elbows at the table. “Bagh! Even there you’ve taught him over time that this behavior is acceptable. Anyway, if you’re absolutely ready to take the risks we can work on this, step by step; the first is to take care of these small things, the ‘umms’ and the ‘looking down’ and the ‘Mummyji’ and the non assertiveness!!” said Nikita.
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“Done, done, Madam, done!!” said Priyanka, her face breaking into a broad smile. A waiter came over to ask them what they wanted to order. They both ordered Café Mocha, a thick coffee with a swathe of chocolate cream stirred into the steaming cup in a heart shape. They spoke some more about random things. Nikita felt that too much of a dose in one meeting would cause an adverse effect. She was also somewhere anxious that Yatin Kadam hadn’t called back. This contact was absolutely imperative for her restaurant. While talking to Priyanka she seemed cool on the surface but beneath she was also worried about the payment from Shashank. She couldn’t delay the payments by yet another day, no matter what the reason. Finishing the coffee with Priyanka, she bid her goodbye and after dropping her off at her place, continued home in the same rickshaw. Yatin Kadam didn’t call her through the rest of the day either and soon it was time to meet Shashank and Vijay again. Nikita looked like the other shadow half of the same woman when she’d changed into her evening attire. She’d again worn a micro-mini skirt made of black canvas with a single white thick stitch across one side of it, from top to bottom, with a simple, clean, white, fitting polo neck top. Black platforms adorned her feet and she’d tied her hair into a high ponytail. Shashank took one look at her from his car, and rolled the window down to let out a wolf whistle. “Kaay re? Control, control!” said Nikita, as she slid into the back seat of the car. She gave Vijay a look, with a slight smile, almost invisible to Shashank, acknowledging his presence in the car today. Shashank immediately began to feel her breasts with his hands groping all over the place. Nikita let him do it, feeling a strong lump coming up from her stomach into her throat. Shashank then got a call. He was tempted to disregard it but after a few seconds of ignoring it, he took the call. “Yeah dude, we’re picking you up at In Orbit Mall . . . Chillax. We’ll be there in a second, bro,” he said into the phone. “Stud, take the next right into the parking lot . . . there,” he said, pointing out the exit of the road into the In Orbit Mall parking lot. As they entered the premises Shashank motioned to Vijay to take an immediate right, but because of a car that was just behind them, Vijay couldn’t take a sudden turn and went straight instead of slowing down. “You Bastarrrddd!!” shouted Shashank as he cuffed Vijay hard on the back of his neck. “Can’t you follow simple instructions, you village buffoon! Fuck Man! I don’t know how dad hired you man, how!!??” said Shashank. Nikita noticed that from the moment Shashank had begun to ridicule Vijay, half of Vijay’s attention was on the rear view mirror, checking for her reaction. He was obviously affected by what she was witnessing now, especially since he had now begun some small rapport with her, thanks to last night’s incident. Vijay reversed the car and took the turn, driving onto the front porch of In Orbit where Yakub
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stood outside the main entrance, a crooked smile spreading across his face, as he saw the car approaching. Vijay stalled the car in front of Yakub, letting the engine idle as Yakub got in, then moved out of In Orbit, back onto the main road towards Hotel Jaal as he’d been instructed earlier this evening by Shashank. “Kyun re chaapter, what’s up?” asked Yakub and then before Shashank could even reply, he remembered something. “Arre boss, iski maki, I completely forgot . . . My dad had given me a weekend trip free at the Cicade De Goa which expires in a couple of days. I’d completely forgotten about it. Last night someone I met was mentioning this dalla who supplies ekdum raapchick maal in Goa. Any nationality, ekdum sollid items! And I remembered this free trip I’d got months ago. What say, we go thoko some phirang maal, hero?” he asked. Shashank smiled a wicked smile. “Sounds like a plan, dude! Sounds like a plan!” he said. The car whizzed past Fame Adlabs on its way back. Vijay looked on at the busy roads, the office goers on their way back in their air conditioned little cages on wheels, some with golden cages like Mercedes, some with cheaper ones like Santros, but all happy to be in the best cages they could afford. He wondered who in this city ever had the time to really live. This place was so much faster than back home. Everyone seemed to know what they wanted and were doing. But did they really? Ahead at the end of the road, the Indian Oil signal was again out of order and the traffic had lined up for about five hundred meters! Vijay positioned the car into the smallest lane, as far away from the signal as he could. He looked on at the street urchins on the side of the road, the eunuchs as they passed by specially making targets out of couples in rickshaws who were left unguarded by the openness of the vehicle they were in. There was a whole settlement on the sidewalk towards Four Bungalows. A man sat in a chair looking on at the traffic while two women washed clothes nearby. Another man was pulling up water from a hole in the ground while their clothes were straddled across make-shift clothes lines all across the back wall. A baby was strung up in a make-shift hammock using an old, tattered cloth tied across two poles in the ground. An elderly lady slept peacefully unaware of the noise and commotion all around her. He wondered how these people got used to life on the road! He was always amazed at how easily people from outside settled down in Bombay, in just about any place, as if just getting to live and breathe and sleep on the soil of this city was like some form of Nirvana, some kind of solace from the hard wallops and beatings the same city lavished on them, day after day. Vijay had begun to enjoy driving now, but only at night. During the day, the constant shifting of the gears from neutral to first, neutral to first in the traffic jams and the constant worry of getting the car grazed or scratched because of a lack of absolute judgment of its proportions, made driving stressful. He’d even begun to enjoy the Trance played by Shashank, like an old friend who’d visited the house so
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many times that he had got used to his presence. They reached Hotel Jaal, dropping Yakub off on the way. Vijay realized that Shashank had planned en route to leave for Goa the next day. The trip that Yakub’s father had gifted him included air tickets and so the car and Vijay would fortunately be left behind. Vijay waited while Nikita and Shashank went about their routine and after getting himself some spicy biryani from a roadside stall later in the evening, he fell asleep in the passenger seat of the car in the parking lot, letting his mind drift away into half formed thoughts as he listened to one of his Kishore Kumar cassettes. It was around 11.30, when Shashank returned from the room and woke Vijay up with a loud rapping on the glass window on his side of the car. Vijay awoke with a start, least expecting the two back downstairs so early. He opened the car to let them in. As they sat, Shashank removed a small packet from the back of the car near the speakers and opening it up to reveal bundles of notes, handed them over to Nikita. “Here’s the money, babes. One full lakh . . . I’ll give you the rest as promised when the three weeks are up, babes. By the way, you were great today. Great! I’ve never seen such stamina before. Never!!” said Shashank. “Thanks,” said Nikita, acknowledging the fact that today was a tough day. She had to be on top and for the first time, Shashank hadn’t intoxicated himself with too much heroin or alcohol and so she really had to work hard today at satisfying his appetite. The car started and they got onto the highway. “So babes, you’re coming with me tomorrow na?” asked Shashank, almost as if taking it for granted that she would. “No,” said Nikita surprising him. “Why?” asked Shashank. “What about our contract?” “Well I have some work to finish which I just can’t possibly leave behind. And we never spoke about going out of town on holidays with you. Just in Bombay, na jaan!” said Nikita, too lazy to get into the act of the pampering mistress. “But . . .” persisted Shashank. Nikita didn’t let him finish. She moved in close to him, pecked him on the mouth shutting him up and then began to feel him up. The rest of the way she let her hands do the talking and Shashank uttered not another word about the trip as he was too busy enjoying his drugless bliss. They reached Shashank’s place as always and Shashank got out and walked in, not questioning the routine even though he wasn’t drunk or high today. Vijay left Krishna Kunj, heading towards Malad with Nikita at the back. They’d only just touched Linking Road when Nikita noticed a kulfi wala on the side of the road. “Vijay Saheb, could you please pull up near the kulfi wala, I really feel like having one.” Vijay smiled upon hearing the ‘Saheb’ and stopped the car right in front of the kulfi wala, rolling down her window for her with the buttons on his armrest.
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Let’s go out and eat it like all others.” Vijay nodded his head in compliance, his smile broadening. They both got out of the car and asked the kulfi wala what flavors he had. “Malai, Mango, Kesar, Pista!!” He rattled off in pure business fashion. They both chose Pista and began to relish their frosted delicacy. “So Vijay Saheb, how did you get your name . . . was it the whole Amitabh thing?” asked Nikita as she gulped down another ice cold, slowly melting, semi solid lump of delicious kulfi. “Yes, in fact that’s exactly how I got it. Dad was a big fan of Amitabh! And so was my mother.” Nikita noticed the ‘was’ but didn’t pursue it further. “So have you gone on a Mumbai Darshan since your arrival in this city?” she asked instead. “Nahin, bilkul nahin! Where have I had the time? I sleep when the rest of the world is about to wake up, when it’s too hot to travel, and by evening, the lion awakes!” “So Vijay Saheb, are you in ghai to get home today?” Vijay looked at her face. “No, not really! Why?” he asked, wondering what the surprise was, for he couldn’t for the life of him, figure out why she was asking him this question. “Well, I could show you around if you like, Sir!” she quipped, bowing down like a guide. “Nikita Jog, Mumbai guide haazir hai!” Vijay finished his kulfi, wiped his plate clean, paid the vendor and gestured as if to say, ‘lead the way’. They got back into the car, Nikita choosing to sit in front this time. Vijay was surprised and uneasy, Nikita noticed, but she secretly enjoyed this! “First stop, ghoda gaadi cha safar . . . a buggy ride near the Gateway! Drive straight, I’ll show you the way,” she said. Colaba Causeway was resplendent in its colourful hues. Throngs of foreigners walked through the day and evening from street stall to street stall trying on the various ornamental accessories which garlanded the make-shift cardboard showcase walls of the tiny sole trading concerns. Earring shops, bangle shops, necklace shops, odd-shaped curio shops and pirated book vendors, all competed for space and the frivolous momentary attention of every gori chamdi wala phirang who graced the street. Albanians, Danes, Dutch, Americans, Britishers, Egyptians, and the Africans, most of who lived on fake passports, now more localized than the resident locals, crowded this street. By the time Nikita and Vijay reached the street, it was already 12.15 and most of the roadside stalls had shut down. A pirated book seller and cigarette stall or pan walla was still open. Vijay slowed down as Nikita had asked him to turn into one of the lanes leading right up to the Taj Mahal Hotel. “Arre, kasli kamaal aahe re, nehmi there are tanga walas here all the time . . . aata I can’t see even one,” said Nikita as they neared the waterfront, passing the Gateway of India.
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“Maybe because it’s so late also, na?!” said Vijay. “Ho, ho, you’re right. I think we should park the car and walk on from here to look for them. Anyway this area is lovely for a walk.” Vijay gazed out at the grey silver sheet of metal, shifting its large vast body like a serpent holding in its wake, dozens of small boats which swayed with it, the stone walls around the Gateway holding their fort with might. He then slowed the car down to a halt and parked it in an angular position. They both got off. Vijay had barely set foot on the ground when he began looking at the Taj Hotel. “Khoop chhaan aahes na, it’s so lovely! I still look at it in awe. It looks so regal and royal standing here like this,” said Nikita, pointing in the direction they were to walk to find the buggies. They began to stroll on to the side of the Taj Hotel which housed all its various boutiques. Vijay looked on at the magnificent arches and the traditional architecture blended with the modern colourful watch or bag posters lit up by the small halogens above them, all housed in the canopy of palatial domes which lined the road. The thick stone pillars looked strong and beautiful, thought Vijay, stretching out his hand to feel the stone as they passed by; cold, but strong. “Did you know that rumour has it that the architect who was commissioned to build this hotel by the British committed suicide by jumping from the top of this hotel itself on completion of the project?!” asked Nikita, noticing in Vijay’s eyes the same love for the old stone building as she felt each time she looked at it. “No! What are you saying? Why did he do that?!! It’s such a marvelous piece of architecture!” “Well, te sangte, he had given instructions about the building to his kaarigars and left the blueprints for the building tyancha kade, then left for England, returning only when the structure was complete. When he got back, he was horrified to see that the workers had built it with the main entrance actually facing the opposite direction of the sea, exactly the opposite of his plans. So the main entrance and the entire welcoming large façade of the building remains, to this date, at the back and not in the front as it was originally intended to be!” “Wow!” exclaimed Vijay. They’d neared the lane which led to the back of the Taj and he could see that logically what Nikita said made sense. Nikita still kept craning her neck in various directions trying to find a buggy. At a distance, she suddenly saw one, taking a turn into another distant lane. “Arre te bagh!! There’s one right there! If we run a bit, we might be able to catch it,” she said and began to run in the direction in which she’d seen a buggy turning the bend. Vijay followed her and they both managed to catch up with it, only to be told by the driver through gestures that he was heading home for the night. The buggy was made out of thick aluminum foil, a cheap imitation of the chariots he’d seen on Door Darshan, years ago in the serial, Mahabharat. What disturbed Vijay was the fact that this whole huge chariot, which held the charioteer and obviously a couple of passengers behind him in the cart, was drawn by one solitary horse!
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“Bas . . . only one horse for such a large thing!” said Vijay. “Ho re . . . even I dislike that. But what to do? Kadhi kadhi my mind also craves for a ride. I guess since I go alone it makes it better for the horse,” she said. The lone horse cart moved away and the duo began their hunt for another one. Walking down another lane which housed some quaint Arabic named perfume dealer’s stores, they spotted another buggy. “Hey . . . there . . . look . . . another one!” exclaimed Vijay as he began to move in the direction of the buggy as Nikita followed, party to his excitement. They neared the buggy and realized that there were four men sitting on it, obviously heading home. The men too saw them and realized immediately with the wisdom of years of conning foreigners into expensive rides, that these two were specifically looking for a ride and so were a prize catch. The man riding the tanga waved them off, though it was clear from the expression on the other riders’ faces that they intended to stop. “Kaay natak kartos re, just stop and tell us how much,” said Nikita. The horse cart stopped. “Going home, madame . . . but for you, one last round . . . 700! No Bargain! Phixed rate!” said one of the men sitting at the back. “Arre bavdat, please stop this nonsense. We’re Mumbaikars, not some phirang gori chamdi, whom you want to fleece! 300, final!” she said with absolute resolve. “No sorry then, madame,” said another one of the men seated behind. “Ok. 600, last price!” said the third. “Who’s the owner?” asked Nikita in a no nonsense voice, indicating that she was not to be messed with. The man at the reins, answered her question by raising his hand. “Ok, all of y’all please shut up. Now you tell me, how much?” she said. Vijay was amused each time he saw Nikita in action. He enjoyed the way she took control of a situation and played the leader. “500,” said the rider. “300. Last offer. Pahije ka?” asked Nikita positioning her body as if she was about to turn on her heel and walk off this time, not pausing for another feeble attempt at bargaining from their side. “Done madame, done!” said the rider, motioning to the others to get off. Three of the men got off, dispersed and moved away into different alleys, waving to the rider, one got off but continued to stand by the side of the cart. He was dressed in a micro checked lungi and a greasy old shirt with its sleeves rolled up. He sported a Muslim beard and wore a namazi’s cap. “Wonder how that poor horse must be carrying five such heavy people!” said Vijay, as he got on to the tanga and then helped Nikita up. As she came up to him and her green eyes looked into his, he felt a pang of emotion surge up into his throat but he controlled himself, letting it fizzle out as she sat beside him. He kept looking at her. The man who had stood by, climbed on to the tanga and seated himself
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next to the rider even as the rider snapped at the reins to get the cart moving. This brought both Vijay and Nikita’s attention back from the horse. They looked now at each other and Nikita was the first one to shout. “Oye, what the hell is he doing on this cart? We’ve rented it for a ride. How can he just get on?” she said. “Only till the next signal, madame. I’ll take you right up to Churchgate. Don’t worry, madame,” said the rider. “Madame, samajhiye. Just till the next signal,” said the other man. Nikita was moving into a fight position again and seeing her body language, Vijay placed a hand lightly on hers for a second. In an instant her attention was diverted from the rider and the pile on, to her hand. Vijay moved his hand away and gestured that she should let go and enjoy herself instead. Nikita agreed and settled back into the buggy. The buggy now moved past Regal Cinema towards the Kala Ghoda area passing the Jehangir Art Gallery’s stone walls. A recent Bombay festival on art had brought out all the aspiring painters to display their work outside on the road right alongside the gallery, making the small footpath look like a rainbow, thanks to the mélange of colours pouring out of each painting. The canvasses were still there covered by thin transparent plastic sheets in the hope that some buyer might pass by and be attracted to them even after hours. “That’s Jehangir Art Gallery. It houses the paintings of aspiring artists all year round. People book years in advance at a nominal rate . . . and that’s Rhythm House, the oldest music store in Bombay. You might find some more interesting assortments of Kishoreda’s songs in there!” said Nikita. Vijay smiled, seeing that she remembered his fetish for Kishore Kumar numbers. The buggy moved on in its rickety fashion swaying from side to side, as the wooden wheels creaked on. Vijay noticed the slits in the red rexene which sparsely covered the seats. The buggy took a left towards Oval Maidan and Nikita pointed it out to Vijay. They were now running alongside the Maidan towards Churchgate station. “Sometimes when I feel like it, I come up to the Maidan in the late evening walk into it and sit on the grass. It’s a wonderful feeling to sit on the damp grass specially since the maidan is dark and there are no lights in it for about two hundred meters and then suddenly the barrage of lights and sounds of Bombay begins right outside the park. It feels like I’m sitting in an extension of my own soul, dark and quiet, beyond which the city begins. Kiti vichitra aahe na!” said Nikita. “The commotion of Bombay with this black, quiet centre and me right at the core of that centre!” “I’d love to try that sometime,” he said. “Sure. The Maidan closes around ten or so. We’ll come sometime early and do that,” she said. Right then, both of them looked ahead as they suddenly realized that the rider and his friend were quarrelling about something. “Abe bhosdi ke, you better give me at least a 150/-of the 300, samhje?!!” said the large, bearded man. The rider who was much thinner and very frail, replied with even more gusto.
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“Chal, bhaag! I won’t give you a single naya paisa. Chal, get down right here if you want to argue,” he said. Vijay noticed Nikita’s muscles getting tense as she moved in to intervene. He again touched her lightly on her hand and moved in close to her to be able to whisper in her ear. “Take it easy! It appears that the big guy is bullying the small one. But let’s just wait and watch. Don’t get stressed out just yet,” he said. Again Nikita cooled down and settled back into her seat. Vijay smiled. “Abe haraamkhor! You forgot about the money you owe me for the kerosene and the onions and batata I bought last night for the kholi . . . chal, chal,” said the larger man as he began to put his fingers inside the shirt pocket of the rider and pull out some notes. The rider used his light whip to whack the man on the thigh. “Aaaah!” “Haan, that’s what you get for getting smart. You’ve forgotten the 300/-you owe me for that raand you’d brought in the other day and didn’t have the money to pay after fingering her for two hours, kya shaane?!” said the rider. The large man now obviously remembered the incident and decided to keep quiet in a bid to prevent the rider from spilling any more beans about his personal life. “See, they’re almost like husband and wife and appear to be sharing the same kholi somewhere,” whispered Vijay into her ears. He could smell the light fruity perfume emanating in wafts from her skin. He took in another greedy breath before moving back in as inconspicuous a manner as he could. “You’re right,” she agreed. The large man got off at the signal and headed home and Nikita and Vijay finished their ride, getting off at Churchgate Station. After getting off and paying the rider, Nikita put her hand on the head of the horse which couldn’t even see her, thanks to the blinkers. The dense smell of horse dung, pee and sweat filled her nostrils as she put her lips to his head to give him a light peck. She could see the large, soft, moist eyes under the blinkers, looking at her. Vijay too walked over to the horse and patted its head. “What does he like best to eat?” she asked. “Sugar lumps!” he replied. “I have one in the cart. Do you want to feed it to him, madame?” he asked and without waiting for her to answer, walked over to the cart and from a small brown canvas pouch brought out an odd shaped large lump of sugar. “His name is Toofan,” he said, as he handed the lump of sugar to Nikita. She took it from him and extended her open palm cautiously towards Toofan’s mouth. His large nostrils flared up almost instantly as he smelt his favourite sin heading his way. He opened his mouth to reveal a gummy smile, as he took in the lump and began to chew on it, moving his large, long jaws from side to side, grinding the lump to bits almost immediately. Nikita and Vijay both smiled. The rider now got
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in and began to move away. “Hat, hat, hat, hat!” he said to the horse as the tanga pulled away from the couple. Nikita stood looking at the horse as it strotted away, wondering why for some reason she could relate to the image of the horse with the blinkers, almost as if that particular image came out from some of the deepest recesses of her mind. Vijay looked at Nikita who was looking at the fast disappearing cart. “So now where to?” he asked, jolting Nikita out of her reverie. “Mmmmm . . . are you hungry?” she asked, all of a sudden. “Starved!” said Vijay, breaking into a boyish smile. “So Bade Miyan’s, it’s then,” she said holding up her arm to hail a passing cab. The cab slowed down enough to listen to where they wanted to go and then stopped. They got in and sped off. The taxi crossed Café Mondegar and Nikita pointed it out to Vijay as one of the oldest and most popular youth hang-outs on the Causeway. Vijay noticed that up ahead there were many policemen and a couple of jeeps parked with the policemen patrolling around with their lathis. As the taxi turned into the lane which housed Bade Miyan, Vijay suddenly realised that it no longer seemed like it was a 12.45 at night! The road was chock-a-block with cars including some really fancy ones, trying to reverse into small, rare parking spaces. There were partial cave like openings cut into the sides of buildings which accommodated seats and tables. More tables and chairs lined the sides of the road. The taxi driver dropped them there and left, leaving Vijay looking around at the mix of the young college crowd in their party attire and the formally clothed Mercedes driving gentry, all biting into their various rolls and kebabs. A waiter herded them on to a small table and chair set up on the side of the road. Nikita sat and Vijay followed suit. “This is Bade Miyan’s,” said Nikita, spreading out her hands to say that she meant the entire experience of this road in the middle of the night rather than just the small lit-up stall which stood right in the centre of the commotion. “It’s open till 4 or 5 in the mornings, so it’s the most dependable place to eat in the middle of the night for all kinds of people,” she added. Vijay was looking at the menu. ‘Kaleji, Bheja Fry, Kaathi Kebab, Reshmi Kebab, Paneer Tikka Roll, Chicken Tikka Roll, Maida Roti’ . . . The list went on. “What do you suggest?” he asked. Nikita picked up the menu, an aged piece of white paper turned slightly brown with age, with simple print in black on it, covered by a transparent sheet of plastic which had torn in places and had also turned a shade of grey, and flung it aside. She motioned to a waiter passing by. “Do chicken tikka roll, fatafat!” she said to him. Then turned back to Vijay and smiled. “Thanks,” said Vijay. “I’ve been wanting to ask you . . . what exactly are Dance Bars? I heard Shashank mentioning that that’s where you used to work and that they’ve been banned now!”
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Nikita looked at him and then down at the table. “Well . . . aata kasa saangu? Every man would want to feel that he has the power to attract a woman. Nothing would make him happier than to feel the surge of power when a woman responds to the craving of his lund. Dance bars are a place where every man gets to believe that he has that power!” “Huh?” “Bagh re, it’s like this . . . at a dance bar, every man can throw money at a woman dancing on the stage or in the middle of a gathering and have her respond to him, flirt with him, dance for him and move her body for him. He feels like an emperor, humoring his muse! That’s all. At some bars and in certain situations when the dancers cannot refuse or want the big money, they can even sleep with the men to earn the big bucks,” she replied. “Oh! And what is the big problem that dancers face now that the bars have been shut down?” asked Vijay. “I mean can’t they find other work, why is there such a halla over this ban?” This brought Nikita back into her fight posture and Vijay couldn’t even think of trying to stop her. “Waah bada waah . . . Come from outside the city and then give your expert comments! Many of the girls in the trade are uneducated . . . many of them support entire families including younger brothers who’re studying to make bhadvya decent lives back home; now, where will these girls find employment? All they can do is become randis. Do you even know, bavdat, what the life of a raand is? It’s what I have to do now . . . and for many, it is much worse!” “Ok, alright, sorry! I didn’t mean to . . . Anyway, what kind of money do bar dancers generally earn?” he asked, trying to change the topic without making it very obvious. “The good ones, anywhere between Rs.50,000 to 75,000 to 1,00,000 a month!” Just then the waiter arrived and broke the uncomfortable moment. He handed Nikita, who was still upset, a Chicken Tikka Roll and then gave Vijay his. Vijay looked at the juicy thick roll with veggies, onions and a thick succulent filling of bright red and orange chicken tikka stuffed inside a roll of rumali roti. He bit into it and let the spice take his tongue over, as he then chewed the tender chicken and let the delicious mixture roll around in his mouth, taking in the aroma and flavors. “Mmmmm! This is vheri good! Vheri good!” he said shaking his head from side to side as he munched on. “Thanks, yaar!” “You’re welcome!” said Nikita, chomping on her own roll, her mouth full. The next few minutes passed in silence with the the only audible sounds of Nikita and Vijay eating. She was done first and stopped the waiter to ask for one more. Vijay was amused and seeing his expression, she couldn’t help but smile a self-conscious smile. Some of the men passing by were staring openly at her. Vijay noticed this and wasn’t too happy. He glared back at them and turned to look back at Nikita who was unfazed, almost as if she had just not noticed.
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“So, don’t the girls manage to make any savings . . . after earning like that for so many years? Hey, I’m only just asking . . . No disrespect intended.” “Hmm . . . well . . . bagh, every man wants every girl in the bar to look like Kareena Kapoor . . . Long, thick hair cut in the latest fashion, coloured in the latest colours, gold, red . . . kahitari. They want the nails properly manicured . . . You see, we’re his fantasy come alive. Patla ka? So hair should smell good, look good! Every girl has to be in shape, know how to dance well, know all the latest Bollywood jhatkas and matkas,” she said as the waiter arrived with her second roll. She took it from him, took a bite and continued, “Also each ghagra which we wear, costs nothing less than seven to ten thousand. It has to look like nothing less than Kareena or Bipasha’s bridal dress! It has to be so attractive that men will look only at her and at none else! It should get his lauda to do a standing ovation on sight! It has to show off her assets . . . patla ka? All this costs money . . . Try going to a parlour and find out the rates for all this . . .” she added continuing to eat. “Hmm . . . And how did this ban come about? Didn’t the politicians know about this before?!” At this she almost choked on her roll, frightening Vijay. “Arre these bhadvya, behenchod, bhosdichya politicians! Right from the gaandu hawaldar to the top police officers to the top ministers, each and every chodubhagat in the loop used to get a cut off our earnings!!! Everything was organized . . . If there was a raid, we would get to know what time it was going to be, exactly and when. We actually chose volunteers to go to the lock up . . . and then the police would escort them back in a few hours! Everything was planned!! Now suddenly, in order to get some maderchod votes, one of the politicians decided to put a ban on bars. ‘Aamchi sabhyata is getting bajaoed’ supposedly!!” she said. “It’s all one big tamasha!! Nautanki!!!” She finished her roll before continuing, “And now all these prized bar dancers have come onto the roads . . . suddenly fresh catch for every big lauda in the market. Bhenchod!” Vijay didn’t know what to say so he just bit his lip and looked around. “Sorry re . . . my doka gets all hot talking about this . . . anyway, so now you know,” she said. “Yes, I do,” said Vijay. Just then, he noticed a group of young boys who’d come and sat on a table right next to theirs. They were just settling down onto their chairs. They all looked like they were from junior college as they had almost no facial hair and had that banter and body language of seventeen year olds which Vijay knew only too well. Four boys, one largely built with thick spectacles, one thin and scrawny, one with a beefed up gym body and one with spiked, gelled hair. “Man, so what you gonna do after the HSC, dude?” asked the fat boy, lighting up a long, imported cigarette. “Well, I’m going in for advertising, dude. So, B.M.M!” replied the scrawny youth.
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“Aye man, B.M.M. is for ‘wussies’, dude . . . why don’t you try getting into film school, dude. It’s much cooler. You’ll at least learn something serious about making ads,” said the beefed up young man, also lighting up a cigarette and then taking a long drag before letting the smoke out slowly into the air above, raising his head. “Yeah, dude, well then, I’ll just get into NYU film school man . . . it’s the best, dude . . .” replied the scrawny boy. His phone rang and the other three got into a conversation about the latest phones and which ones they were planning on buying next and which ones they dreamed about. Vijay looked back at Nikita, who he realized, had also been observing them. “Confusion, confusion!! Bombay seems to be full of confusion, na?!!” he said. “Ekdum! Maamu, Ekdum!! Especially in these lahaan richie rich mulgas,” she replied. “So now what . . . Bombay Darshan over?” he asked hoping that she’d reply in the negative. “No, not at all . . . Bombay Darshan in one day . . . impossible re . . . impossible! Next stop, Marine Drive. For the best slow walk in the city! Chal!” she said and got up. They walked out of the bustling lane which only seemed to get more crowded as the night wore on. They walked into the lane, thumbed down a taxi and climbed in. As they left Bade Miyan’s, Vijay looked on at all the people leaving the place, lost in their worlds of cigarettes, and flashiness. The image of the lit-up lane remained with him till they reached Marine Drive. It was alive even at this time of the night. Nikita got the taxi driver to stop the cab outside the Intercontinental Hotel, her favourite part of Marine Drive. Once the taxi left they started walking on the promenade, Nikita’s hair blowing in the wind. Even though she’d tied a pony tail, the hair closer to her forehead which was too short to be firmly held by the rubber band, went flying in the wind. Vijay noticed how lovely she looked like this. ‘Everybody looks good with their hair flying in the breeze, even men with long hair,’ he thought. Nikita meanwhile was enjoying the breeze on her face as she walked against it. She could smell the salt in the air; she knew her eyelids would get sticky from the salt spray in a while. She began to walk closer to the edge of the promenade which had a platform for people to sit on. She looked into the endless dark grey sea, the small waves and ripples living on like one continuous pattern in the moonlight. The plastic sheets, waste paper, bottles and cans piled up near one part of the hundreds of large water breakers lined on the shore. The waste bobbed up and down on the metallic water, like it was part of a nether world, rejected by the water and discarded by the land and air around. A small splash of a slightly larger wave against the promenade wall sent up some salt spray into Nikita’s face. She took it into her nostrils and then into her lungs, shutting her eyes to let the aroma of the sea delve deep within her. After a long, slow, peaceful exhale, she turned around to see Vijay looking at her admiringly.
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“Kaay re?” she asked. Vijay just shook his head and then motioned towards the long stretch of promenade ahead, gesturing that maybe now she’d like to resume their walk. She smiled and moved into a parallel stance with him, indicating her absolute agreement to the idea. She pointed out to the highest room on the topmost floor of the Intercontinental Hotel. “See that red coloured room there, red light inside? Once we’d been called there to dance for a private function for some bloody politician’s son. After the function, after we got our make up off, I got a chance to just stand there for half an hour and look out at the entire Queen’s Necklace, promenade and sea all at once. Wow! It was ekdum jhakaas!” Still staring at the room in the sky, Vijay asked, “What’s the Queen’s Necklace?” “Oh sorry, I forgot,” said Nikita, looking back down and directing Vijay’s gaze with her slender finger towards the necklace of lights which could be seen from where they stood, right around the promenade, forming a crescent. “That row of lights is the Queen’s Necklace!” “O!” he said. “The view from that room must have been great! I can just imagine!” Just then Nikita noticed ahead, a drunkard standing in the middle of the road. He was proceeding to lie down in the middle of it. Considering it was this late, the traffic was infrequent, but any minute a car could go past, racing at full speed and kill him. Vijay also noticed this at almost the same time. They both rushed over to him. Nikita bent down and looked at him. His hair had grown into deadlocks and his face looked like it had a few cakes of dirt plastered onto it. She just couldn’t figure out his skin colour. He wore thick black boots which looked like they could easily have belonged to a soldier from the British army during the independence period. They had holes all over on the soles. Near the big toes, the leather had literally worn out at various places and looked like it had survived a bombing which had exposed its gut to the world. The man had on a tattered shirt the colour of which again was indecipherable and some kind of track pants which seemed like they’d been picked out of a trash can. He also had a long, winding moustache that looked like it was the only thing on his body which had been cared for. It looked cleaned, washed and twirled up at both ends, as if he fidgeted with it all the time. The stench of cheap country liquor swirled up from every part of his body and Nikita guessed that towards the end of his night’s drinking, he must’ve spilled a lot of it over himself. “Kaay re, veda . . . what are you doing in the middle of the road?” “In every aurat, there is a Raand. This raand has betrayed me!” he said, the last part almost coming out as a scream. “Chala, chala get off the road . . . come on,” she said and gave him her hand. But he just wouldn’t budge.
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“Chalo na baba, lets get you off the road,” said Vijay and also extended his hand to the man. But the man just wouldn’t budge. “In every aurat there is a raand. This raand has betrayed me!” he said again. Nikita looked up and saw a couple of vehicles approaching from the distance and knew that in a few seconds they’d be upon him. Vijay had also noticed this. “I think we’ll have to lift him and get him to the side re,” she said and bent down to hold his hands. Vijay held his legs. “Are you sure you can handle the weight?” he asked. “Chal chal . . . hero, you handle your side,” she said and lifted him up by the hands. Together they hauled him to the side. He was too drunk to offer them much resistance. A couple of cars passed by; Nikita and Vijay then left him lying there and walked on. “What a veda! One sees a new one every day in this city, gone mad for various reasons. Like another whole tribe of vedas; wonder sometimes, if we’re mad or they?!” she said. Then almost as an after thought, she turned and looked behind. Her face filled with shock as she saw him rolling slowly but surely to the center of the road, again. She was just about to start running towards the man when she saw a police jeep approach him. Two constables got off and hauled the man up. After planting one tight slap across his face, they hauled him into the back of the jeep and drove off. “Where are they taking him? What’ll they do with him?” asked Vijay. “Oh probably just put him in the lockup after a few beatings till he sobers down and doesn’t want to kill himself,” she said. “In this city, taking your life and ending your marriage are things which every social body like the law and police will try their best to prevent you from.” Vijay laughed at her choice of words. As they continued to walk, they noticed a motorcyclist riding a cruiser style motorbike. A taxi driver overtook him and because the overtaking was done at a very fast speed, very close to his bike, the motorcyclist almost lost his balance. “Eh bhaiye maderchod, wait, I’ll teach you, you bhosadchod!!” he yelled out and putting his bike into a higher gear, sped off in almost no time, about two hundred meters ahead, managing to stop the taxi by cutting it off. Nikita began to walk hurriedly towards the scene of action and Vijay too hurried along. As they approached the scene, they saw the motorcyclist, who was a big built and heavy set man, get into a wild argument with the driver and then almost pull him out through the window! He pushed him against the taxi, punched him in the stomach and while he was bent over, walked up to the front and smashed one headlight, using his elbow. He then came back up to the driver and began to beat him black and blue! “Bhaiya maderchod, teri maa ki . . .” he went on hurling abuses as he slapped, kicked and punched in a wild frenzy at the driver, almost one third his size. “Arre bhai, why are you hitting me?” the driver kept asking, as he kept up his feeble and unsuccessful attempts at warding off the blows. Even his taxi by now
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had begun to echo the sound of the blows; the patra getting dented everytime a blow missed the driver. “Saale bhaiya log! You fucking come into aamchi Mumbai and then start behaving like you own the place, you bastard!” said the fat motorcyclist, obviously a Maharashtrian, as he slung another blow at the defenseless driver whose face now looked badly bruised. “Arre, arre what the hell are you doing? Doka Phirla ka tumcha, have you lost your mind?” Nikita screamed as she almost ran up to the motorcyclist. She placed her hand on the shoulder of the frenzied motorcyclist. The sudden touch of a hand on his shoulder made him turn his anger towards the interceptor till he realized it was a woman. He’d obviously not even heard her scream just seconds ago. “What are you doing like a veda kutrya? You’ll kill him or what, over a small cut on the road?” she asked shouting at him. All at once, the man seemed to have lost all his rage and he merely looked down, panting and sweating profusely as the adrenaline pump began to slow down within him. “What if you kill him by accident, haan? Then what?!” she said now lowering her voice. “It would probably have been a good thing, fucking bhaiyas,” he said under his breath. Seeing Vijay approaching, he moved out of the trio and walked over to the promenade where he sat down and lit up a cigarette. The driver was now bruised and wounded in many places. The skin around his right elbow was badly cut. He had deep gashes around his neck and face and his left arm seemed like it had sustained some internal injury as he just couldn’t lift it up. Nikita was about to turn around and follow the motorcyclist after surveying all the damages inflicted upon the driver but Vijay moved up to her. “Take it easy, take it easy. It’s over,” he said. “I hate this kind of violence! Fat maderchod!” she said in the direction of the motorcyclist. She let out a heavy sigh and moved a few steps away from the taxi and the driver. Vijay moved with her, letting the driver get back into his car. Nikita moved closer to the sea letting the steam run out of her. Vijay let her be, looking at her from a distance. After gazing out to sea for a while she turned around. “I think we should take the driver to the hospital,” she suggested. “Yes I think you’re right,” said Vijay. But then they both noticed the motorcyclist moving towards the car. Nikita’s muscles tensed. But when she looked into the taxi again she saw the driver slumped over the steering wheel, sobbing; each sob shaking his whole body, visible even at the distance at which Vijay and she stood. The motorcyclist walked over to the passenger side of the car and stood there looking at the driver and the car as they both shook with each violent sob. He took in a deep drag of his cigarette; then he sheepishly cocked his head in such a position that the driver could see him. “Boss, are you okay?” he asked, embarrassed at his own concern. The driver looked up, tear faced, “Haan bhai, it’s okay,” and then he went back to his crying.
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The motorcyclist now walked over to the other side of the car where the driver sat and began to speak to him. Nikita and Vijay both wondered what was happening and they too went over to the other side. When they reached the other side they saw that the driver had come out and was speaking. “Arre bhai, this taxi is not mine. I used to work as a night watchman on Rs1300/-a month, for three years. After saving up and bribing one of the taxi agents, I finally got this job,” he said, looking at the dents in his car and feeling them with one bloodied hand. “Now what do I tell the maalik, how did I manage to get into this fight and damage his taxi and the headlight?” And with that he began to sob again. “I’ve got to send money home also . . . I’m finished! I’m finished!!” he said sobbing, falling to his knees and clasping his hands around his bent knees, as he knelt on his ankles in typical bhaiya style. The motorcyclist looked like he didn’t know how to react. Then he turned around and walked past Nikita and Vijay. “Did he do anything again?” asked Nikita. “We can take him to the police. I know an inspector in this area.” “Nahin nahin,” said the driver. Just then the motorcyclist walked back with a first-aid kit which he’d removed from his bike. “Oh waah, so you gaand maaro people and then keep stuff around to mend them also Nikita asked sarcastically. The man didn’t reply, instead he began to use the antiseptic cream on the driver’s wounds at various places. After a few seconds, Nikita and Vijay also went over and began to help him. The driver was a frail man and he let out an ‘ooh’ or an ‘aah’ each time they tried to apply the cream on a wounded area making Nikita and Vijay and the motorcyclist smile after a few attempts. Once they’d patched the taxi driver up using some gauze bandages and small band-aids, the motorcyclist noticed a chai wala riding by on his cycle. Noticing the motorcyclist looking, the cyclist stopped and approached the group. “Sahab, cutting?” “Haan, chaar cutting,” the motorcyclist said. Nikita stared at him but then decided to give in and let it go. Vijay was noticing Nikita’s reactions and enjoying them as he was now able to predict them to an extent. The chai wala served four small serrated glasses around with cutting chai in each glass, filling the glass only to one third of its full capacity. The injured driver was the first one to finish. “One more?” asked the motorcyclist. “Please,” he said looking at Vijay and Nikita. They agreed and the driver definitely looked like he could do with some more tea. The motorcyclist motioned to the chai wala to serve them on the promenade wall platform so that they could sit comfortably and drink the tea. The group settled themselves on the platform. “Bhaiya, I’m very, very sorry. Very sorry. It was just that I’ve had a very bad day. I’m an actor and I’ve been doing this play called ‘Yadakadachit’ for six years, all around Maharashtra. I’d been paid an extremely low salary of a hundred rupees a day and I stuck on just because of the immense popularity of the character.
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Children from various villages had fallen in love with him and thanks to him I also got tremendous respect wherever I went,” said the motorcyclist. “By the way, my name is Makrand Patil, Mac. So, today when I asked for a raise, after six years, the director took in a new actor instead, a bhaiya who’d learnt Marathi so well that he spoke it better than I do!” Nikita looked at Vijay and then back at Mac. The driver too was listening intently. “Sorry, yaar, I just took off like a chutiya. My problem has nothing to do with your being a bhaiya,” he said and then moved his hand towards the driver who willingly took it and shook it. “Theek hai, bhai . . . It happens . . .” said the driver. “Thanks yaar, thanks . . . and sorry again,” said Mac to the driver. “By the way, what’s your name?” “Shanti Bhushan,” said the driver, just as three policemen riding on three separate motorbikes, one behind the other, came alongside the group and with their lathis, began to shoo them away. “Chala, chala! Go to your gharis immediately. No more lukhagiri tonight. Time’s up!” said one of them. “Chala, I’ve also got to go,” said Mac and then almost suddenly, he dug into his pocket and took out a couple of notes, counted them and gave the driver Rs 600/—for the headlight and damages. The driver refused to take the money at first but then on seeing that the motorcyclist was insistent, and the cops too were getting fed up with this dramebaazi, he accepted. “Thank you, bhaisahab!” he said as he pocketed the money. Mac moved away waving to Nikita and Vijay. “Bye,” he said. “Bye,” said Nikita, the driver and Vijay in unison as they got up to leave. Vijay patted the driver on the back and Nikita shook his hand. Right then one of the the policemen came up to the driver, “Kaay re, what happened to your face? Looks like you’ve been in a fight?” he asked. “Kuch naheen, sahab . . . just had a fall,” said the driver promptly. “Sure na?” asked the hawaldaar again. “Haan, pakka sahab. Ekdum pakka,” replied the driver and walked towards his taxi trying to cover the smashed headlight. Nikita and Vijay walked a few steps away and then turned to check if the taxiwala got off the hook without a problem. When they saw that he’d started the car and was beginning to move away, they too thumbed down another taxi and got in. “Colaba, outside Taj hotel,” said Nikita as the taxi sped off towards their parked car. “Wow, what a night! I absolutely loved every minute of it!” said Vijay. “I too enjoyed myself thoroughly! I’ve not had many such eventful nights in my time in Bombay either,” said Nikita, as they swayed lightly left and right, in the rickety taxi. Thereafter neither of them spoke. Vijay looked out the right window at Not Just Jazz By The Bay as they passed it and Nikita looked out at the
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revolving restaurant above the President Hotel. They enjoyed the night time sights and sounds of Bombay all the way up to their parked car across the Taj. They rode on home in silence except for a few references to the night’s events which couldn’t be soon forgotten. As Nikita turned the key in the lock of her apartment door, she thought about the night. She’d had so much fun and such an eventful night out after ages. When she walked into the toilet, she noticed that she had a smile on her face. Enjoying that image in the mirror of herself smiling, she fell asleep that night; after a long time, looking forward to the next day.
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he black rickshaw rattled at break-neck speed on the Western Express Highway passing under one of the ancient lollypop like advertisement hoardings which stood tall every fifty meters or so, on either side of the expansive highway. Nikita sat in it, wearing another one of her readymade Fab India salwar kurtas, perfect for the searing Bombay summer. The light blue hues of her outfit played well with the light green pista colours of the rickshaw’s horrendous light green leather look-a-like upholstery. Nikita wondered why every rickshaw wala had such garish tastes when it came to upholstering their rickshaws. The leather always had to look like it had been under the brush of the shoe polish wala at Churchgate. Shiny as ever, the mirrors always had to have a bright red sticker on them, be it a pair of thick pouting lips or a heart pierced by an arrow or even a sign as absurd as ‘sexy lady’. There always had to be a music system with blaring music with extra beats known as Jhankaar Beats, in every song. The sound always seemed like it was tearing through the speakers rather than flowing through them. Pulling her mind away from the rickshaw’s interiors Nikita looked on at the highway itself, a long seemingly never-ending stretch of tar or dambar as the workers called it. She was in a good mood today as she had finally paid off the money to Mr. Louis who couldn’t stop beaming and Mr. Kadam who promised to help her out in every way possible. Her small dreams which she’d begun to spin slowly years ago, now seemed within reach and that illusory horizon, finally seemed reachable. She thought about all the things she’d planned for her meeting with Vijay that evening. She hadn’t had so much fun in ages! Last night was just impromptu, ‘wait till he goes through the planned night, he’ll fall in love with Bombay’, she thought. The thought of someone falling in love with Bombay made her smile. Over the years she’d come to love this ‘sweet mess’ as she called it and couldn’t imagine ever leaving it. Then she thought of Priyanka. She dialed her number. “Kaay re, madame, how are you today?” “Hi, you seem very happy today. What’s the matter, ji?” asked Priyanka. 153
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“Kaahi naahi re, I just made payments which were due to people for a long time and am happy phakta because of that,” said Nikita. “Arre, can you get out? I was looking for company to celebrate!” “Oh how sweet! Chal, let’s see, I’ll try asking Mummy, I mean, aunty . . . You know actually she was most surprised that I called her ‘aunty’ in the morning. She’s not said anything yet but I think I’m going to hear about it soon. She’s been sitting like a bulldog in front of the television since morning. Actually I think I’ll come re . . . What’s the big deal! Where are you?” asked Priyanka. “I’ll pick you up in twenty minutes. I’ll give you a cut-ring when I’m under your house . . . chalel ka?” “Ho, ho,” said Priyanka, and giggled after that for a couple of seconds before disconnecting the call. When Nikita picked up Priyanka in twenty minutes sharp in the same rickshaw, she was grinning ear to ear. “Hill Road . . . Elco Market cha samor, near Elco Market,” said Nikita to the rickshaw driver. “Oh I see someone has made plans already,” said Priyanka. “Arre how’s it going? How did you get permission re?’ asked Nikita. “Well, I just said that I was going to meet you for a while and that I’ll have my lunch out. I didn’t say it before I was completely ready, only on my way out and I didn’t ask. I think she was too taken aback to even react. I just left. Let’s see . . . He he . . .” chuckled Priyanka, grinning like a schoolgirl. “Waah waah khup chhaan, well done madame, well done!” said Nikita as the rickshaw continued its rickety ride to Hill Road. On the way they passed through many by-lanes. Nikita was intent on taking as many narrow short cuts through various parts of Bandra as possible to reach Hill Road. As it is they shut down some new road or the other every day due to construction, she thought. Finally they reached Hill Road from the lane which also led to Bhabha Hospital, but the end of this by-lane was cordoned off and cut off from Hill Road by a three-foot wide nala which had been dug for some electrical and phone work. They stopped the rickshaw there, paid him and decided to walk to Elco Market. Hill Road was divided into two equal parts, the uninhabitable side which was under construction and so had been closed for usage and the other inhabitable part which now accommodated all of the thousands of cars and pedestrians who otherwise spread out on both sides of the road. This situation bred general chaos right from the start of the road to the very end. The hundreds of stalls which otherwise lined both sides of the traffic heavy road, were now vying for space on one side, adding to the madness. For Nikita and Priyanka, getting off in the midst of this thick blanket of accessory shops and Elco Market, was like being two kids in a candy store. They both began to look around craning their necks from left to right the instant they’d stepped onto Hill Road. The pollution in the air, the
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unbearable honking noise, the suffocating heat, none of it could bother them now. They were in woman heaven! “Chal, lets go into Elco first,” said Nikita; then realizing that she’d already lost Priyanka to a roadside shoe shop nearby, she walked up to her and pulling her by the hand began to drag her away from the hard selling shoe salesman. “Chal re . . . My God, I though I was bad! You’re to my baap in road shopping, re. Let’s go to Elco first re,” said Nikita. They entered the extremely crowded circular maze of Elco Market from the front entrance. Nikita was in her stride when a little toddler walked over in front of her. Like in a ballet class, Nikita instinctively slowed down her speed, almost like a slow motion shot in a film, to make way for the little infant so that he didn’t get bumped over. She looked down at him, taking his unsteady steps; his soft baby fat bobbing as he moved. She guessed he must’ve been not older than a year and a half or so. She bent down and ruffled his soft, scanty, silky hair and was rewarded with a dimpled smile from his bulbous, rose red cheeks. The first shop they saw was one which had only kaftans and night gowns hung from three circular hangars which ran across the inner walls of the shop and were entirely visible even from the outside. The hundreds of shades of kaftans and night gowns looked marvelous. Priyanka entered the shop and first saw the ‘Fixed Rate-Rs. 300/-’ sign on the wall. Her first reaction was to look at Nikita and smile. They both knew that Elco Market was famous for the great scope of bargaining even with visiting foreigners. It was rumoured that Russian visitors were able to get better deals than even the Indian ones! Priyanka held up a light brown nightie with lace work on the front. She studied herself in the mirror. “What say?” she said. “Mmmm, I personally don’t like browns, but it would look masta on you, nakki!” said Nikita. “I like it for the lovely lace work re, isn’t it lovely?” asked Priyanka. “Yes, yes it is! Arre, for good lace there is this shop in Pune called Yakub Ali’s on Centre Street; lovely, lovely lace, sequins, bharpoor beads, sitars, buttons, mirrors. Only traas is that the place has a counter on both sides and very little space in between so when khoop motha ladies stand on opposite sides, their gaands end up rubbing against each other,” said Nikita laughing at her own joke and then realized that she’d gone off at a tangent of her own, while Priyanka stood there like a cartoon, holding the nightie up to her body. “Arre sorry, sorry. In short cut . . . it looks good. Buy it,” said Nikita. Priyanka kept it down and then tried another and then another and then finally the two left the shop without buying anything. They walked around the entire place finally reaching a dress materials shop in which they got the attendant to pull down ream after ream of various fabrics in the most dramatic and then subtle of shades and again left the little colourful shop without making a purchase, leaving the attendant and the manager miffed. Nikita had a penchant for hovering around places where colours were stacked in piles, be it a fruit wala or a dress
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materials shop. Since childhood, colours piled up or arranged together attracted her attention. They walked up to a make up shop which had small counters with testers of lipsticks, blush-ons, eyeliners, mascara and hair products from various brands. The surprise for both of them was that there was a free makeover scheme on, right as they walked in. “Chal re you go for a make over,” persuaded Nikita. “But Mumm . . . auntyji will get upset na . . .” said Priyanka. “Arre leave it on for a while and then before going home, we’ll get it all removed from this lady only,” said Nikita, motioning to the make up artist who smiled a small smile in agreement. “Mmmm . . .” said Priyanka. “Chal re bas ikde. Get started, we don’t have all day!” said Nikita, nudging Priyanka into the hot seat in front of a mirror while she walked over to the counter and began to try some of the tester shades of lipstick on the back of her hand, right in the middle of the thumb and forefinger. She continued testing various colours till her hand looked like a chunk of a rainbow had fallen onto it and then walked back, wiping the colours off her hand with a tissue, to watch the make over which was now in full swing. Priyanka now had the beginning of streaks in her hair with a new temporary hair colour and they’d already given her a bit of a trim. Another lady was doing her make up. Twenty minutes later Nikita and Priyanka left Elco market with Priyanka looking like she’d lost four years of her age and gained four years of fame in half an hour flat. What Nikita felt happiest about was that the ‘New look’ Priyanka seemed happy and that glow couldn’t be created artificially by any amount of expensive make up. “Wow re, I still can’t get over this! What luck! Free make overs and all . . . You also should have tried it re, why don’t you?” asked Priyanka. “Kahitari bhaltach! Make over—shake over! In my line of work we’re doing so much saala make up dar roz that we run miles from it whenever possible.” Then realizing her mistake, she added, “Meeting so many foreign clients everyday to sell India’s destinations abroad, na.” “Now what?” asked Priyanka. “Now what, re? Elco Paani Puriiiiiiiii . . .” shouted Nikita, almost at the top of her voice and holding Priyanka’s hand tight, she pulled her along with her as she almost ran towards the Paani Puri wala. Elco’s Paani Puri was one of Nikita’s favourites even though, thanks to the mineral water used and the standards of cleanliness involved, it was probably nothing less than eating Paani Puri at a five star hotel coffee shop. The Paani Puri walas, handling the growing number of customers, stood resplendent in their caps and plastic disposable gloves, rendering the mouth watering Paani Puri to the clientele, most of which were regulars. Nikita always found it amazing the way the Paani Puri walas served the dish with such precision and lightening speed. “One teekha and one?” she looked at Priyanka.
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“One teekha ekdum kum, please haan bhaiya, very little teekha,” said Priyanka. The vendor began his circular routine, punching a hole in the puris with his thumb in an expert move, almost like some form of a precise martial art, then swerving his hand just enough to rest over the bowl with the crushed puris, aloo boondi and masala, then another swerve towards the two large pots, two dips, sometimes a deeper, longer dip in the spicy water, sometimes a shallow,v short dip in the sweet water and vice versa, depending on the tastes of the people. Fatafat, the vendor supplied the next puri to the semi circle of six people standing across the counter from him, two of which were Priyanka and Nikita. “Give me one of her’s please,” said Priyanka to the vendor as he came up for the next round. He obliged, giving her a spicier rendition of the same round, crisp puri. She put it into her mouth and winced from the sting of the spices. “Oooff, my God! How can you handle so much chilly?! Baap re!” “Well in fact, you’ve obviously not tried Konkani Khaana na?” “I’m about to start a restaurant, a small one in I.C. Colony Borivili.” “Waah waah, so the first meal’s going to be mine I hope!” said Priyanka, holding out her hand. Nikita took her hand in her own. “Ho ga baba, of course!” “But it’ll have to be four servings, haan!!” said Priyanka. “Kashala re? Why four?” asked Nikita, quite taken aback. “One for me, one for my husband and two for my Mother-in-law!” she replied and burst into a smile, holding her hand up in the air for a high five. Nikita obliged and then burst out laughing. “Quite a sense of humour you have, haan! I’d never have guessed, seeing you at the class for the first time breaking down,” said Nikita, smiling. Priyanka smiled back. “Haane chaa?” asked Priyanka. “Hey, I know enough of Sindhi to know what that means, ‘What now’, of course! I have to get my nose pierced! That was the surprise!” Nikita. “Whaaaat? Wow, lets go, what’re we waiting for?” said Priyanka and this time did the honors of leading the way at full speed. Le Bijou was one of Nikita’s favourite shops. She loved to pamper herself with some interesting lingerie whenever she had some extra money. The shop was small but extremely well stocked. As they entered the air-conditioned environment of the store, Nikita felt the coolness of the air caress the back of her sweaty neck. She enjoyed the feel as the swinging vent pushed the air right onto her head and then back again down her neck, to her spine. She noticed the colourful display of bras of various shapes and sizes of cups and straps. All over the front display were reds, blacks, lace patterns, push-ups, wired ones, sports bras, bustiers; and inside along the walls were the boxes of all these patterns and kinds of bras in all sizes stacked one on top of the other, holding the right size for each soft breast. She always found it ironic that a lingerie shop had an all male staff. Even the women who frequented
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the shop seemed to have become so desensitized to this fact that they went about their pampered buying in gay abandon. “I didn’t even know that they do nose piercing here,” said Priyanka. The man heard her and brought out the sleek brown suitcase like box and opening it up to reveal its contents, laid it on the glass tabletop. The case contained a gun and a tray with various kinds of ear and nose rings with their respective screws; the prices of each were marked under the piece itself. Nikita and Priyanka looked at the various designs and with Priyanka’s help, Nikita selected a simple silver ring, knowing that anyway after the first ten days or so she’d slip in a real diamond nose ring instead. “It doesn’t hurt kya?” asked Priyanka. “Vedi jhaalis ka? Not at all re, not at all, it’s like a mosquito bite.” The man across the counter took up a black felt pen and made the markings on her nose according to the exact location which Nikita pointed out with her finger. Then, when she was satisfied with the mark, he set about to place the gun which had the nose ring housed in it and also the screw in the same claw, carefully into Nikita’s nose. “Shot ke baad, don’t take in a deep breath even by mistake, haan!” said the shopkeeper. “Naheen to, the screw might go up into your nose.” Nikita blinked her eyes once as if to say she understood the instruction. The sound made by the gunshot was almost inaudible as if the skin which it pierced into contained the sound. Nikita didn’t even wince. Priyanka stood watching as Nikita turned around and smiled showing off the new nose ring. “Arre waah! That seemed like it didn’t hurt at all re!” said Priyanka. “Naahi re, doesn’t hurt at all. Why don’t you also try it . . . Chal na, it’ll be fun!” “Are you nuts?!! My Mother-in-law will eat me up alive! To tell you the truth, I have actually wanted to do this for ages . . .” she added, as an afterthought. “Chal na re vedi, what’s the point of trying to change the situation at home if you can’t even go out and have some fun with your own body?” Priyanka just looked at her for a second, then she looked at her nose. “Chal!” she said and gestured to the man with the gun to pierce her nose. She stepped closer to the counter and touched the spot indicating where she wanted it pierced. He positioned the gun. “Eh it won’t hurt na . . . please tell me sachi sachi!” she repeated. “No re baba, it won’t. Relax,” said Nikita. The man raised his eyebrows, asking her if he should proceed and when she blinked her consent, he shot the ring into her nose. “Aaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhh! Fucccccccccccccckkkkkkk!” shouted Priyanka. “Fuck fuck fuck . . . you said it wouldn’t hurt!” “Ooh ohh, ssss, ooh, sss, pffff, sss!” Nikita, the sales people in the shop and the gunman all burst out laughing. Priyanka turned around to show Nikita the ring.
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“Chchhaan, khup chchhaan! It looks lovely. Suits you,” said Nikita. Priyanka then looked at herself in the mirror and smiled at herself, reveling in her own beauty for a bit whilst turning from side to side. “Chal re, I must get home, I’ve been out for a long time and I have a lot to handle when I get back now,” said Priyanka. Nikita agreed. They both paid up at Le Bijou and then ran across the road back into Elco Market to get Priyanka’s make up removed. Nikita noticed that she looked beautiful with or without make up and that even now after all the add-ons were removed, she still did look like she’d been through a bit of a make over as the streaks couldn’t be removed properly and her new, shortened haircut was more than visible. She’d have her hands full for the day back home but that was probably a good thing after all, thought Nikita. It was 5 O’clock already. Nikita had decided to meet Vijay at 5.30 at Bandra station. It would take him only ten minutes from his building in Khar. Priyanka was ready to leave now. Nikita gave her a warm hug and held on for a bit, something she’d done over the years only with people she genuinely liked, then bidding her goodbye, hung around for a while on Hill Road, walking around, looking at earrings, and other accessories on the road, before catching a rickshaw to Bandra station. When Nikita’s rickshaw neared the station, she saw Vijay standing resplendent in a white printed shirt with small tiny flowers in pastel blues and yellows. The shirt was loose on him though. Nikita imagined it would have been a tight fit for Shashank. Below the shirt he was wearing a pair of fitting jeans which Nikita imagined he’d got altered as she couldn’t notice the thick stitch and colour difference at the seams. He’d also worn a pair of cheap roadside sunglasses which were too big for his face and he’d wetted his hair. He stood leaning on one of the arches outside the station in a stance which could easily lead to him being mistaken for a pimp. Nikita smiled when she saw him smiling at her. She paid the rickshaw driver off hurriedly and then got off and shook hands with him. “Hero! Been waiting long Kaay?” she asked. “No, no, just got here,” he said, and then exclaimed, “Arre waah, a new nose ring!” “Ho ga! Sudden decision re!” she said with a smile on her face. “Looks good re, looks good!” said Vijay, smiling. “Dhanyavad Saheb!” she said mockingly and walked towards the ticket counter, with him following close behind. Taking tickets for Churchgate they both got into the local train. It being early evening and since they were traveling in the opposite direction of regular return office rush hour traffic, they were at least able to get place to stand. Then over the next few stations till Dadar, people kept piling on into the train till Nikita and Vijay were almost stuck to each other in a jam in a thick wave of human bodies entwined into each other by the sheer pressure of more bodies piling in from the main entrance; the smell of sweat and the summer heat flowing through the compartment. All the ceiling fans did, was churn that layered decaying smell around the bogey pushing the heat onto the sea of human
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mass over and over again. With beads of sweat rolling down the back of her neck and face Nikita looked at Vijay, his curly hair now wet like he’d come out of a bath and a crooked smile plastered over his face which was only inches from hers. She couldn’t help but smile back. Vijay held on to the dangling hand holds with all his might using both his hands and Nikita used one hand to hold the only available hand hold and the other she kept on Vijay’s thin shoulder, left with no other choice. At Dadar, the sea of bodies drifted away from the couple and left them suddenly feeling cool and free. They moved away from each other and placed themselves against opposite walls close to the door for maximum breeze as the train began its slow journey towards Churchgate. “Phew! Imagine people do this twice every day of their lives, for twice the distance, for decades on end!” said Nikita. “Baap re!’’ said Vijay and used the back of his shirt sleeve to wipe the beads of sweat off his brow that threatened to fall into his eye. It has turned slightly yellow and brown at the cuff. Nikita then turned around and moved to the door, positioning herself in such a way that a little more than half her face and exactly one third of her body were out of the train. Even though her hair was tied in a tight pony tail, the shorter strands of it close to the temples began to flutter madly in the breeze. She winced slightly and looked out through the slits into Bombay. She felt Vijay standing behind and doing the same. This made her smile. She looked at the small old housing colonies which were placed adjacent and parallel to the railway tracks and wondered how much dust, smoke and noise these people must have got accustomed to over the years! As it got slightly darker outside, she noticed television sets and the multicoloured lights which came on and lit up the small rooms in various track side houses. No matter how meager the monthly income, cable television had to be a part of everyone’s lives in Bombay, she thought. She could see people sitting close to the tracks now and letting their droppings fall onto the tracks. She liked to notice how the tracks ahead of the train inter-twined and then the train followed the shining grey lines of iron and steel as they curved, twisted and turned. The local trains were like an artery or a vein running through the length of the city, right from the foot to the head, giving one a visual commentary on the entire city and its various suburbs and their major physical, topographical and population differences. It was also the lifeline for millions of Bombayites to travel to and from work every single day, making it indispensable and still there weren’t enough. The slight swaying of the metallic womb as it scurried across the rails always made Nikita sleepy. She thought of how the eerie, ghostly, yellow lit stations in areas far off from the main gates and entrances looked at night . . . empty and lonely. The colour yellow stood for brightness but it also stood for decay and loneliness, she thought. Nikita was shaken out of her reverie by the crackling sound of the public address system in the bogey which announced that the next station was Mumbai Central and that from this station onwards the train would halt at every station.
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She looked back at Vijay who was also looking out of the train at her favourite city with awe written all across his face! Nikita and Vijay got off at the huge dome roofed station platforms of Churchgate and walked over to a share-a-taxi, driving on towards Nariman Point. Nikita explained to Vijay that these share-a-taxis took five rupees fifty paise to go to Churchgate from four passengers each, making it a very viable business for them to spend a few hours doing only this during the morning and evening, the timings when the offices of Nariman Point open and shut respectively. They crossed H.R. and K.C. Colleges and Nikita pointed them out to Vijay. They crossed the Oval Maidan which Vijay now recognized and was glad for it. Nikita also pointed out the various predominantly Parsi owned apartments in all the buildings across the Maidan which had old style architecture and charm and a small balcony for each house. “Why are we going to Nariman Point?” asked Vijay. “Especially since you said that it’s predominantly the business area of Bombay?” “Well . . . there was this bhel wala who used to sell bhel near the place where I lived, back in Malad, for years. Then his chacha, who worked here, expired and as an inheritance, he got to use the same space. These spaces outside the office buildings come at a very high price or bribe as you may put it, so he didn’t want to lose out on this jhakaas good luck and he shifted. And his bhel is out of this world, ssss!” she said, making a slurping sound with her mouth almost as if she was imagining the first bit of bhel puri entering her mouth. “Hmm, interesting. And what else have you planned for the day?” “Well . . . that’s a secret. Gupt. Chalel ka?” “Absolutely. Lead on,” he said as the taxi entered the Free Press Journal lane. Nikita asked the driver to drop them off outside Dalamal Chambers. They got off and Vijay followed Nikita across the road. Scores of office goers were on their way home and the taxi driver took a speedy turn right after dropping them, to get back in the queue for the taxis going back to Churchgate. Already a queue of about fifty people had formed to get into the taxis. Nikita walked up to a particular bhel wala and began to chat with him. Vijay looked around and spotted ragda pattice walas, sandwich walas, fruit plate walas, channa-sheng walas and the occasional banana seller, all standing behind their make-shift stalls along the whole stretch. There was even an Arey Milk Stall close to the line of people awaiting their turn to catch a cab. “Inse miliye, this is Vijay, a new friend of mine,” said Nikita to the bhel wala, who appeared to be in his mid-thirties and was probably, also from Bihar. Vijay shook hands with him. “Raamprasad,” said the bhel wala, introducing himself. “Kauno gaun se ho saheb?” “Which village are you from?” asked the Bhel wala. “Muffazzarpur,” said Vijay. “Aur Aap?” “Patna,” he said. Would you like a Meetha or Teekha, or Mix?” he asked.
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Vijay looked at Nikita. “Do Special bana dijiye,” she said to the bhel wala who smiled and lifted his hands almost into mid-air for a split second like a maestro at a concert before beginning his grand finale. He began with lightening speed to concoct two bhels for Nikita and Vijay. Vijay noticed with how much precision he measured the exact amounts of channa, corriander, white boiled dried rice, fried sev, onions, teekha chutney, meetha chutney and masala. When it was done and he served it to them, Nikita waited for Vijay to take the first morsel. Vijay picked up the dried thick puri which had been placed on top of the colourful bhel and scooped up some of the mixture onto it and put it into his mouth. No sooner had the bhel touched his tongue, than he felt the taste erupt in his mouth. The spicy chutney, the onions, the coriander, the sweet chutney, all exploded in one blast of taste as he began to relish the bhel. “Mmmmmm, badhiya! Ekdum badhiya!!” he said as he moved forward to tap the bhel wala on his shoulder. “Saheb, you’re a jaadugar! When she told me that we’ve traveled all the way from Bandra to Churchgate for a bhel, I was a bit skeptical, but now . . .” The bhel wala smiled. “Dhanyavaad Saheb, I’m glad you liked it,” he said. Satisfied with the effect, Nikita too began to enjoy her own bhel. Once she was done, just as she was about to open her purse to pay, the ragda-pattice wala right next to them began to fold up his business, in a tremendous hurry. As if on cue, the bhel wala too, just lifted up his entire tray of things from the small cane stool underneath and began to rush away with it all, placing the entire tray above his head. Nikita and Vijay were both baffled. “Arre bhaiya, what’s happening? Where are you running off like that to?” asked Nikita. “Arre, gaadi aai hai! The Van has come,” said the bhel wala, as he scampered away. “What the hell did that mean?” asked a perplexed Vijay. “That means the municipality truck has come. Lets follow, I’ll explain later,” she said as they began to follow the bhel wala at full speed across the traffic on the road, to cross over to the other side. As they crossed the street, Nikita pointed towards an oncoming grey truck which passed them by and went ahead towards other hawkers. When the bhel wala reached the other side of the road, he piled all his vessels containing his ingredients, one on top of another, and slid the large make-shift wooden tray under a waiting taxi, gesturing to the taxi driver who was obviously familiar with the routine, to not react aloud. Vijay was watching this with mute admiration. “See, it’s all a set-up. The municipality guys know each and every one of these guys. They get a monthly or weekly hafta or bribe from each one of them. But every day at various times they come and catch some of them, take their things which are just these silly make-shift boards of wood used as trays and containers of aluminum,
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into custody in their large trucks. This makes the whole system seem like it works. Later they leave them on payment of another bribe. Amazing isn’t it?” “Wow! This city sure runs in a peculiar way,” said Vijay, truly amazed with his new revelation. Nikita walked over to the bhel wala and paid him, thanking him for the mouth watering bhel. She then asked Vijay if he wanted to have some lassi or energy milk at the Arey Stall and he agreed. They began to move in that direction. They reached the divider and stepped over it to cross to the other side. “But . . . I actually feel like having one more bhel,” said Vijay making Nikita smile. She gestured for him to lead the way. They returned towards the bhel wala who had just about settled the tray on his head to walk back to his original place. Just then, he again saw the municipality truck passing by, and darted back again, and behind him ran a surprised Nikita and Vijay, grinning from ear to ear this time, as they crossed the road. Hiding behind another taxi, the bhel wala waited for the truck to leave, his body poised for action just in case it was required. Once the coast was clear, he settled the tray back onto the stool which another friend had hidden in the plants outside a building. Nikita and Vijay had another bhel before sampling other eatables on the road. They had a fruit plate followed by some lassi. This ended the eating part of their evening’s wanderings. “So, what’s the next stop?” “Gateway of India!” she said and noticed the surprised look on his face. “And it’s something new, so don’t worry and don’t ask any questions. Just let yourself be surprised.” They took a taxi to the Gateway of India. “So what kind of a social life do you have, generally?” asked Vijay as the taxi careened along the roads. “Well actually it’s quite boring. Can’t socialize with the neighbours too much because they always end up asking kititari prashna, so many questions and then after a while, a neighbour always realizes that kahitari is to wrong! Some ghotala is happening in someone’s life. Single woman living alone and returning so late at night means something is daal mein kaala,” she said, looking Vijay straight in the eye. “Even though we keep all our answers ready and work at the opposite side of town from where we live, everyone eventually figures out that something doesn’t quite fit.” “Work at the opposite side of town means?” “Means that if a bar dancer works in Churchgate she’ll take up a place in Malad or Borivili or Kandivili; and, vice versa.” “Ah, got it,” said Vijay, as their taxi approached the colossal and imposing structure of the Gateway of India. Guides and Polaroid photographers were vying for the short attention spans of the dozens of tourists, foreigners and Indians alike. There were channa-sheng walas carrying their wares on a sling across their neck, ice cream kulfi walas, a couple of hawaldars watching over the foreign tourists, a couple
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of men who looked like they were pimps and a flock of long, sleek, imported cars waiting to turn in to the Taj Hotel. The sun had gone down about an hour ago and the light blue sky looked perfect. Nikita began to walk towards the side of the monument which faced the sea and Vijay followed her past dreamy eyed couples, with the promise of ‘forever’ written all over their pink faces and little kids who held the thick fingers of their parents and walked back towards the main road, looking in wonder at the large imposing structure which was lit up with dozens of large halogen lamps. Nikita walked right up to where Vijay could now see the sea and a large ferry bobbing up and down as it tried to hold its own against the water at the end of the steps. A man stood in their path. “Haan madame, how many?” he asked. This was when it dawned on Vijay that they were going on a ferry ride. Immediately his whole body caught the excitement. He took in a whiff of the salt spray and the thick smell of the sea. “Two,” said Nikita and paid the ticket seller. Then they both moved towards the large boat. Vijay looked on as they neared it. It was a two storey structure which seemed to have a sitting area above as well as below. A man stood at the entrance of the boat to help people in. The boat swayed left and right and up and down as they both took a small leap using the helper’s hand to jump in. Vijay noticed immediately, the strong hot waft of air coming up from a small opening below the deck. The room below looked like the setting for a horror film. Hot, dark and moist. Nikita pointed towards the ladder leading upstairs and Vijay followed her. She went up first. The ladder and the climb were extremely steep and only one person at a time could use it. Nikita expertly climbed it and then waited to help Vijay up in case he needed it. Vijay climbed up the steps to find himself in the upper deck of the boat. The swaying of the boat caught him off guard and he almost tripped, but Nikita was there to help him regain his balance. From the top deck Vijay could see the sea on three sides and the Gateway on the fourth. He could see it as the British must have, almost a century ago. The sky had turned a dark blue and the water had begun to turn a darker shade of grey. Vijay followed Nikita to the front of the boat. “The front is the best place to sit. Ekdum masta view!! Full paisa vasool!” she said, but was sad to find a lady and five kids having already occupied that prime location. She finally took up a position behind them and so did Vijay. He looked out at the sea and at the large, sleek, luxurious looking yachts which belonged to the millionaires of Bombay, anchored off the coast, their white sails looking resplendent against the grey metallic mass of water. “What a waste re! Popat jhala total! I was hoping to get the front seats. Now these kids will do ‘mach, mach’ right from the start to the end,” said Nikita. “Lets see, maybe it won’t be that bad after all,” he said. They waited another fifteen minutes for the ride to start as the boat walas were waiting for the boat to get filled, before embarking on the short round trip. By the time they began, it was dark and the water looked lovelier against the dark sky. It
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looked like one unending sheet of black liquid metal waiting to be forged. As the boat began to move forward, Vijay could hear the engine groaning away betraying its age. He shifted his attention to the water which the boat splashed outwards in its wake. The sound was soft and soothing and it lulled Vijay into a state of calm in just a few minutes as he concentrated on it. Then Vijay was drawn back to Nikita’s face which had acquired a different mood to it, irritation! His attention was now drawn back to the kids and their aunt. The two boys in the front seat began to quarrel about which seat was whose and then they began to hit each other until one of the boys began to cry and then they both sat down complaining to the aunt. One of the boys dropped his toy car under Nikita’s seat and made her get up to look for it. He finally found it after Nikita’d almost tripped over him, trying hard to balance herself in spite of the strong sway of the boat. He dropped it again right under her seat. By this time Nikita was exasperated. Her body moved into that all too familiar position ready for battle and Vijay knew that now someone was going to have it. “These boat people shouldn’t let such small kids on the boat, na? Unsafe for them and a nuisance for everyone,” he said in a desperate attempt to exempt the kids from the tidal wave of wrath he could see forming at that very moment. “Ho, absolutely, correct! Atta baghte mi!” she said and stormed off. Vijay decided to let her go blow off some steam. He just turned around in his seat and watched her walk up to the man who’d sold them the tickets and was loitering around towards the back. “Kaay re shaane? You think we’re all a bunch of chutiyas na, so keep trying to take our gaand! Harami!” she said. The man was shocked out of his wits at this sudden outburst. “Why madame, what happened?” “Arre chaapter maanus! How can you let in so many little kids on the boat? It’s not safe for them and they do so much bhandan, tanta that no one else is able to enjoy the ride. Isn’t it your responsibility, bhadvya?” she said, her tone rising with every word. “Arre madame, how can we tell the parents not to bring their kids? What’re they to do? Leave them behind at the Gateway, kya?” He asked, looking around for public support. But nobody seemed to want to leave their blissful moments of looking out at the sea and so he had no backing from the other passengers. “I know each and every sahab at the Colaba Police Station, patla ka bhadvya? I’ll take you there right now so that they can put a bamboo up your gaand. Then you’ll know where they should leave their kids. Halkat!” she said and then, realizing that she was beginning to attract the attention of people by the choice of her words, she stomped back towards Vijay who was thankful that the kids who were the cause of this anger, couldn’t hear any of what transpired at the back of the deck. Nikita sat next to Vijay and her face was still distorted in anger. Just then, a little girl who had been staring out at the sea till now, walked up to her aunt.
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“Aunty, I want to go for a holiday on the sea, fatafat!” she said, looking up at the aunt with large, hazel eyes. Vijay looked at the girl and then at Nikita. “Isn’t she adorable?” he asked. Nikita looked at the little girl. She was about two feet tall, round, fair and had thick curly brown hair which made her red cheeks stand out even more. She had small arms with podgy hands and tiny fingers which had been painted with red nail polish that again stood out on her fair skin. Her thick hair was a full bodied version of Vijay’s. She was a picture of innocence and softness and Nikita couldn’t help but nod her head in agreement as she focused her gaze on the little girl’s large, hazel eyes which looked up at the aunt for an answer as if the wisdom of the whole world resided in that aunt for that moment. The response of that aunt right now was the response of God himself for her. “Yes, beta, when do you want to go?” asked the aunt. “Next Diwali . . . no next . . . Christmas . . . no . . . abhi abhi, next weekend,” she said, trying to get the holiday as close as possible to right now. “Ok, we’ll all go,” said the aunt. “You know what the ocean gives us?” asked the little girl from her aunt, suddenly moving into a dramatic position, as if reciting a piece for an elocution competition at school. “No, you tell me,” said the aunt. “Salt . . . Fissshheesss . . . Sshhelllsss . . . Water . . . Salt,” she said. “Wow!” said her aunt. Moving closer to her aunt and holding her hand, the little girl looked out to the sea. “We have to go for a vacation in the sea . . . in the hills . . . on a hill station,” she said with growing confidence, still looking out at the sea. “Yes, sure beta . . . in the sea . . . in the hills,” said her aunt. Nikita was looking at the little girl with fondness. She wondered how the imaginary world in the child’s mind at this point would look at mountains and the sea, all rolled into one. “Isn’t it lovely how children’s imagination works?” she said, looking back at Vijay who was lost looking at her. “They can make anything come true in their heads.” “Yes,” agreed Vijay, marveling at the sudden transformation of this woman from the Destroyer to the Nurturer. The ferry had now begun turning around slowly. Nikita pointed to an area which she said was a naval area and so at this juncture no one on board was even allowed to take photographs. Right as they spoke, the man who’d been at shouted at by Nikita earlier, went up to one of the passengers and gave them a dressing down for removing their camera and just about taking a picture. He told them that there were naval patrol ships all over which would know immediately and then come aboard and seize the camera and the roll and cause great trouble for the ferry owners. Vijay looked at the water of the bay which shone bright in its blackness,
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like one great large belly of a monster shivering with each breath, holding an entire city in it’s belly, slowly digesting away over hundreds of years till it was converted into another form of being altogether. Now as the boat turned back, Vijay looked at the magnificent structure of the Gateway, holding in its embrace, a warm welcome to this city of dreams. For a brief second Vijay closed his eyes to let the lapping sound of the water as it was dispersed to either side by the boat itself, enter his mind and shut out every other sound. The sound now shared its space with the gentle hum of the engine. Vijay could hear people talking, the sounds now lost their distinguishing factors to merge into one whole environment of sound, with no differentiation at all. At this point Vijay began to feel sleepy. He opened his eyes. They were now closer to the Gateway and Vijay regretted that there were only about ten minutes left to this enchanting ride. “So, where do you go on a vacation if you need a break?” He asked Nikita bringing her back from her own reverie. “I’ve never really . . . well the one place I’ve been to years ago for a bit and would love to go to again, is Goa. It’s got so many beaches and the life is laid back quite like back home,” she said. “How far is it from here?” he asked. “Arre javadach aahe. If you take the night train, you arrive in the morning. Simple,” she said. Then they both saw another ferry close by which had loud blaring music emanating from it, completely overpowering the subtle calming sounds of their boat. As the other ferry neared, they could see disco lights and about fifty people dancing on board. Some of them were standing and looking out at their boat, a drink or cigarette in each hand. Then as the other boat passed them Vijay noticed that they were almost at the Gateway. The boat now began to turn sideways slowly, till it aligned itself parallel to the shore. There were men standing at the steps waiting to pull the boat and secure its line so that the passengers could start their descent from the higher deck to the lower and then back to land. Nikita got up and held out her hand for Vijay who took it gratefully. They both half swayed, half walked up to the steep ladder before finally reaching the lower deck one by one. Again one of the deck hands was around to help them make the small leap. This time, Vijay and Nikita both made it together, hand in hand, giggling like school children. When they reached the shore, Vijay turned to take one last look at the boat, before they began to climb the steps. “Atta kaay?” asked Vijay almost sending Nikita off the steps in shock. He had to hold out his hand for her to hold onto for support till she steadied herself. “Ka ga, kuthoon shika Marathi? Where did you suddenly learn to speak Marathi?” she asked. “From you only, baba, just these two words, don’t worry,” he said.
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Nikita shook her head from side to side in amazement. “Atta . . . . another surprise! But we’ve got to catch a train to Andheri, first,” she said, leading the way onto the road which led to Colaba Causeway. As they neared the Causeway, she thumbed down a taxi. “Churchgate Station, fatafat!” As their train neared Andheri Station, this being Vijay’s first time, he was faced with the problem of getting off from a train which was still in motion, albeit slow. The 9:35 Borivili fast local which they’d caught, was packed to the gills with human mass bulging from every opening and into every crevice. Vijay could see a sea of bodies as he leaned out of the entrance with Nikita firmly in tow. All of them were waiting to jump into the moving train making it even more difficult for Vijay to make that final call of when to actually jump. “Arre laukar udi maar re vedya! Jump fast, you nut!” shouted Nikita from behind him, giving him a slight push, and in the bargain, sending him slightly off balance as he jumped right into the faces of the people trying to get in. He fell onto bones and flesh and sweat and he could feel one hand steadying him from behind; he knew it was her’s. Then after a few gaalis and shoves from the men jumping in, they got out of the broiler like effect of that body contact, into the open air, a few feet away from the train. Vijay turned and looked at the men trying to shove their way into an already full train. Then he began to tug at his shirt and get the air to rush in a little, hoping to get rid of some of the sweat which had poured out of his pores, like it had been held back behind a dam right until he got into the train and the journey began. Nikita did the same. Vijay was grateful that she’d chosen to travel with him in the gents’ compartment instead of the ladies’ compartment. Walking over towards the entrance, Vijay noticed the hundreds of office goers rushing out of the station, obviously in a hurry to finally get home after their murderous ride in the metal monster. It was about five minutes past ten and so the crowds had calmed down a little, explained Nikita. An hour earlier it would have been total madness and chaos. She led him past the McDonald’s restaurant and then towards the main road leading away from the station. They walked through closing shops and screaming pirated DVD and audio CD vendors engaged in last minute bargains and bulk deals with their clients. They crossed the road to the other side, past scurrying busses and rickshaws. Vijay followed Nikita as she walked steadily towards the turning on the road which led towards Four Bungalows and Apna Ghar. As they neared the turning, Vijay saw a couple of men sitting at the corner and getting their heads, backs, legs and faces massaged by a couple of masseurs. As they came right up to the group, Nikita stopped and made a gesture as if to say, ‘Nikita Presents’ the masseurs. “We’ve come all this way to get a massage?” he asked. And then seeing Nikita’s excitement going down a bit, “Perfect!! Perfect!! Good plan!” he added. “Where do I sit?” Nikita sat down on one of the steps leading into a shop with a closed shutter and asked Vijay to sit beside her. A thin, wiry, short man came up to them.
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“Aur maidame whaat can aaiiee du phaar you?” “Just give this guy a head massage. I’ll just watch” she said, surprising Vijay too. “Well, about a year ago I’d come to this chap and I still remember it clearly and have not had the time to come back to him ever since so even he doesn’t remember me, but he’s too good,” she said “Myself, Tilakraam,” said the Masseur, lifting up a bottle of hair oil and squeezing a large gooey puddle of it out on his palm. Vijay grimaced. Seeing his reaction Nikita smiled. “Why aren’t you getting a massage yourself ?” asked Vijay. “Too messy,” she said. Thought of this part of the plan on the boat itself, so hadn’t prepared.” Tilakraam now slapped the whole puddle of oil onto Vijay’s head right in the center where all the hair began. Vijay could feel the oil slithering about. Then the massage began. Vijay could feel the stress being pushed aside as Tilakraam pressed down hard on his head and then used his thumbs which seemed to miraculously exert tremendous pressure, to push right from the center of the forehead to the temples on both sides and then right past the back, past his ears, to the center of the back of the neck. Then he repeated the process with even more pressure. “Arre bhai, go easy, less pressure, please!” “Aaalright sar phaar you I reidooce presshr,” said Tilakraam. Vijay could feel the stress in his neck and head reducing as the massage went on. He began to distance himself from what was happening on his head; the first thing he used to do this was to look at Tilakraam’s feet as he went about his job. He was wearing brown, faded, worn out Bata shoes, the continuous single piece without lace variety which Vijay knew well as many people back in his hometown, especially professors wore. Vijay even knew the price, 299/-. He could see Tilakraam bobbing up and down as he used his body like a spring to exert pressure and then back down from it every now and then in a fixed pattern. Vijay could see his big blackened toe sticking out from a tear in his right shoe. Vijay glanced at Nikita who was smiling and seemed to be enjoying the massage more than he himself. Vijay smiled back and then looked down at the ground again. Tilakraam began to use his nails to scratch Vijay’s head as part of his fixed routine. Vijay bore it for a while, but when it began to get too painful he moved his head to the side in a sudden movement. “Please, no nails!” he said. Tilakraam was a bit taken aback at this, but then he resigned himself to the situation with a shrug and continued. Right then another masseur who’d finished with his client came up to Tilakraam and began to talk with him. They began to talk about all of Tilakraam’s women clients. Tilakraam took the opportunity to share this information with Vijay too. “Sar aaiiee am having maini vemen ladeez az kushtomer!” he said, while he continued his massage with tremendous vigour. Vijay looked up through his
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scrunched forehead at Tilakraam and blinked his eyes, indicating he was listening. Nikita too perked up on the side and moved into an attentive posture. “Dhere iz wun hoo is vuri naiice. Whun she iz caalling, I pick up fone and says, “Haazir memsaab! No asking more queschunz!” Vijay couldn’t help but smile and he could almost feel Nikita smiling too. “Butt dhen dhere aaar de ones . . . too maini gaand mein keede . . . wat euu caaal aaiititood! To them I am saying, Hellooo, hooo iz dhis bhai? Dhen dhey aar reeplaaaing Tilakraam don’t you have my number stored on your phone? To dhem I aam saiing ccaaalling wunz in munth? Waai dhen aai hav uuur nambar stoor on phoon?” said Tilakraam, extremely happy with his flow of English. “Dhen dhey aar saaiiing, oh you silly man, now take down this address and get here immediately aaiiinnd aaiiee am saaiiing too dhem, vaat maidum, vaat maidum, pliz reepeet, pliz repeet, nutwark praablum!” he said, and at this, let out a laugh which was almost like a squeak, sending Vijay and Nikita both into splits. “Till dhey ghet aag baboolaah, and patak dhe phoon duwn! Blaadi!” he added, as a grand finale of a resolution to his story. Tilakraam now ran his fingers hard round Vijay’s head once and then wrapped up by pulling first his right ear until Vijay heard a ‘pop’ and then the left ear till it popped. “Dun Duna Dun Dun!” he said and began to wipe his hands on the piece of cloth which he’d hung over his right shoulder. Nikita got up to pay him and Vijay used another cleaner looking piece of cloth to wipe his neck and head. He noticed that Nikita paid only twenty rupees for that fifteen minute massage which he realized according to Bombay standards was a real steal. Vijay patted Tilakraam on his back. “Badhiya sahab! Badhiya!” he said. Tilakraam smiled a broad long smile and then did a mock salute as Nikita and Vijay began to walk again towards the station. At the station, Nikita led Vijay towards the overbridge which led to the second, third and fourth platforms. “This is where we part ways. I’m taking a train to Malad and you take one to Khar and then take a rickshaw back home,” she said, to a slightly astonished Vijay who’d just realized that their Bambaiya holiday had come to an end. “Ummmm . . . o.k., see you,” he said hesitatingly. The station had quietened down considerably and a kind of calm had come over it, almost as if the metallic monsters were running their last lap of their day-long relay race before going to their metal caves to rest it out themselves. Vijay held his hand out to Nikita but she surprised him by coming in for a hug. It was a long, warm embrace and Vijay could feel the softness of Nikita against his bony chest. He reveled in the coziness for the minute that passed like a quick, cool breeze and before he knew it, Nikita had begun to move back.
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“Masta! Khup chhaan gela divas! Thanks a ton, I haven’t had this much fun for years!” she said with a broad grin on her face. “That taxi driver was so cute, the way he began to cry . . .” she said. “Yes . . . and the little girl on the ferry too,” said Vijay. “Oh ya, so cute . . .” repeated Nikita as she dived for a second into the memory of that short voyage across the dark water. Then coming back to the present, she gave Vijay a brief smile. “Alright then, guess it’s goodbye . . . till tomorrow,” she said and abruptly turned on her heel and began to walk away. Vijay looked at her for a few seconds and then, not comfortable with the idea of her turning back to find him staring, he began to climb up the stairs to platform number three, from where he caught the slow train to Khar; got off, took a rickshaw back home and went to sleep, on his torn, shredded, rat eaten sofa, sleeping a deep, happy sleep.
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hrnnnnnnn! Khhrrrnnnn!” went Shashank breathing in, as he lay on his bed, right in the way of the strong forceful draft of the two ton air conditioner in his room. His snoring could be heard as far away as the kitchen. His face had a perpetual frown splattered across it and small beads of sweat had formed over his temples and eyebrows, despite the sub zero temperature in his igloo like room. The fan whirred with all it’s might overhead, looking like the wheel of a chariot raging forward into battle, so much so that it shook, swaying slightly from side to side as it completed each frenzied rotation. He raised his right hand, still fast asleep, into the air in a limp kind of way, as if defending himself from something. His hand now went in front of his face for protection, still looking like an arm which was either deformed or not fully in the owner’s control. Shashank was having a nightmare. The one he experienced ever so frequently. A large brown muscular powerful steed was galloping towards him, but this time, even though he tried his level best to run away from the horror, the horse caught up with him, with a few easy strides of its thick angry limbs. Then, to a cowering Shashank’s horror, changed miraculously into a slimy black cobra which now stood a few feet away from him and loomed over him, waiting to attack, swaying its flared hood from side to side. Just as the cobra decided to make its move and come crashing down on a shivering Shashank, the dream dissipated into thin air as Shashank rose like the proverbial phoenix from the bed, into the air. “Aaaarrrggghhh!” he shouted. “Phew, Phew Phew!” ‘Fuck, Shashank, it’s just a dream, just a dream . . . ’ he said to himself, letting the super charged air out of his mouth in gasps as he held onto his arms to console himself. Licking his own wounds and taking care of himself was something he’d had to learn since childhood, from the lack of parental support and participation in his formative years. He held his head in his hands for a few minutes, as his body cooled down and so did his mind. He turned towards the bedside table and switched on his phone. He looked at his precious watch and picked it up to admire it. It was a black Omega Seamaster, something he’d wanted since his childhood as his father always wore one. He finally got it only a year ago, coinciding with the wrapping up of his 172
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college years. On one of those rare days when his father was happy with him, he’d left the watch lying right where it was now, on the bedside table in a box. Shashank had woken up to find the famous Omega horse shoe like emblem emblazoned on a red leather case which lay waiting for him to discover its hidden secrets. Seeing the emblem he’d known at once what it was. His father too had known for years that Shashank wanted the watch. He’d grabbed the box like a greedy, hungry urchin grabbing a fifty rupee note held out to him from a car passing by and opened it up to first glance at the black beauty. Shashank picked up his watch now, still alternating between his memory and his current reality and lovingly looked at it. It had a black dial and a black bezel and two thick arrows as hands which contained bright radium in their silver outlines. The back of the dial had a texture similar to the waves of the sea and when viewed from an angle, the watch revealed its wavy background. After admiring the watch for close to ten minutes Shashank finally noticed the time. “Arre maa ki choot!!! Shit, lag gayi re! I’m fucked!” he said, as he jumped out of bed and ran in his hand cut shorts towards the dining room. As he reached the dining room, Shashank saw his father sitting at the head of the table, with the morning paper in hand. The first thing he looked at, was the plate and how much of the breakfast was still in it. One full boiled egg and a buttered toast lay on the cream Bone China plate, indicating that his father was still midway through his morning meal. This gave Shashank a bit of time to make his move. Right then Shashank heard his phone ringing in his room. He decided to leave it and cautiously began to move towards his father. Just then Inder Mehta looked up at him, above the morning paper. “Arre yaar, at least pick up your own phone, you lazy idiot!” he said. “Ji,” said Shashank, as he ran for his phone, wanting to finish this off before his father left and he missed his opportunity again. Shashank picked up his phone in the room and ran out again as he answered it. “Hello” he bellowed into the phone. “Sarkar . . .” said Yakub sarcastically from the other end. Do you mind . . . yahaan my gaand is on the line for the rokda. Stop doing your dinga masti and . . .” he said, as Shashank cut him short, “Arre yaar, that’s just what I’m about to do, I’ll call you back,” said Shashank. “Abe bhosadpappu! Don’t fuck it up this time, bhenchod!” said Yakub, as Shashank disconnected the call and appeared in front of his father again. He sat down at the table next to Inder where his breakfast had now been laid out for him on a plate. Sitting down, Shashank realized that the boiled egg from his dad’s plate was gone and now only the toast remained. He mustered the courage and leaned forward. “Dad, I wanted to talk to you about the mobile phone shop . . .” he said. Inder Mehta didn’t look above the paper. Shashank felt as if his voice somehow had been caught midstream and sent off in another direction altogether.
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“Dad,” he said and saw Inder putting his paper down for a second. His heart skipped a beat in hope, till he realized that his father was only picking up the toast and the previous action had nothing to do with him calling out to him. He was at a loss for what to do. He remembered the millions of times he’d seen his father completely ignore people. In the film industry, every other day, people would come home for payments which had been due for years. Shashank had seen his father do the same thing with them. He remembered how once his father had told him the story of one of the assistant camera men who had goofed up and dropped an expensive camera and Inder had fired him from the film for that. The next day the man was back with the union and Inder was forced to take him back. But Inder was unfazed. He had coolly asked the man to just sit around without doing any work. “I have to keep you, but whether I want you to work or not, is my choice,” he’d said to an unsuspecting, grinning camera assistant. After three weeks of having to sit on a stool in front of the unit doing nothing and having to sit there no matter what, the assistant himself resigned from the job. He couldn’t take it anymore and Inder had won again! Shashank remembered how one of the unit members was narrating the incident in praise of Inder at one of the numerous parties which were held in their house right here in Khar. “Boss took that rascal’s gaand so well, we never saw his thobda after that day. Chodu saala!” the unit member had said. The words remained in Shashank’s mind, verbatim, since that day. Someone referring to his father as ‘Boss’ and using the words ‘Gaand’ and ‘Chodu’ in the same sentence had been very thrilling for a young Shashank who was then just finishing school. He looked back at his father and began to get up from his chair to approach him. Right then Inder Mehta got up from his seat to leave. “Dad,” said Shashank almost in a shout, without realizing it. Inder Mehta looked at him with surprise but still in full composure. “I’ve got to leave. Not now! Full stop,” he said and then walked out of the house. Shashank had heard the words ‘full stop’ only a handfull of times in his life from his father. He knew that whether it was him creating a ruckus downstairs in the building while playing cricket or not doing his homework, once his father had given instructions followed by the ‘full stop’, they had to be done. HAD TO. Shashank’s dream, the mobile shop, was almost complete. Just this one last chunk of money and it would be on its way to completion. But his father wouldn’t let him have it. He wouldn’t let him show him what he was capable of. The idiot, the gadha, the black sheep, Shashank, would never be able to show Inder that he was not a bloody gadha. That he too could do something with his life and this was what he loved, phones. He knew more than anyone else about all the latest models, from all the latest companies, their functions, their flaws, their strengths, their longevity in terms of build, quality. He’d studied the whole mobile business
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carefully from a friend for years now, and knew the inside intricacies of how the main suppliers sold pieces to the retailer and what was the cut on each piece, each model, each part! Shashank simply sat there for a while looking out of the window which was closest to the dining table. He looked at the building across, at the small windows in other houses like his and wondered if there were more people like him in those houses. He got up and walked back into his room to find solace in his only recourse, the needle. Shashank injected himself with a much larger dose than he normally used and then let the heroin do its trick. He lay down on his bed, looked up at the ceiling fan and began to try to follow the movement of the blades, to pick out a solitary blade from the one whole illusory circle which now whirred round and round at full speed. The Western Express Highway was one long straight traffic jam right from the exit to Andheri to the exit to Khar subway. Some sudden road work had ensured that the evening’s rush hour traffic all got together to form one long queue of stand-still traffic. The golden Ford Ikon was one of the unfortunate cars in that jam. It was past 8 O’clock and the city had begun to drown in the artificial light of the night. Shashank had just taken another strong dose of heroin and he could now see the red LED lights of all the cars around him blending into one hazy whole with the lines of each car blurring further into a creamy syrupy amoebic form with each passing minute. To Shashank, the red lights seemed like cherries in some sort of traffic mousse. Nikita had worn a silver tank top and a shiny golden mini skirt, her fair legs looked smashing against the shimmer of the gold on her thighs. As Shashank went further into his drugged mire, she glanced up at Vijay and pressed her lips gesturing to say, ‘What to do?’ Vijay just smiled and put his hands up in the air expressing his ‘what to do’ thought himself under the guise of it being said about the traffic outside. Shashank put his hand on her thigh and felt her skin softly with his thick fingers. “My father doesn’t give a fuck about me!” he wailed. “He doesn’t give a fuckkkkkkk!!!” “Jaanu, why do you feel that way? I’m sure that’s not true,” said Nikita in her fake accent and sing song voice. “His only son and he’s never given a fuck! Shashi could be falling off a building for all he cares . . . Fuck!!” he said, the slow and steadily increasing anger, bringing him back to his senses. “Jaanu, relax,” coaxed Nikita, placing her hand on Shahank’s thigh, using the only thing she knew to try and control his bouts of anger. “You’re the only one who I feel good with, he said, turning to face her. He moved closer, kissing her square on the lips with a sudden force. Nikita felt his tongue trying to squeeze its way into her mouth and she could feel his strong hands placing themselves on her neck, his fingers slithering into her hair. She felt
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a sudden pull in her hair and was thrown down into the car seat. Shashank was on top of her, pulling off her top to reveal her black lace bra. “Not here, Jaanu! Wait till we get to the hotel,” she said with the panic evident in her voice. Shashank wasn’t going to stop. Nikita could see people in the car next to hers begin to look into the car. She noticed that even Vijay had observed the growing attention towards their car from the passengers in the cars around. Shashank began to suck her breasts and bite them, softly at first, then hard. “Owww!! Jaanu, stop it. Shashank stop this, now!” she said, pushing him to one side, using his arm to roll him onto her side instead of using direct pressure to push him back which she knew would have been impossible due to his immense weight. As Shashank rolled onto his back, Nikita sat up. “Bagh re! If this is how you’re going to behave, I’ll get off and take a rickshaw back home, right now!” she threatened. “No no, please . . . chill babes, chill!” he said, putting his hands up in the air, feigning surrender. “At least you don’t start with this abandoning thing . . . How can you say that?” he said, sitting up in the seat. “Ok, ok, let’s just wait till we reach the hotel. Ok?” “Sure babes, whatever you say,” said Shashank, resting his hand on her thigh again, but in a stationary position. Nikita breathed an almost inaudible sigh of relief. She looked at Vijay who looked quite upset and for some reason, seemed unable to look at her. For the next half an hour till they reached Hotel Jal, Nikita kept checking in the rear view mirror to see if she could catch Vijay’s gaze; to see if he was alright, but she couldn’t get him to look behind, no matter what. They finally wended through the traffic and reached the hotel. Even when they stepped out and walked past Vijay, Nikita noticed that he was consciously avoiding looking at either of them. He kept looking straight ahead through the windscreen of the car, at the world outside. Nikita felt a kind of tug in her chest for the rest of the night, as if somewhere, something wasn’t quite right. She went through the motions of her avatar as the femme fatale, object of fantasy through the night with Shashank, but her mind was still in the car, looking at the rear view mirror. She hadn’t experienced this feeling of unrest from so deep within, for years now. After an hour of dry, emotionless sex, and other two hours of sleep which Nikita also took in, thanks to the tremendous physical exhaustion, as Shashank had asked her to do all the work this time around, they awoke to go back home. Before leaving, Shashank fixed himself a large shot of whiskey and downed it in a single large, greedy gulp. He was back in his delirium before they even reached the car. Nikita noticed that for some reason, Vijay hadn’t dozed off as he usually did in the car. When he saw them approach, he opened the car doors immediately, as if he was wide awake and alert. For some reason, this made the tug in Nikita’s chest stronger, like a deep rooted anxiety. She sat in the car and all the way home, kept
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looking from the yellow lights of her favourite city to the rear view mirror, hoping to catch a glance of that awry smile or at least a look which indicated that everything was alright. Vijay didn’t look behind even once right until they’d reached home, after which he dutifully helped an even drunker Shashank into the building and up to his home. Nikita waited in the car. On the way home she would finally be able to resolve this matter. Before Vijay could get back, Nikita shifted to the passenger seat up front. He was pleasantly surprised, seeing her sitting in the front seat for him, and tried to conceal his smile. He got into the car, started it and they drove off. Once on S.V. Road, Nikita decided to breach the topic. “What happened to you today? Is everything alright, kaay?” she asked turning to face him. Vijay didn’t reply and didn’t seem like he intended to, either. Instead he took out the Trance CD from the music system and put in one of his Kishore Kumar tapes. ‘Jaaane jaan, dhoondta phir raha . . . ’ emanated from the speakers and Vijay turned up the volume indicating that he really wasn’t up to this conversation right now. Nikita took the hint and turned back to face the front. She then began to look out of the window. The air conditioning was on and the windows were shut. Nikita began to notice things on the street to keep her mind off what was happening in the car. Right opposite Khar Station she asked Vijay to take a left towards Madhu Park, a round garden situated in the midst of Khar. Vijay took the turn without asking any questions. They reached the circle and Nikita asked him to go slow outside the Ghanteshwar Mandir, a small make-shift temple, which over the years had gained permanency and importance thanks to the thousands of metal Ghantis that people had tied all over it’s facade, pillars, walls and ceiling. The bells were of all shapes and sizes and their brass and silver hues all stuck together and gave it the resemblance of parasite in the shape of bells which had completely taken over the mandir and held it hostage. Vijay too was in awe of the mandir and slowed down the car to a stop outside it. Then they left, Vijay taking the next right back to S.V. road. The silence, except for Kishore Kumar’s voice, prevailed. Nikita looked at the road again. “Let’s go from Juhu na, please,” she said, not looking at him but through the front windshield. Vijay obliged and turned off from S.V. road, towards Linking Road from where he turned off towards Juhu. Nikita looked out at all the old landmarks like Maneckji Cooper School, and then the designer shops along the stretch of Juhu Tara Road, making it akin to Beverly Hills. They passed Juhu beach and Nikita looked over at all the numerous stalls and remembered the times she had spent there eating spicy pav bhaji with Aslam. They’d taken their pav bhaji and ice golas onto the beach and sat there in the cool but warm mid summer breeze and feasted on their typical Bombay meal. Not wanting to delve deeper into this thought, Nikita shut her eyes and lay back on the seat letting the swaying of the car lull her into a light sleep. When she awoke she realized that Vijay was shaking her slightly from her shoulders.
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“Wake up, we’ve reached,” he said. “Huhnn!” said Nikita, as she shook herself out of her slumber. She sat up and was about to get out when, on second thought, she settled back into her seat instead. “So tell me now, mula, what’s the kadji? What’s eating your doka?” she said, crossing her arms around her chest indicating that she meant business and in all probability, wasn’t going to leave till she’d solved the matter. Vijay realized this from her body language and decided to stop eluding the truth. “Well . . . earlier . . .” he began, unable to look at her and letting his head hang towards his lap. “When I didn’t know you and didn’t think of you as a friend, I . . . didn’t feel anything when you and Shashank . . . umm . . . well when he did anything to you in the back seat. But now . . .” He seemed to be at a loss for words and his head hung even lower. Nikita kept her hand on his, making him look at her. “Saang na re . . . tell me what you’re feeling. Don’t stop,” she urged. “Well, now I get affected by it. Something about it hurts me in a very funny way, almost like a pain in my chest. When he touches you . . . when he forces you . . . I feel like . . . I feel . . .” so saying, he punched the centre of the steering wheel with all his might, his fist moved with immense force, as if he didn’t realize that there was a steering wheel at all. Then as his hand began to feel the repercussions of his punch he withdrew it and held his fist nursing it with his other hand. He then looked up at Nikita who was smiling. Nikita looked at his face, the thin bony jaw line, the curly hair and that child-like innocence which seemed to have permeated every part of him at the moment. Nikita reached out and touched his face. She felt the skin on his face with its slight stubble. She then caressed his cheek. Looking into his eyes, she put her hand behind his head and moved in towards his lips, locking him in a tight kiss. The moment Vijay felt her lips on his, he moved in completely for the kiss himself, letting his hands hold Nikita by the arms as he began to enjoy the softness of her face, moving from her lips slowly towards her ears, her neck and then her hair. He took in the sweet musty smell of her long hair and that seemed to release the floodgates of passion within him. He kissed her with full vigour and put one hand onto her back letting it slide, first down under her top and then upwards, feeling her back along the way. He removed his hand and brought it up front onto her breast. She now stopped him and gestured with her hands for him to calm down for a second. “Ghari ye re . . . Let’s take this upstairs. Not here, neighbours,” she said and began to move away. Vijay made a lost puppy dog like face and Nikita smiled and gave him a peck on his lips before exiting the car. Then as she was about to move away, she called out to him with her finger gesturing that she wanted more, much more. Vijay got out of the car and followed her down the dark narrow alley towards her old building. Even in the dark of the alley, he thought numerous times of pinning
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her against the wall and ravaging her. Her shapely body moved in front of him almost inviting him with each sway. Vijay distracted himself by looking at the wall and the exposed maroon brick in various places. Entering the building, Vijay and Nikita got into the lift. The minute the grill door was shut Vijay spread Nikita’s arms out wide and began to kiss her passionately. She let it go on for a moment before pushing him away giggling, as she held him off till the lift clambered up to her floor. They both got out and as Nikita opened her house door, Vijay admired her backside which got the fire in him going with even more gusto. The minute they entered the house, the dance of adrenaline began. Nikita let him take over. Vijay pushed her to the bedroom, moving in for a kiss here and there along the way and then onto the bed. Once on the bed, Nikita took over. She pushed him down onto her bed and began to pull away his shirt. She almost tore it as she tugged at it, ripping a few buttons away in the process. She then flung his shirt and smiled as she noticed his wiry frame. Next she began to unbutton his jeans. She hadn’t felt such a surge of wild passion in years! She pulled his jeans off in three strong, almost violent jerks throwing it to the ground as she moved over him. She kissed his chest, his nipples, licking his stomach as she moved lower. Taking off his clothes, she took him into her mouth and gave him oral pleasure. She worked at him like a wild cat charged with an animal instinct and realized that this was his first time from the state of things. Vijay groaned and twisted in the sweet pain that surged up his spine making every iota of him shiver with ecstasy. He held her hair as she went down on him again. He ruffled it and played with it letting it slip between his fingers and escape back to her before he pulled the soft fluffy mass back into his eager hands. He slowly began to work with her, stretching and then loosening his back, settling into a rhythm. It wasn’t long before Vijay reached the end of this one way explosion to freedom. Nikita didn’t give him a moment’s rest. She sat on top of him and began to pull off her top from over her neck sending shivers of passion down a watching Vijay’s back. He began to grope her and she took off her skirt expertly while still on top of him. She moved him into her as she arched her back pushing onto him. They heaved and pushed, moving from one side of the bed to the other. Vijay used the momentum of one strong push to hoist himself onto Nikita and took charge. Nikita was surprised by the amount of energy this thin frame possessed. She looked at him as he used his body like one giant spring to bestow everything he could on her. She looked on and kept shutting and then opening her eyes to reveal images of his smile, his hair, his chest and his hands as he toiled on. Their passionate dance culminated soon in a union of freedom and contentment like Nikita had never experienced before. “Aslaaaammmm!” she cried as tears welled up in her eyes, accompanying her peak of passion. With the summit reached, they both slumped onto each other. Nikita felt his sweaty body as it laid its full weight on her. She let him lie there, knowing how it must be for him, since this was his first time. Vijay let the panting
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stop and then slid over to her side, moving out of her in that same motion, then they lay there, listening to their breathing for a while. Vijay was the first to slice the solitude as he let his fingers touch hers. Nikita looked at him and smiled. Vijay noticed that she had tears in her eyes. He wondered whether to pry into her moment or let her be. He didn’t have to for long; she pulled him into an embrace. He gazed into her eyes feeling as if he could see a galaxy in green. “I love you!” he said. In response, Nikita tugged at him and pulled him in for a kiss, pouting her lips in a theatrical way as she moved in for full contact. She held onto him and they both shut their eyes till they were caressed into a deep slumber. When Nikita awoke a few hours later, she turned and looked at Vijay lying next to her. He was in the foetal position with his face towards her, a slight smile spread across his thin face. Nikita moved in closer to him and held him, letting his face sink into her bosom. He embraced her in a loose hug in mid sleep and they both went back to their reveries. At 5 the next morning, Vijay was woken up by a soft tug at his shoulder. He awoke to see a fair, green eyed face smiling upon him. “Huhnn,” he said as he rubbed his eyes. “Mr. Aashiq! It’s 5 O’clock. I think you should get back before anyone at home, including Ramdeen, realizes that you’ve been out the whole night! Vijay slowly got up and almost automatically began to look for his shirt which Nikita handed over to him fully ironed. “Arre, why have you sat and ironed it bhai?” he asked. “Just like that,” said Nikita, not able to control her smile as she realized the silliness of it, herself. Vijay put on his shirt and let Nikita do the buttons as she began before he could. He got off the bed and put on his jeans and then sat down to slip on the old worn off Nike shoes which he’d found in the trunk in the garage. “By the way who’s Aslam?” he asked, not looking up as he continued to get his footwear on. “Hmm . . . It’s a long story re . . . Atta naheen, some other time,” said Nikita in a tone which didn’t leave any scope for another question on the topic. Vijay finished with his shoes and then got up to leave. He moved in for a last embrace before he left and gave it with all his might. She also held on as tight as she could for a couple of moments before loosening her grip and letting go. She walked him up to the door and then shut it after him. Walking back to her bed, she felt the need to see him again. Walking up to the window she watched him walk down the narrow lane. The twilight of the pre-sunrise dawn lit Vijay in its blue grey hues. Nikita watched as he walked right up to the end of the lane, got into the car and left. Nikita walked up to her bed and lay down on it, pulling the pillow he’d used close to her into a tight cuddle before shutting her eyes. How different love
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making was from having sex, she thought. She did one almost everyday nowadays beginning in the back seat and then up at the hotel. But this one night had been so different. Each time Vijay had dug deeper into her secrets to bestow upon her his painful gift of love, she’d loved him more! Each thrust made her look at him in a new light almost as if she’d never seen him before. That same thin face, anguish written all over it, the same curly hair she saw everyday, now wet with sweat, but together with each push it all seemed like God’s greatest creation and made her feel so lucky, blessed, happy. With each passing moment drunk in love, Vijay had tried harder to satisfy Nikita’s deepest cravings with all his strength and might. She pictured his body over hers, then hers over his, their rhythm broken and then back in harmony as their bodies glided, clashed, rubbed, rolled, swayed and cringed and then stretched together. The thought made her tighten and she moved her hand slowly into the region of eternal pleasure and began to satisfy herself. She used images, sounds, feelings from her memory to keep the moment of ecstasy going for as long as possible till she surmounted her peak. Then letting the momentary fatigue lull her into sleep, she drifted away into one of her many reveries which spoke about love, lust and life.
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o, no, no!” said Inder Mehta sternly as he put his paper down on the table in front of him, almost into the bowl of cornflakes and milk kept in front of him at the table. “How much pocket money do you get?” he asked. “75000/-a month,” said a visibly upset but subdued Shahshank who sat at his regular place at the far corner of the long dining table. “Do you realize how much bloody money that is, haan?!” cried Inder, banging the table in front of him. “It’s more than most people make working at jobs day and night, dammit! You are not bloody getting one naya paisa other than your pocket money which also I am going to cut down! You’re getting spoilt beyond limit,” he said, standing up and beginning to move away. “Mobile store khada karega, bhenchod! Do it on your apni kamai na bloody gadha!” he said, as he walked to the entrance of the house in a huff, leaving his breakfast unfinished. As he reached the door, he turned around. “And if you bloody ask me again, I’ll stop your pocket money completely for a couple of months till you understand the value of it. This month I’m not going to give it to you any. Samjhe Janab?!! Bloody good-for-nothing ullu da pattha!” he shouted, as he stormed out. Shashank sat at the table looking forlorn. Not knowing how to react, he dialed a number on his communicator and rasied it to his ear. “Dude I’m fucked, man! Fucked, fucked fucked! Dad’s refused to even listen about the mobile store thing, man. He just doesn’t care, man. Doesn’t fuckin care!” he said into the phone as tears welled up in his eyes. He put his elbows on the table and let his head down between his hands. “Arre mamu, m’bola what happened to this punter, why’s he so badheer?! I’m fucked . . . I’m fucked!” It’s only this na? You take it easy till we meet in the evening. Then we’ll sort it out. As of now to he’s not stopped your pocket money na?” said Yakub. “Only for a month!” said Shashank. “Arre then to don’t take tension at all, re. See you at the card session. Don’t chadhao too much till then. Control,” said Yakub keeping the phone down at his end. 182
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Shashank put his phone down and began to walk over to his room sullenly. He almost dragged his body over to his bed and then jumped into it, falling onto the thick Choir mattress with a loud thud which shook the room. He buried his face into his pillow and let himself break down. He felt the sobs come up through his body and he surrendered. The first one came with a little difficulty. Then they came like a battle ready army, waiting behind the line of control, awaiting the command from their leader. With each racking sob, his body went limper and his face dug deeper into the pillow. Yakub’s false consolations hadn’t worked at all in making him feel any easier. Soon a muffled sound accompanied the sobs and then there was silence. After lying like that for a few minutes, he got up, his face red and his temples bulging, and pulled open the bedside drawer which contained the syringes and vials. He took an extremely strong dose of heroin and then walked over to the balcony in his room which had been added to it in last year’s renovations. He looked out of the window, onto the world below and began smiling in bliss. He could see the small, white Pomeranian puppy which belonged to the supposed saintly Baba and his entourage living in the next building; he could the see the security guards who were actually beefed up hoodlums protecting the building; the large poster of the Baba on the wall of the lobby in the entrance and then Vijay’s garage. Then something happened to him, shaking every pore of his body into an inferno. He felt a stabbing pain right below his navel as if someone had caught hold of his abdomen and given it a Herculean tug. Just as he moved his hand to his throbbing stomach, he felt the wind go out of him. He tried to breathe but felt no air going in. He began to panic and this only worsened things. Now his lungs and abdomen were both under fire from an unknown force and both of them were sending out signals of immense pain. Gasping for breath, he leaned over the window and the next thing he knew, he was flat out on the window sill, slumped over like a dead body. Looking down towards Vijay’s garage he stretched out his arm, as if crying out for help as he felt the life go out of him and his vision blur till he finally shut his eyes and let it all take over. Vijay had woken up as late as Shashank that morning. The previous night’s roller coaster events had left him exhausted. He lay with his stomach touching the torn rexine and foam sofa, his left arm and leg were higher on the bed than his right and his face turned towards his left facing the back of the sofa. The construction had shifted to the other side of the building as the external pillars used to support the three added floors on this were completed and now the remaining three on the other side were being built. So Vijay was enjoying the peace and quiet. The small exhaust fan which he’d finally got repaired, thanks to one of the building electricians, was now whirring away to glory in its small niche in the wall above. A crow came and perched itself right outside the exhaust fan window and began it’s cawing. Vijay stirred a bit and as the cawing became louder and intolerable, he awoke to shoo away the noisy bird. As he neared the window to hurl some curses at the fast fleeing bird, waving his arm in the air,
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he saw, through the fast moving blades of the exhaust fan, a slumped Shashank lying on his window sill! “Arre bheeennchhhhhooddd!” He cried and ran out of the garage in his loose shorts and torn T-shirt, right up the three flights of steps to Shashank’s house. Ramdeen opened the door to see Vijay flying past him into Shashank’s room. Vijay reached Shashank’s room and was glad when he turned the knob to find that it wasn’t locked from the inside. As he entered, he saw Shashank slouched across the window sill, his feet above the ground, as if his last impulse was to reach out to the world outside and shout for help. Vijay and Ramdeen pulled Shashank’s heavy frame into the house. “Ab ka karein, Vijay? What do we do now?” asked Ramdeen. Vijay checked his pulse and then tried to listen to his heartbeat and was wondering what to do when he saw the blue mark of all the injection holes on Shashank’s arm and it hit him. He was away like a light leaving Ramdeen wondering what the hell was happening. He reached the car and fished out the vial of Naloxone from the glove compartment where he’d left it for safe keeping. He rushed back to Ramdeen and an inactive Shashank. Dialing Yakub’s number on Shashank’s phone, Vijay waited for an answer. “Haan, bol re badheer! What’s it?” asked Yakub, apparently in a hurry. “This is Vijay. Shahsank’s had an overdose, I think. What to do? The Naloxone is in my hand,” said Vijay. “Maa ki choot! Fuck! I knew it would happen soon,” shouted Yakub at the other end. “Accha sun, sun, use a fresh syringe, take out the Naloxone from the vial using the new needle and then inject it into a vein . . .” said Yakub. “But how do I find a vein, I’ve never done this before and all I have for help is Ramdeen,” said Vijay now a bit frantic. “Arre, simple you . . .” said Yakub as the line went dead. “Hello . . . HELLO . . . HELLOOOO!!!!” said Vijay. “Shit!” He redialed and heard the recorded message at the other end which told him that the phone was switched off. “Lag gaye laude, I think his battery is dead or something,” he said as he picked up the syringe. He looked at the blue patch on Shashank’s arm where he’d repeatedly injected syringes twice to thrice a day. The area had various shades of blue and red interspersed with each other. Vijay remembered the times he got an injection from his doctor back in Muzaffarabad. He remembered his mother holding his hand and his father holding his back as the doctor looked for a vein on his forearm. Vijay picked up Shashank’s arm and checked for a vein which hadn’t already been used. After a minute or so of careful examining, he found one. He then punctured the vial of Naloxone with the syringe and sucked the liquid into it, then from memory, pushed a little out so that no air was left in the syringe, he remembered that he’d asked his father why the doctor did this and then remembered the answerr. Vijay now slid the needle carefully into the arm and squeezed gently letting the fluid
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seep into Shashank’s thick forearm. He then turned to look at a visibly shaken Ramdeen. “Don’t ghabrao,” said Vijay, with the false confidence of one scared sheep to another as the lion neared them. “This should take care of it,” he said to Ramdeen and hoped with all his might that it was true. Shashank’s eyes suddenly shot open like a scalded cat’s. He looked around and then moved his hand slowly towards his head as if he had a splitting headache. He then passed out again. But this time Vijay noticed that the passing out seemed more like an exhausted slumber. Vijay checked his pulse and heartbeat and after confirming that everything now seemed to be normal, he began to lift Shashank. Taking the cue, Ramdeen also helped him. He carried his legs while Vijay lifted him from the head and shoulders. They carried him to his bed and then Ramdeen heard the doorbell. He scurried away leaving Vijay and Shashank alone. Vijay moved back a bit and then turned to leave. He’d reached the light switch at the doorway when he turned back and stared at the form lying on the bed. Shashank looked so peaceful like this, he thought; not craving for attention, power, love from his father, money or anything else. He actually looked truly at peace. What a life this boy has; all the money, all the power, but no happiness! Vijay stood there looking at Shashank sleeping like a little boy for a while before leaving the room and turning off the lights. When he reached the garage, he saw Inder getting out of his car. Inder walked up to Vijay, removed an envelope from his pocket, handed it over to him and left. Vijay opened the envelope, half knowing what it might be, though he’d been having such a good time over the past week or so that he’d actually almost forgotten about this. It was his first salary! Nine thousand rupees! Vijay smiled with the realization of the little power he now held in his hands; a little freedom, a little happiness, a little vanity and a little self expression. He spent the rest of the day buying some shampoo, hair gel (which he’d seen Shashank wearing), some chocolates for Nikita (the most expensive ones he could find.) and some clothes which fit him well. Nikita lay on her bed after last night’s blissful satisfaction, as if in another realm altogether. It was already past 10.30 a.m. and on a daily basis, she awoke almost automatically by 9. She was seeing a dream, very personal in its space and her body in its mild state of tension gave testimony to it. She was in a dark alley running down it with gay abandon, her laughter echoing through eternity and then bouncing back into her ears. Then she was suddenly pushed into a corner and her skirt was lifted up. She couldn’t see him but she could feel the presence of Aslam around. She felt the penetration and the feeling of ecstasy begin to pick up its rhythm. Suddenly there were flashes of last night with Vijay and now the presence of Aslam and that familiar feeling had vanished. They were on her bed, rose petals falling from the skies; Vijay again around as if a presence and not a body. Then again as she was about to slip into comfort with the bed and Vijay,
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she was back again in the dark alley. The visuals now began to tell her that she was on the run, then falling through space, falling, falling, with a feeling of fear deep within her gut. Then one last scream that rang through her head, ‘Noooooo!’ and she was awake. Nikita sat up with a jolt as she barged into the world of the living and started gasping for air. The feeling of falling and the scream were followed by a feeling of having almost faced death from deep within and now she realized that she was in fact, alive. She wiped the perspiration from her face and got out of bed. She walked up to the bathroom, switched on the geyser and let it heat the water as she brushed her teeth. She went in for a nice long bath for which she stood under the steaming hot water and let it cascade over every stressed region of her body. She turned as it fell with force over her neck, shoulders, chest and back. The white tiles with the green creepers were full of mist and dew by the time she was done with her morning ritual. Slipping into a T-shirt and shorts in the bathroom itself, as was her habit, she walked out, still wet. Just as she walked out of her bath she could hear her cell phone ringing. She walked up to it still dripping water from a few places onto the old mosaic tiled flooring. “Arre hi!” she said into the phone, a bright smile spreading over her face. “Kaay?! You sent me an SMS last night? Uf o! So sorry I didn’t even check. Kaay? You’re on this side, In Orbit? Ho, ho . . . Ye na, come over . . . patkan ye re! Come as soon as possible. Tension naka gheu re! Chal, bye!” Hearing the doorbell ring, Nikita turned and began to move towards the door. She was shaking her head over the call which had just come. As she looked through the peephole she smiled the smile of a child surprised with a gift hamper of chocolates out of the blue. She opened the door excitedly to a smiling Priyanka. Priyanka stepped up and gave her a hug, taking her by surprise. They embraced for a second and she stepped aside to let Priyanka in. Walking in after her, she noticed Priyanka’s feet again. ‘What pretty feet she had’ she thought. She also noticed that they were almost the same size as hers, maybe exactly the same size. In fact even her figure was almost the same size and shape as hers. She realized that in height and body Priyanka and she looked like they’d been made out of the same mould. “Tar, naveen kaay jhaala in your life nowadays?” asked Nikita. “Oh quite a lot, madame, quite a lot,” replied Priyanka. “What’s your plan for the day?” “Arre, I wanted to make crab masala re today . . . Konkani style! Tula Shikaaycha Aahe ka? Do you want to learn also?” asked Nikita. “Of course! That’ll be great! Lets start,” said Priyanka. “Arre first we have to get the Kekadas re. I have all the other masalas. Just need the Kekadas. Give me a minute. I’ll change and we can leave. You have the time na today ?” asked Nikita. “Ho ga, lots,” said Priyanka, taking Nikita by surprise. “MIL has gone to Surat for a marriage so two days of total freedom.”
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Nikita went into her room letting Priyanka wait in the hall. Changing into a light cotton salwar kurta this time, one that didn’t fit quite so well, Nikita left with Priyanka for the fish market nearby. In half an hour they were back, three medium size crabs dangling in plastic packets by their side. Priyanka had learnt not only what to look for in a good crab whilst buying it, but also how to bargain for it and get it at the right price for the current season. They entered the house chatting away to glory. “And now she’s so used to the word, aunty, that she doesn’t even give me that Manorama from Seeta-aur-Geeta-look, each time I call her that,” said Priyanka, sending Nikita into splits. “Manorama!” said Nikita and laughed some more. She walked into the kitchen with Priyanka in tow and opened up the packets containing the crabs. She cleaned the crabs under the running water in the kitchen sink, leaving only the fleshier parts to be cooked and methodically throwing the rest away into a heap on the side. “Atta what’s the deal with your nawra, Kunal? How’s he doing? Aiktos ka your problems?” asked Nikita, as she continued her cleaning, while Priyanka stood to the side and watched carefully. “Arre he still has this non committal attitude. Office he handles, so home, I have to handle. It’s my problem. He says that just as he doesn’t burden me with the office problems, I shouldn’t burden him with home problems. The same sadi hui philosophy,” replied Priyanka. “Kahitari bhaltach!” said Nikita, making a face. “These men make up the wildest theories to stay out of trouble. They’re always so scared of everything. Never confront. Always avoid. Please don’t get taken in by his nautanki, haan, it’s as much his problem as yours. You both live at home, you both don’t work together in the office . . . And that’s his bloody aai, not yours!” “But what to do . . . he doesn’t care,” said Priyanka. “Arre baba, then you have to make him na,” said Nikita, wrapping up the cleaning and picking up all the pieces to be cooked and moving them into a large plate. “I’ll tell you how to do it.” Now she pulled out a deep vessel from the cupboard under the green marble platform and putting all the pieces of crab carefully into the vessel, she topped it up with water and then kept it on the gas to boil. “Bagha re . . . since the beginning of this Pruthvi na, men have been controlled by us . . .” then realizing that she’d almost goofed up in revealing her identity, she did a sudden twist in her choice of words. “Us, women, I mean. And how do you think we’ve managed it?” she asked. “Mmm . . .” said Priyanka, unsure of the answer. “Sex re, through sex!” said Nikita. “You excite the man as much as you can and then don’t give it to him till he begins to listen and then does something about the problems in the house, simple!”
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Walking over to her cupboard, she opened it and began to go through some sections. “From what I gather, you and I are almost the same size in our clothes and shoes. Lets see . . .” she said, as she rummaged through her clothes, obviously looking for something in particular. “But . . . I . . . but . . . I don’t know anything about . . . you know . . .” fumbled Priyanka. Nikita came out of her cupboard like a mole coming out of his hole, holding a short black dress. “This is how you’ll start. Arre bavdat, I’ll show you na the whole process . . . Why are you worrying? I’m an expert! First you try this on.” “This?!!” said Priyanka, shocked as she looked the dress up and down. Nikita just made a face saying, ‘cut the drama’ and stood looking at Priyanka with an icy stare till she took the dress quietly and moved towards the bathroom. While Priyanka was figuring out the outfit, Nikita walked over to the vessel in which the water was now boiling furiously and put the gas on simmer. She then took a large pan out of the same cupboard and putting a little oil in it, she set it up on the other side of the cooking range on a low flame. She removed a circular box full of masalas and kept it close to the cooking range. She also walked over to the fridge and removed some juiced kokum which she’d prepared earlier and a packet of ground coconut paste. Then as the oil began to splutter, she put in some jeera, bay leaf and whole garam masala. By then Priyanka had come out of the bathroom looking absolutely stunning in the short black dress. “Pweeeeeeet!” whistled Nikita, using her thumb and forefinger to let out a perfect film stall crowd type whistle. “Ekdum item re!” Priyanka wasn’t comfortable in the dress and Nikita motioned to her with her hand, as if to say, ‘don’t worry I’ll show you’. “The fit is changla na?” she asked. “Yes, yes, that it is! Almost as if it were made for me only,” replied Priyanka. Nikita looked back at the frying pan and seeing that the jeera had begun to sizzle, she added all the other ingredients—onion paste, ginger garlic paste, tomato puree, curd, turmeric, red chilly paste, salt, some fresh corriander, the kokum and the ground coconut paste. Lastly, she added some water to the mixture. “So then what?” asked Priyanka. “Now you wear this dress when you go out tomorrow night with Kunal for dinner, alone. You said na that Manorama has gone out of town. This is the time. The loha is hot; hit the hathoda, as they say in Sholay. Just go there in my room and open the bottom drawer na . . . it has all my shoes. Pick out one with high heels,” said Nikita, pointing now with the spatula she wielded, towards her room, like a fairy godmother waving a wand, as if she was about to begin her transformation. As Priyanka walked away, she turned back to her cooking. Now that all the masalas were cooked enough, she took out the boiling crabs from the couldran and added all the pieces, one by one, to the masala in the
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pan, cooking it all together. The aroma of the coconut, crab, and all the masalas began to fill the kitchen. “Wow, this smells divine!” said Priyanka, as she walked in, brandishing a pair of black stilettoes. “Oh great, they fit perfectly! You’ll get used to walking in them soon. Practice before going out tonight at home, alone. The next thing is foreplay . . . you do everything yourself, be active not passive. When he comes home, ask him out to dinner. Go have some seafood. Come back, brush, don’t forget that . . . then begin doing everything yourself. Half the work would already have been done by the dress and the heels, over dinner,” said Nikita as she stirred the crab pieces around in the pan letting the gravy settle into all the crevices of the crab. “Start by kissing, then caressing, and then undressing him. That always works . . . and right through this whole process tell him about all the problems at home,” tutored Nikita. “Then?” asked Priyanka. “Then, tell him that until he listens and speaks to his mother, you’re not giving him what he wants and stop right there. Trust me, the minute she comes back tomorrow, he’ll give it to her. He’ll be thinking about you all day at work also tomorrow and just to make it a sealed deal, buy the Victoria’s Secret duplicate, No.6 set from Le Bijou on your way home, for tomorrow night,” said Nikita, turning around for emphasis. “That always works. It’s a wire bra with the most ornate lace work ever. If that doesn’t get his gotis, nothing will!” Priyanka stood there looking at her with admiration. She had the eyes of a puppy admiring his master. When Nikita turned around again she noticed her standing in rapt admiration with a gleam in her eyes. “Kaay re? Whats the matter?” asked Nikita. “Nothing . . . you’re like my guardian angel. I suddenly felt that. That’s all,” said Priyanka as she approached Nikita from behind and gave her a hug around the shoulders, looking over them at the cooking crab. Nikita smiled to herself. How similar in spirit this girl was to her; from a different family, different upbringing, but so similar in spirit. They spent the rest of their time that day with Nikita finishing off her crab dish and then keeping it in the fridge, to be microwaved as a surprise for Vijay much later. Then they spoke a little more about their battle strategy. Priyanka left for home an hour and a half later full of thoughts of a new life. The room was a small one with posters of Arnold Shwarzenegger films put up all over. There was Last Action Hero, on one wall, a large sized poster almost the height of a twelve-year-old, on another wall, a poster that said, ‘Terminator’ with a mid shot of Arnold in a black leather jacket, spiked hair and thick sunglasses standing staring out of the poster at all and sundry with grit and determination plastered across his muscular jaw. On the third wall was a small poster of Commando with Arnold holding a large log of wood across his shoulder as he marched on, black kohl like lines smudged all across his face and exposed powerful muscular shoulders. Right next to the door in a corner was a 29" flat screen television and a DVD player
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underneath with a small rack of DVDs piled up on one side. In another corner of the room was a desk with a large monitor and computer console resting on various levels of the desk. Post-its had been put up across the computer screen with email addresses and cell phone numbers scribbled all over the yellow paper. In the centre of the room, against the largest wall was a large double bed which was built in a fashion that made it seem like it was floating above the ground. All across the two bedside tables and along the window sills were all the latest, most expensive, flashiest mobile phones, some especially for music, some for gaming, some business phones, Blackberrys, Communicators, PDAs . . . . none of them were really used for any work purpose. At any given moment one of them was ringing away showing off its polyphonic ringtone abilities or LED light layout. A dwarfed young lady, Sushila, made the rounds with Chicken Tikka, Reshmi Kebab, Seekh Kebab, and for the minority of Vegetarians, Harabhara Kebab. She also brought the soda and water bottles which were getting emptied by the minute as the crowd drank their way into the evening. The session had begun early in the evening and would go on till late into the night. Shashank and Yakub entered late and right in the middle of the action. Sunny, a short, thin Sardar, Chintu, a small built but muscular fellow, Saahil and Kunal Jagwani the more rotund Sindhi twins and Ranju, the fat heavy set owner of the house, sat around the bed, playing Rummy with the newest entrant to the card scene, Jatin, a DJ at a nearby discotheque. “Dudio, whazzup?” said Sunny to Shashank and then gave Yakub a high five as they entered the room. “Yo Sunny ma main man! Sab bhala changa, yaara!” said Shashank. He nooded at the rest and smiled at Chintu, another old friend. Shashank and Yakub sat on the bed in the middle of the group as everyone shifted their butts a little to accommodate the two new entrants. Shashank picked up a glass, poured a large peg of whiskey into it and gulped it down as a starter. Yakub picked up a pint of beer and opened it up. “SUSHILAA” cried Ranju. “SODAAAA,” and in a matter of seconds Sushila, the dwarf, was back with more. “So, is she your new bang kya stud?” asked Jatin making everyone laugh. “Arre dude, at least leave her alone man, she’s been here for years and she looks short but is older than us also yaar,” said Ranju, getting Chintu to elbow Sunny and giggle. Shashank looked at Jatin. He didn’t like him very much. This was his second session with the gang and he’d already started opening his mouth too much. With the previous session wrapped up, the cards were dealt out for a new game in which Shashank and Yakub also were players. As the game began with each player making his move, the joking continued. “Oye Ranju, tell us more about your Bangkok trip na yaar!” said the Sindhi twins, Saahil and Kunal.
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“Arre, that was tooooo good man, Touch of Class! Ekdum Touch of Class!” said Ranju, making everyone now sit up and shift very slightly towards him in their body language as they continued their play “This chick, with proper parlour type hair, all gold streaks and all, nice bable and vaddi gaand, came with me to the room. I’d chosen her, of course, from a group of hoor paris all dressed in bikinis across a large window display.” “Mams, we’ve bloody heard this four times already. And he’s just come back last week. Spare us dudes!” said Sunny and Chintu, interrupting him. “Arre you dickheads, don’t interrupt,” said Jatin, getting nods of approval from Shashank, Yakub and the Sindhi twins. “Haan, so . . . we went up to the room and then she made me lie down on the bed, took my patloon down and began to chooso me for a good fifteen minutes. And uski technique was ekdum kamaal ki, yaara! I came like Niagara Falls, man! And I thought, chud gayi bhenchod, now I won’t be able to do anything more. Shaani kudi hai!” he said with his thick eyebrows moving up and down as he narrated. “But then she took my lund and ghusaoed it into herself and sat on top of me and bending down began to suck my nipples. Fuck maaan . . . my lauda immediately began salute maarna. Fataak se!” “FUUUUUUUCK maan!” said Kunal, looking at his brother with an enraptured expression almost saying, ‘lets go to Bangkok, tomorrow’. “Then what?” asked Saahil speaking for the rest of the crowd. “Arre, then I came again in a matter of minutes with her choosoing my nipples and stuff . . . but it wasn’t over man, then she took me matkaoing that JLO type gaand to the bathroom, sat me down in the tub and began a hot water bubble bath. Oye, then she nehlaoed me for twenty minutes putting jhaag with its bubbles all over me and rubbing me all over and then gave me a hand job right there and then. Yaara, her technique I tell you, touch of class! Ekdum touch of class! I’ve never had three shots at one go dudes, never!” said Ranju, finishing off using one of his father’s favourite phrases, Touch of Class, to describe his extreme pleasure. “Hey Shashi what did you do in Goa, dude?” asked Saahil this time to Shashank. “Arre the regular phirang maal man, nothing special,” said Shashank, with a wicked smile which sent everyone into another extremely curious mood. “Arre bol bol, bata, bata!” said Sunny. “Sharma mat!” added Chintu. “I’ve heard a lot about Yakub mia’s contacts in Goa with all the phirang maal suppliers!” Yakub used his right hand to do an Aadaab and accept the compliment, smiling. He was the newest entrant to this gang, thanks to Shashank and he wanted to stay here. He felt a lot of profit could come out of these rich, spoilt kids over the years. “Kuch naheen yaar, we just went to this supplier, some Benaulikar chap and got two Russian hotties for a night. Solid fuckin stamina and too fuckin many positions, dude! Too fuckin many!” said Shashank, as he had his fourth whiskey shot neat.
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“Oye Saahil why aren’t you mentioning your randi experience, huh?” asked Chintu, with a wicked smile on his small, angular face. “Haan, haan, bata, bata . . . yours would definitely be more interesting,” said Sunny, nudging Shashank with his elbow. “Yeah man, go on tell us the whole thing in detail dudio!” said Shashank. “Arre what’s there to tell, yaar! She was standing on S.V. Road with her big jugs in a tight blue T-shirt,” he began sheepishly. “For her tits only I stopped there re. Then we settled at three hundred. I bargained, won and was happy. We went into some bloody galli behind, dark as ever and then up some more gallis and then into some building and then onto some mala on top, via a thin iron ladder, the kind we have on the terrace to reach the pump room . . . There the room smelled of sperm, yaar, condoms were strewn all over on the ground and the room was made into three rooms with just some kapda hanging from a rassi. Then the bitch said, “Give me hundred more or I’ll not let you touch me.” Now what to do, I had to . . . was all tight and all that time. So I paid her. Then I began to press her jugs and asked her to remove her top so I could see what I’d paid for. And the bitch asked for another hundred rupees. Now I was broke. No more money. And the raand said, “No more money . . . no show!” I just had to walk out, bloody bitch. Couldn’t even slap her, total her area only na, all touts and all standing downstairs. Four hundred gone down the drain!” Everyone broke into a laugh, except Jatin. “Bro, this seems to be your fate in life itself, man. Even Soniya didn’t let you bonk her na?” he said knowing that talking about Saahil’s failed relationship which he’d still not gotten over, hit him right below the belt. “Aye fuck you haan, Jatin. Fuck you man,” said Saahil. Shashank was not too happy about the way Jatin was behaving. After all, this was his group, his gang, how dare this D.J. fucker turn up here and begin this kind of talk. Just because he was Chintu’s girlfriend’s brother. He poured another large peg of whiskey and downed it in one gulp. “So getting back to your phirang experience dude, tell us more,” said Sunny, changing the topic. “Arre yeah dude, tell us whether after bonking her you promised her a role in your dad’s new film. Anyway nowadays, I heard, he’d getting into soft porn,” said Jatin, laughing at his own joke. This was enough for Shashank. He suddenly felt that all too familiar surge of adrenaline in his body and that rage build up right upto his throat as he leapt for Jatin who was much smaller than him. Holding Jatin’s hair, he began to pound his face with his fists, hard and fast. Before the others could even get to the two entangled bodies, Shashank had already delivered at least four fast punches onto Jatin’s face which was bleeding in three places. “Bastard, talk about my dad will you . . . fucker, FUCKER!” shouted Shashank as he punched him once more.
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As the others tried to pry Shashank away from Jatin, his right foot caught him bang in the center of his face sending him reeling back on the bed, blood flying this time, from his nose! “Abe Shashi what’s gotten into you dude? Chill yaar, chillax!” said Sunny, as he tried to pull him away. Shashank shoved Sunny and Chintu away and then stormed out of the room, leaving the others attending to a bleeding, wounded Jatin. “D.J. bhenchod,” said Shashank, as he walked out with Yakub in tow and walked towards the car with Vijay dozing in it. He walked up to the front door and banged it, scaring Vijay out of his light nap. Vijay sat up and realized that Shashank’s knuckles were red and cut. He saw Yakub approaching Shashank from behind him. “Arre yaar, why’re you behaving like a garam tava, yaar?” he said, touching Shashank on the shoulder. “Dude, just leave me alone, man, I just want to be alone for a while. Ok?” said Shashank, snapping at Yakub as he turned around. “Ok, okaay, yaar, relax, no problem,” said Yakub and backed off, visibly shocked. Vijay opened the door for Shashank, letting him slip in, still in an apparent state of rage. The first thing he reached for was the heroin box. He set up another hit and was just about to administer it when Vijay intervened. “Sir, please, you’ve had a problem today only na,” said Vijay, in a soft almost pleading voice. Shashank was shocked and jerked his head up to face Vijay. He squinted his eyes a bit as he looked up at him, his face not betraying what he was feeling. “Bhenchod, keep your fucking trap shut! Get it?!! Before I come there and shove my foot up your bony ass!” he said, almost suddenly breaking out of that trance like gaze. Vijay turned back to face the wheel and started the car as he looked at Shashank leaving the now empty syringe back in the box. He was glad that at least now he knew how to administer the Naloxone. He’d kept it back in the glove compartment but there was just another vial left in case of yet another eventuality. He made up his mind to ask Yakub for some the next time Shashank met him. After all, the problem would fall into his lap in all probability the next time it happened. He swerved through the lanes of Gulmohar Society and then out of the gate, onto S.V. Road towards Nikita’s place, hoping Shashank would correct him if he was going in the wrong direction. Just then Shashank received a call on his cell phone. “Haan, Nikita, we’re on our way only, babes! See ya,” said Shashank confirming Vijay’s thoughts, leaving little room for any doubt. Vijay stepped on the gas a bit as they eased into the evening traffic. It was going to be a long drive before Vijay could get to see Nikita. He began to think of her in an attempt at making the arduous drive ahead easier.
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Nikita looked stunning as usual, in a light blue Lycra and cotton tight fitting top with a white flared, floral gypsy skirt. She’d worn roman slippers, the leather laces of which snaked up her ankles and onto her calves, finally tying into a knot halfway up to her knees. She had one thick square bangle on each wrist and she’d left her hair open, revealing all the streaks and colours in the soft evening light. Vijay just couldn’t take his eyes off her as she walked down the narrow lane towards the car! He heard some kind of rustling sound behind and saw Shashank in the rear view mirror rubbing his hand on his crotch, looking at Nikita. Vijay felt a surge of anger rise up within him, but fought it hard and used every ounce of his will to push it back down his spine, before it erupted in any kind of action. He looked back in front and then at Nikita as she approached the car. She got in and Vijay put the car into gear. As they got back onto S.V. Road, Shashank slid close to Nikita. “Babes you’re looking fucking hot today!” he said as he moved in for a sloppy kiss across her lips. She held her mouth shut as he smothered her for a couple of seconds and when his face moved away, Nikita noticed Vijay’s watching through the mirror. Suddenly she felt a pang of guilt and then shrugged it out of her mind. After all this, was her work. Vijay too looked back at the road ahead. “Nikita, I feel that you’re my only true family. Each day I’m beginning to feel closer to you,” said Shashank, looking down at his legs, before turning back to her. “Today dad finally turned down my business proposal completely. He disowned me again for the thousandth time! I’m not his son . . . He doesn’t care . . . He . . .” continued Shashank and then stopping himself mid sentence, he suddenly grabbed Nikita by the arm and pulled her onto himself. She fell onto his jeans right near his crotch. “Fuck me. Just fuck me!” he said, as he held her hair. Nikita felt his thick hand slide into her hair and grab them. At that moment, she felt as if her hair were the strings of a puppet with which the puppeteer controlled every movement of his puppet. He turned her head towards his crotch indicating that he wanted a blow job right there and then! She decided to play along for the moment as she’d dealt with such men when they were drunk and upset. She knew that any resistance at this point, unless absolutely necessary, would only result in violence as it would be another beating to their already bruised ego. She unzipped his jeans and rolled his underwear down. As she began her job, Shashank continued to talk as he began to enjoy himself. “My father never loved me. NEVER! I’m not fucking worth a single penny to him. A nobody, somebody to just throw some money on and then forget . . . Bhenchod! What about how I feel, dammit?!” he shouted. “What about how I FUCKING FEEEEEELLLL!” He shouted and then pulled Nikita away to the opposite corner of the car. Then with a sudden surge of energy, he threw himself on her, sending the car swaying in that direction momentarily. Nikita was stunned and the first thing that came to her mind was,
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‘What must Vijay be feeling?’ The moment she realized this, she knew she was truly in love. And then suddenly, there was this feeling of being suffocated along with the sensation of thick strong fingers and nails digging into her skin as she felt her skirt being pulled up. “Stop this instant, Shashank! I tell you . . . thamb, maderchod!” she shouted as Shashank ripped at her underwear. She slapped him across the face, sending him reeling back. The next instant, he climbed back on top of her with renewed fervor. “Bitch, you’ll give it to me where I want and when I want!” he said trying to pull her legs apart. Vijay just couldn’t take it anymore. He was trying hard to control his anger but then he knew that he had to do something. He swerved off the main road and into an alley and then suddenly jammed the brakes as hard as he possibly could, hoping this would unhinge Shashank in someway, without causing Nikita any harm. The car lurched forward and came to a grinding halt, sending Shashank right past Vijay onto the front of the car with his hands flailing about, like a child thrown off a cliff till he hit the dashboard with a tremendous force! His head banged against it and his arms crashed into the window on one side, and onto Vijay on the other. Nikita too was thrown onto the back of Vijay’s seat, which saved her. She got to see Vijay’s face for a split second before a bruised Shashank got up and got to work on him. “Bhenchod, you son of a bitch! Son of a whore! I’ll skin you alive, maderchod!” he roared, as he pounded on Vijay with his fists. “Bhosdeeke!” Nikita immediately came to his rescue and began to physically hold Shashank’s arms back. “If you don’t stop ekdum atta, I’ll leave this second! And never come back! Patla ka?!! I’ll also abandon you! Right this second!” she shouted wagging her finger at him and hoping that her choice of words would work. Her ploy worked and Shashank backed off leaving Vijay, who was crouched and curled almost into a ball, to uncurl and slowly sit up. “Now get back here. We’ll talk about this at the hotel. Just sit back here and shut up. No more talk till we reach the hotel! Understand?!! Or I leave!” she said, miraculously getting Shashank to obey her like a little child. He sat back in the seat and went for his bottle of whiskey. Nikita also sat back and then chanced a look at Vijay who still looked spooked. Vijay somehow, moved back into position and started the car, putting it into gear to leave for the hotel. Through the rest of the journey Nikita gave Shashank a few more drinks, hoping that this would keep him restrained till they reached the hotel. Once they were at the hotel, Nikita took Shashank out of the car, gave a discreet look to Vijay, as if to say, ‘it’s alright, don’t worry,’ and then left for the room. All the way up, Nikita could only think of Vijay as she held up an almost completely drunk Shashank and then helped him into the room. In the room, she gave him yet another drink, this time having to coax him into it. She knew that in
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his current state of health, any alcohol was probably not the best thing for him but she just didn’t feel like subjecting herself to any more violence in any form and today he seemed very capable of another outburst. Letting him dose of, she had a small drink herself, neat, letting the potent alcohol run its warm liquid all over her gullet and then cascade into her belly. She felt the warm streak right from her throat to her stomach and then shut her eyes as she lay on the bed next to Shashank, facing the opposite side. She then switched off the lights and let the alcohol do its job. In a few minutes, after a few random half thoughts, she was asleep. She awoke in an hour and a half, as she usually did. Shashank was very groggy and almost refused to go home. “Sleep here na,” were the only words he kept repeating. But Nikita somehow managed to get him out of bed and back down to the car. The thick silence of two souls waiting to communicate impregnated the air in the car all the way to Shashank’s house, right until Vijay had dropped Shashank onto his bed and come back down. It was only when they were out of Krishna Kunj and then back onto S.V. Road, that Vijay spoke. “I just can’t take it any more!! It hurts so much!” he said, continuing to look at the road, almost as if he couldn’t bring himself to look at her. His choice of words stung Nikita in a way in which she couldn’t understand. ‘It hurts so much’, how could she be angry with that?! “Tar kaay karaycha re, it’s my job, after all,” she said. “Yes, I know, I know,” said Vijay, sliding one of his favourite Kishore Kumar CDs into the music system. He turned the volume up indicating that he wasn’t interested in any more conversation at the moment. Nikita also turned her head away and began to look at the road. Outside Rasraj, the famous vegetarian restaurant close to Mithhibai College, she saw a string of prostitutes standing across the road outside an area which was the brothel of Vile Parle. They stood at intervals; at every thirty metres another ilaka began and then ended. No prostitute from one ilaka could stand in another. Much like the bhel wala who’d gotten the coveted spot at Nariman point after his uncle had passed away, every five meter stretch belonged to a particular group of prostitutes. Nikita looked at them and the memory of the evening returned. Today Shashank had tried to force himself on her. What would stop him from doing it again? She then thought about her restaurant and her home. Just a few more days and she would be out of this mess. It was almost as if life had set it up for her. Just as she was going to move into a new life, Vijay too had become a part of her world, such an indispensable part, and in such a short while! Nikita let her mind drift from one random thought to another for a while. Soon they’d reached the link road in Malad. “I’ve made some special food for you, remember? Yetos ka upstairs?” she asked, looking hopeful. Something within her wanted to be appreciated by Vijay. She actually seemed to enjoy seeking his approval, his love. “Of course,” said Vijay, as he looked at her for a moment, taking in her features, first separately, then as a whole.
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Nikita seated Vijay down in the hall, putting on the television for him. “Bas ikde. I’ll just get the food ready in ten minutes,” she said and walked into the kitchen to heat the Kekada Masala in the microwave. She thought about Priyanka and then the rest of the day’s events. She hoped that things would get sorted out in Priyanka’s house. Years ago she too had hoped for a normal married life. Then there was a black hole in her cotton candy cloud. For years thereafter she believed that married life was not for her. Now her earlier feelings were back. The aroma of the crab wafted out through the shut microwave door as Nikita watched the dish turn slowly under the yellow light. Then the microwave beeped three times and the dish was ready. With great pride Nikita walked into the hall and laid the dish down on the table. She’d brought two plates with her too. The minute she entered the hall, Vijay smelled the spicy aromas of her crab masala. He walked over to the table saying, “Wow, this smells great! But I’ve never had crab. You’ll have to help me with it!” They sat down to eat and Nikita guided him right from the first bite to the last as they both fished out the succulent and soft white crab meat hidden under all that hard shell, slightly punctured by the coconut and kokum curry. Soon there were empty crab shell bits lying in a heap in an extra plate on the table. Vijay bit into another bit of white meat he’d fished out from a deep crevice. The taste was divine. He looked up and smiled at her. Nikita knew that smile, the smile which came only when she’d got through to a man’s heart through his stomach. She accepted that smile as her biggest complement for the day’s meal; the satisfied smile of a full, happy stomach. Later they made love and all through the night Nikita could taste the flavors of the cooked crab in Vijay. She felt his gratitude as he worked harder to give her pleasure. With each passing day the difference between pure sex and love making was making itself more apparent to Nikita; one she’d been having for years at frequent intervals and one was a recent visitor which brought with it great truths and infinite bliss. The next morning Nikita awoke to Vijay’s calm but thoughtful gaze. “Kaay re, what’re you looking at mister?” she asked smiling her deepest smile. “Can I ask you direct ekdum kya?” he said. “Ho, saang na, what is it?” she asked, a bit anxious now. “Nothing much . . . just . . . who’s Aslam?” he asked. Nikita looked away for just a second before deciding to tell him all. She then turned around and began her tale.
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he pain seemed like someone had their fist shut tight over her throat; her every breath. Sometimes the fist loosened up a bit, but then it was back. Pushing these thoughts away, letting it come and stay, humouring it, none of it seemed to get that fist to go away; it still held on like a perfect fit onto her breath, onto her very being. When Asawari slept she felt it, when she awoke, it was there like an old friend back to greet her again and it stayed with her through every action, random or otherwise throughout the day. For some unexplained reason she still felt like walking on the beach, but not with any friend or company; just alone. It had been weeks now. No male member in the house; an out of season rain in the village which caused everyone’s mango orchards to lose all their fruit for the year or at least almost all of it; the rising numbers of creditors who had paid advances for this year’s supply of the mango king; all plagued the Jog household. Standing at the seashore on the wet sand, Asawari looked out into the sea again. She couldn’t understand why she felt no anger at the sea, almost as if it held some inexplicable answer to all of life. To her, her father was the stability of life itself, the pillar on which every belief she’d ever believed in since childhood, stood. And now with that pillar gone, everything was coming crashing down onto her teenage head like a ton of bricks. Shekhar made her feel that the world was a place which did well for you if you did well unto it. Now he was gone and with him that feeling itself which to her fifteen year old mind was the biggest feeling of loss as yet. She pressed her foot into the wet sand right near the white froth and then waited side stepping her previous footmark, to let the surf roll into it and then cajole it into dissolving into its white arms. She shut her eyes and listened to the waves; the only thing which gave her peace. From left to right and then from right to left, she heard the sound of the surge, the splash, the slither and the recoil. When she opened her eyes again, she saw a man walking into the sea. For a moment it enlivened in her, her worst fears and the momentary surge shot up in her throat as she was about to shout out to him. Then she realized that the surge was part of her, the man was part of the world outside. She held herself back and stopped in mid motion with her hand reaching out partly and then she 198
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drew it back. She watched him as he waded into the water with gay abandon. Where did this man come from? She thought. Had he been watching her? She hadn’t seen him all this while. She hadn’t seen him approach. Handling these questions in her mind, she watched as he let a couple of waves embrace him like a bear hug; she watched him lunge into the next one and begin to swim further into the sea. ‘Does this man know which parts are not to be treaded in?’ she thought. She couldn’t help the anxiety within her as she stood there and watched the man who apparently seemed to be in full control of the situation. Thinking that it was time she stopped her mind from playing any more tricks and leave this man alone to his peaceful swim, she turned away. She looked back at the crescent of palm trees which lined the back of the beach like a new moon. As she began to walk away, she heard the sound of a muffled cry. Her ears perked up and almost as soon as she tightened up, she began pushing the thought away. Another vehem, she thought to herself. “Doka phirla re mazha! I’m imagining screams for help now,” she thought. Then she heard the cry again, but this time it felt more real than the last one. So real that it made her turn around to see the flailing arms being taken under by yet another angry wave. That image brought about a wave of anxiety and the strongest adrenaline rush she’d ever experienced in her thin body. She charged towards the man in the water or what was left visible of him, with all her might, pushing aside all her emotions to let her tackle the situation with steely objectivity. The undertug had caught the man. If she approached him straight from the front, she’d in all probability be caught in it herself. She had to swim to him diagonally, even though that would increase the time she’d take to reach him. She getting stuck in it herself would be of no use. Right now she had the responsibility of three lives. The man, herself, and her mother back home. Swimming diagonally, using her entire body like one spring to thrust forward through each new frothy wave, she moved in towards the man who had now stopped shouting and had begun to give in to his fate. This image egged her on even further. Fighting the exhaustion, she pushed forward till she managed to reach him and grab him. Even through the emotional charge of the situation around her which was like being in the middle of an extremely high voltage electric spark, she could see that the man in question was extremely handsome. She reached out to him and held him from the back. Like all people fighting for their life in the sea, the first thing he did was to begin to grab her, without realizing that this would jeopardize the safety of both of them. She somehow wrenched herself out of his vice-like grip, using everything she had, to kick, push, and shove. She shouted at him, telling him to work with her and not against her. He understood and stopped. She then used one arm to hold him across the chest and under the shoulders and then the other arm to begin to swim back towards the shore. Her muscles were beginning to ache like they’d never ached before. Every inch of her body began to feel like it was made out of lead, but she pulled on.
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After what seemed like an eternity, she finally managed to drag the half dead youth and herself onto the sand. Using her last ounce of strength to haul herself onto the wet sand, she collapsed, panting into the sand. She shut her eyes and let herself doze off for a bit. When she awoke she realized that she was not in the same position in which she’d passed out. She was now on the fully dry portion of the sand and lying on her back. She sat up with a start to see the handsome youth sitting beside her and looking at her intently. He had brown skin, but the kind from which the golden glow of brownness emanated. His angular face and perfectly chiseled nose gave him the looks of a film star. He had a lean body but even through the wet banyan which he had on, Asawari could see that each muscle of his body was taut and toned. “Thank you. I . . . I . . . don’t know what else to say really . . .” said the boy. “My name is Aslam,” he added obviously not really knowing how to handle this conversation. “You see, no one’s ever saved my life before,” he said smiling this time. “So I don’t know what to say.” Asawari smiled back, despite herself. “There is no garaj to say anything. Tension naka gheu. Anyone would have done that for someone in your halat,” she said. “Are you from around here?” he asked. “Yes, I live just down the beach,” she said, pointing out her house to him and then realizing a bit too late that after all, he was a stranger. Her expression betrayed the thought in her mind. Aslam smiled almost as if as a reaction to her change of expression. “I’m from Bombay. I have a house here near the Bhave’s house which belonged to my father before he died and left it to me. So I come here once a year or so for a few days so that this house is at least taken care of in some way,” he said. “Waah! You’re from Bombay!” exclaimed Asawari. “Tumhi kiti film stars la baghitle? How many of them have you seen? You must have seen quite a few na?” she asked revealing her naiveté. Aslam laughed out loud at this. Asawari was enraptured by his laugh. It was a throaty laugh, the kind which instills confidence and love, the kind which betrays a man’s infinite experience and the warmth it brings in some people. She thoroughly enjoyed his laugh and the way he threw his shoulders back slightly while he let it out. She couldn’t help but be brought back to the memory of her father’s laugh. The fist closed over her very being yet again like a vice. Her face fell and Aslam noticed it. “Hey, I didn’t mean to be rude! Sorry for the laugh. It’s just that one doesn’t really see stars walking around on the streets, you know!” he said. Then continuing to explain himself, “It’s such a big city that friends drift apart over years sometimes purely due to the distances.” “Yes, yes I can understand,” she said. “Ok I must go now. It’s time to get back home.” She began to get off the sand. “Uhh . . . ok . . . Well, thanks again. You’ve saved my life!” he said.
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“No mention!” she said, smiling, beginnig to walk away and deciding not to look back. On her way back, she didn’t notice the sea or the shore, she didn’t really feel the fist in her chest again, but of this she wasn’t aware. She only thought of this man and how it felt to touch someone at such close proximity. This was the first time she’d felt that feeling which Jaai had mentioned time and again with her many such encounters with young boys. She thought about his laugh again, his face, his smile and then she pushed the thoughts away as she entered her house. The recent off season rainfall had caused every house with an abundant supply of mango trees to suddenly develop many debts. As the money for the mangoes was usually paid up before the season’s actual growth, every house which like Shekhar’s had an abundance of trees was now in a soup. Shekhar’s family owed a considerable amount of money to the Kulkarnis and now Mr. Kulkarni had decided that it was time to get back his money. When Asawari entered her house, she saw Mr. Kulkarni sitting in the main seating area with her mother who had her head hung low. “Kaay karaycha . . . I also know that these are tough times for you’ll but . . . aamchi pan garaj aahe . . . I’ve also fallen on tough times,” he said, getting up to leave and just then, noticed Asawari. “Oh ho . . . kiti chchhaan disnari mulgi aahe! What a beautiful daughter you have. This is Asawari, no?” he asked. “Ho,” said Shanta, affirming his supposed doubt. “Bara, bara . . . so please send me that part payment which you spoke about. Aani I’ll just forget about the remaining amount. You can send it by with Asawari only in the evening if you like. But just hurry,” he said as he began to move away from the two Jog women. Asawari looked at his large form shouting out his lethargy and gluttony and intuitively, had a bad feeling about him right that instant. He was such a contrast to her father in shape and size. Thinking about her father for that flash of a second, brought back the memory of Aslam in the water. She looked at her mother and decided to divert her inner mind by getting into a mundane chat with her. Both mother and daughter then went into the kitchen and started cooking the night’s meal as they spoke about this and that, steering clear of the one subject even life wouldn’t give them a chance to broach soon enough; the subject of Shekhar’s death which like most family members left behind by the tragic demise of another member, they too never spoke their hearts out about. Durvankur was a two storey bungalow which was situated very close to Kastu’s girni, or the small flourmill which belonged to an elderly man named Kastu. Kastu’d known Asawari since she was a little kid as she often came by his flour mill with her father ever since she was an infant. He waved to her as he saw her pass by in her petticoat and skirt. Durvankur belonged to Mr. Kulkarni who now lived alone after the untimely death of his wife. They had not been able to have any children over the years and so Mr. Kulkarni lived alone in a bungalow which otherwise could have housed a very large family. On the ground floor of his two
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storeyed bungalow, was Chaitanya medical shop, one of the more popular chemist stores in the vicinity. As Asawari approached the structure she wondered why someone with so much money still didn’t have any taste. His bungalow was painted parrot green. The staircase which led up to his house was adjacent to the chemist and right above it was a balcony which overlooked the access road to the shop. ‘This man must be making enough money just out of the rent of the chemist store itself,’ thought Asawari as she climbed the stairs up to the second floor. She rang the bell which made the sound of a bird’s cry that echoed through the narrow passage way about eight or nine times before dying out. ‘Tweew, tweew, tweev, tweev,’ it went. She put her palms to the side of her head hating the sound from the minute her finger pressed the small red button which set it off. “Chhi! Is this some bell to put outside such a motha house?” she muttered to herself. Within seconds the door was opened and Mr. Kulkarni came out in his finest white kurta and pyajama. “Were you about to go out somewhere ka?” she asked. “Arre no, no not at all! Come, come I was expecting you,” he said. She entered the house to see that there was a huge television screen kept close to the window on a high pedestal. There was also an ‘L’ shaped sofa opposite the television near which there was a small centre table on which lay a glass with some alcohol in it and beside the glass, a packet of cigarettes. Seeing the cigarettes, Asawari instinctively took in a strong whiff of the air which told her that one had just been smoked and was now probably lying in the accompanying cut glass ashtray. Immediately the whole surrounding took on another flavour for her. Her father had never touched either cigarettes or alcohol and as such she still associated it with negativity. She turned around to catch Mr. Kulkarni staring at her. She dug uncomfortably into her skirt pocket to remove the packet which contained the money to hand it over to Mr. Kulkarni. As she extended her hand, he moved in a little closer. “Arre, what’s the hurry? Sit down. At least have some water. Wait, I’ll get it for you,” he said and moved away from her to go into his kitchen without even giving her the space and time to refuse. His moving away made her feel more at ease again and she waited patiently for him to return so she could dispense with these formalities and then rush back. He was back almost in an instant with the water and he handed it over to her. She began to drink it and quite liked the cut glass designs on it. She looked into it carefully as she drank. As she began to put the glass down, the image of the glass in front of her was replaced by that of him staring at her again. Keeping the glass on the centre table she again removed the money and extended her hand towards him. This time he smiled and stretched his hand towards her to take it but instead touched it. “You’ll are going through tough times . . . keep the money . . .”
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Asawari immediately slipped her hand out of his, still not absolutely clear about the intention; afterall this was someone she’d known since she was a kid. He stepped forward now. “You are so very beautiful! You are like a pari with green eyes . . .” he said and moved in towards her and held both her hands. Asawari froze, not knowing what to do for a split second. And in that split second, he moved to try to kiss her. She felt his warm, soiled, stench-filled breath close to her. This jerked her out of her momentary transfixion and threw her into action. She bent down and rushed out to the other side from under his arm and moved in close to the window where the television set was. He turned and followed. “Come, come now, beta . . . you’ve known me since you were born . . . Why the shyness . . . I’m just your uncle Kulkarni after all,” he said as he moved in for another try. Asawari felt a mixed surge of anger and helplessness. She turned around towards the window and considered jumping out for a second. Then, instead almost as if some survival instinct had kicked in, she pushed the large television set with all her might so that it slipped off the stand and slid onto the window sill. “Arre what the hell are you doing?!! Vedi jhalees ka?!!!” shouted Mr. Kulkarni. Not waiting a second more for any action from him, she heaved further till the television set slowly creaked and went over. ‘DHADAAM!!!!’ Mr. Kulkarni was shocked beyond belief. Asawari immediately looked over to see what had happened. She first saw the remains of the television set spread all over the pavement below, with some small circular parts still rolling away from the crash centre. And then to her absolute surprise, she saw Aslam standing near the chemist looking back up at her. Right then Mr. Kulkarni came up from behind and pulled her back in with her hair. “Kuttiya! How dare you! I’ll teach you a lesson!” he cried as he began to slap her hard across the face. Asawari screamed and began to feel the warmth on her cheeks and nose after the jolt of each successive slap; in the background she heard a loud bang. Both of them turned to look at the main door which had now been broken in by Aslam. Within seconds he was onto the larger, older man. He punched, kicked, elbowed with the speed and form of a seasoned street fighter leaving no chance for the opponent to even think of reacting, let alone put his thoughts into action. Within seconds, Mr. Kulkarni was on the floor still at the receiving end of Aslam’s wrath. “Arre baba, stop . . . STOP! I’m sorry! Saangitla na . . . SORRY!” he cried. But Aslam went on and Asawari watched. She felt some kind of a surge of happiness, almost as if this incident and what was happening was some sort of a vengeance not just for what had happened today, but also for what had happened during the Ganpati Visarjan when her father was lost at sea. Each attack on Aslam’s part was for her an attack on life itself, for having been so cruel to her and so she
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looked on with a slight smile on her face, anger still burning her eyes. Aslam then kept his finger on his lips indicating for Mr. Kulkarni to quiten down. “Do you want the whole village to know what happened here?” he asked. “No baba, no! Not at all! I’m sorry . . . I’m sorry . . . please don’t hit me,” said the fat man, cowering on the floor. “Now I’m leaving with her and if you tell anybody anything about this or ever try anything crazy like this again, I’ll come back here and make you a Muslim too! If you know what I mean . . .” said Aslam, with a spark in his eyes as he said the last line. The white kurta clad man shivered at the thought of the threat and nodded vehemently. Aslam caught Asawari’s arm and almost hauled her out of the house. As she was tugged along, she felt strangely happy at being dragged out by a complete stranger. His face was still shrouded in absolute determination as he led her down the steps and then onto the open street. She just kept gazing at him. She took in every feature of his face, the back of his head, his magnificent stride as he swept her along. She felt secure, she felt safe, she felt at home, and she didn’t even know this man! Somewhere she felt like she’d gotten something back. Something she thought she’d lost forever. Sitting on the steps of one of the oldest and grandest houses on the seashore, Aslam moved in for another kiss. Asawari shut her eyes yet again and let herself feel the harsh but soft lips take her into them again. She liked to keep her eyes shut and make the moment as private as possible, her very own moment. As she felt those waves of skin around her mouth, she could hear the sea behind with its familiar drawl, like a gypsy trying to sell her the same wares she had already tried, tested and rejected time and again. It had been three weeks since the Kulkarni incident and in a haze of fond moments and memories, she’d moved into a relationship with her first man, her first lover. It had been slow at first but she couldn’t hold herself back now; she had to spend every possible waking moment with him and every possible scattered fragmented dream in and around him. She knew this was too fast, she knew somewhere this was too sudden, but she also knew she had no choice. This had to happen, she needed this to happen and this was happening. As she thought on, she suddenly felt his hand move in and squeeze her breast softly. She couldn’t tell why, but it suddenly made her feel violated. She put out her hand almost instinctively and caught his wrist, stopping him from going any further. “Arre kaadji naka gheu re . . . don’t worry . . .” he said. She just shook her head. As a reaction to that, Aslam moved in for another kiss and then just as she began to delight in it, she felt his hand move in again, much faster this time, right under her petticoat onto her bare skin and then before she could register the feeling in its entirety, she felt a tug on her nipple and that brought with it a joy that she couldn’t explain. She pulled his hair for a tighter kiss and made a slight moaning sound which she surprised even herself with. Now his
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hands were performing the same small miraculous act on both her breasts. She was in heaven and the combined feeling of absolute pleasure and absolute guilt was an intoxicating and heady mix indeed! She let it go on with an abandon she’d never felt before. Energy arose within her which took hold of her. Then it was over and Aslam moved out. When she opened her eyes, there it was again; that smile, that face gleaming in pleasure as it watched her come out of her bliss. She smiled too. Aslam looked at his watch and then gestured that they should leave as it was nearing the time for her to go home. They got up, dusted their backsides and began to walk back towards her house. “Arre . . . did you speak to your mother about Bombay?” asked Aslam. “Mmmm . . . nahee re . . . don’t know what to tell her exactly. Thinking of telling her that Jaai is going to her mama’s place in Pune but then Jaai to will go there and her mamaji would know na that I to have not come,” she replied “Arre, you don’t worry. Tell her that you’re going with Jaai. Anyway Jaai is going in two days. Speak to her and pataoo her na. Simple. Then I can show you your phaoorite film stars; all of them and all of Bombay too.” “I don’t know, re . . . I’ve never lied to aai like this . . . Pch!!” she said wrinkling up her nose. Aslam took her into his arms almost suddenly and kissed her again and any anxiety or apprehension she felt was suddenly washed away that moment. She wondered how this man had even gotten this far. Then she continued to enjoy the kiss; this one holding that much joy of guilt as it wasn’t in the confines of some steps hidden near an abandoned old house but right in the middle of the beach. When he was done, she opened her eyes and once back on earth, she checked around to see if anybody was around. Satisfied that they were alone on the beach, she held his hand and pulling him along, gently began walking towards her house. The next two days passed in a blur. Whilst going through her regular day, it was now only when she suddenly bumped into her mother’s sadness that she even remembered her own. Then the night had come for her to make her move. She’d told her mother that Jaai and her father would come to get her in the morning, a feeble plan as no one was going to come. Sitting together, Aslam and she’d tried putting together every permutation and combination of lies to make this Bombay trip believable, but it all just seemed too unbelievable and so Asawari had decided to just go away for two days saying that she was leaving with Jaai and her father. The father and daughter were indeed leaving for Pune but not even remotely in close proximity with Asawari. By the time Shanta could check with Jaai’s mother, Asawari would be halfway to Bombay and there would be no way to check with Jaai’s dad till mid day, by which time she would have reached Bombay and thought of something. This whole plan was so flimsy that under normal circumstances she would never have even advised an acquaintance to go for it, but normal times these were not. Asawari knew that Aslam was the only thing which was keeping her sane,
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keeping her from falling, from plunging back into the depths of the hollowness which followed her father’s death, deep within her. Thinking of these thoughts Asawari, after keeping her body motionless and her eyes shut for over an hour and fighting the urge to actually fall off to sleep, finally opened her eyes and slowly sat up. The first thing she looked at was her mother. Shanta lay asleep with her head resting sideways on a folded elbow, her bangles still on. She always did this, thought Asawari; slept with her bangles on. Ever since childhood, the sound of bangles in her sleep, made Asawari feel secure. She tip-toed over to the almirah behind which she had kept her bag, a large, old suitcase in which she had packed like a queen. She had thought many a time about Bombay and how she would have to take her best clothes there and dress well. Getting herself absolutely ready in fifteen minutes from the time she had surfaced, she was finally ready to leave. She looked at her mother’s face for the last time. She bent forward and looked at it closely. She saw the red marks on her mother’s fair facial skin which had been made by the bangles on the side she slept on. She had just turned over to the opposite side and so the marks of the bangles still made their claim on her soft features. Seeing that image, she suddenly felt a deep pang of guilt. Right then she heard a twig snapping outside and her first thought was that her mother shouldn’t wake up and see her like this. She immediately moved towards the entrance. As she stepped out, she looked over her shoulder one last time at the figure sleeping on the chattai on the floor, her last real feeling and possibility of a family and then she moved out. The adrenaline that throbbed in her, fired by a sense of unknown adventure was intoxicating! As she saw Aslam, she half ran over to hug him. Aslam had on a full rucksack. “Ready?” he asked. “Agdi!” she replied and then smiled at her own reply. They began to walk towards the railway station. It was a long walk and it would take them the better part of an hour to get there in time for their waiting train. As they walked away, Asawari slipped her hand into Aslam’s. At this time of the night, she knew, not a soul would be awake. It was her private world. The thought of such privacy in her own surroundings made her feel lovely. She smiled as they trod on. The smell of the night moving into early morning filled her nostrils. The train eased into Victoria Terminus and Asawari marveled at the architecture of this British built railway station. She marveled at the maagnificent domes, the windows, the arches and then at the sheer size of it all! On the train the smoke from the engine kept coming in to their second class bogey each time they entered a tunnel which on this Konkan route was almost once in every five minutes. Aslam was asthamatic, something which Asawari realized only once they were on the train, and so he had begun to find it very difficult to breathe once the smoke began its regular journey into the compartment. Asawari had nursed him, cooing into his ears all through the eight-hour-long journey. They got off the train and Aslam expertly handled all the thronging coolies with the aplomb of an absolute
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regular. Asawari watched with amazement at his ease in this city of obvious absolute mayhem. They got out and Asawari got her first dose of the rickety Bombay yellow and black taxi ride. Aslam right away took her to a seedy hotel room where he paid, surprisingly, by the hour. Asawari entered the room and walked upto the single bed. She was just taking in the surprising smallness of the room when she felt Aslam’s hands close around her breast from behind and then she felt them on her buttocks. Before she could react she felt her loose skirt going up and his hands gracelessly groping around the rims of her underwear. He pulled her underwear down with a quick movement and then pushed her onto the bed, turning her around in that one swift movement. She began to try to stop him but his finger was already in her. He began to hurriedly move in and out and she suddenly felt such a strong wave of electricity run through her body that she forgot all thoughts of objection. She looked at his heaving and at his rapid breath. “Kaay haraami aahes re tu! Bastard,” she said and smiled a crooked smile which then moved immediately into an expression of bliss. Aslam moved on and Asawari enjoyed the movement, from time to time expressing herself through her mouth, saying that she wanted a kiss, and getting one. Then she shut her eyes and began to enjoy the same electric sensations in her mind, one wave after another when suddenly she felt his second finger also becoming part of the act, bringing with it tremendous pain. She opened her eyes and began shaking her head from side to side telling him to stop, unable yet to find her voice. “Bas re, Bas!” she managed to say. Then as the sensations reached a pinnacle, she again shut her eyes, wincing every now and then at the pain. She now suddenly felt something very thick and hot entering her, causing not only much more pain, but following right after, the highest sensation of pleasure she’d ever known. Tears welled up in her eyes before she could even open them fully. “Aaah! What’re you doing!” she asked and saw him on top of her. It was only then that it hit her that this was her first full blown sexual encounter and she was right into the act. Aslam pushed on and she began to feel so much happiness, so much energy, so much solitude that she let it happen. She wondered right then why she did it, but she let it happen. She shut her eyes again and tried to concentrate at the centre of all the pain and bliss for a while, her hands running over his backside and lower back as he plundered on. Then the rise began again and she went into a swirl of the truth and her imagination as she open and shut her eyes in quick succession, till she finally reached her absolute peak and sucked in air through her mouth making a slight hissing sound for a split second before letting out a slight moan and a sigh of relief! Her entire body which was in a dance of tension and relaxation suddenly began to go through a kind of temporary complete relaxation, almost like at the end of an hour long massage. Every pore seemed like it had
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opened up to breathe! She now looked at Aslam who was perched above her and was smiling. In a bit of a play, he moved in and out some more but she could tell that he was done. She began to shake her head. “Kaay re haraami, are you happy now?!” She almost could not believe that she’d actually had sex. It was only when she saw him pulling out of her that she saw the thick rubbery coating on his penis. “Hey kaay re, what’s this?” she asked. “Condom, so that you don’t get pregnant,” he said. Then he got off the bed and moved into the small bathroom. Asawari could now hear the sounds of him washing up. She lay her head back down and shut her eyes. The long trip, taking care of Aslam, and now this, had tired her out. Before she knew it she moved on from the sounds of the room and fell asleep. Later that day Aslam took her to Colaba Causeway where Asawari saw many foreigners walking around like they were part of this city itself, higgling and haggling with the roadside beed, necklace and trinket sellers. They lunched at a place called Café New Martins where she ate fish curry rice made in a very different preparation, but with the soul of the coast in every bite. She absolutely loved it. For the rest of the day Aslam took her around all the tourist spots in the area; the Gateway of India, a walk through the Taj hotel, a ride on the ferry in the early evening. For Asawari it was so much to take in that it all seemed akin to a dream where everything she saw seemed only partially steeped in reality. The day went by in a haze of new colours, objects, people and places, all encompassed in loads and loads of new information which Aslam kept giving her with the adeptness of a professional tour guide. Then Aslam had an important call to make and so Asawari stood outside Regal theatre while Aslam made a call from a nearby P.C.O. “Lets watch a phylum na, pleeeaassee,” she said, once he was out. “Chal,” he replied. Asawari looked up at the film poster on top of the lit up lobby. It was Dil Wale Dulhania Le Jayenge. It had the picture of a girl running through a mustard field towards her lover dressed in a leather jacket standing with a dimpled smile and his arms wide open with a caption that said, “Come . . . fall in love.” It seemed just perfect. They bought two tickets and went in. Asawari had never really liked Shah Rukh Khan before this. He was just way too much she’d thought, but in this film she just couldn’t understand why but she’d fallen in love with him. She remembered her father when she saw Amreesh Puri in the film. She could relate to Simran in the way that she looked up to and felt about her father. Asawari cried when Amrish Puri told his daughter, “Ja, jee le apni zindagi”. She felt that was exactly what she was doing right at this moment. She held on tight to Aslam’s hand. At the end of the film when Amrish Puri lets his daughter, his pride and joy go, with the simple gesture of leaving her hand, she felt like holding Aslam’s hand again, as the hot tears poured down her damp cheek but when she reached out for his hand, she felt nothing and then looking to her
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right she realized that he wasn’t there at all. She looked back at the screen and then as the film drew to its end, she saw Aslam walking into the theatre again. “Kaay re vedya . . . where the hell had you gone . . . you missed the end na aatta!” she chided. “Arre, had to make another call . . . kaay karaycha re . . . it was damn urgent. Good, kya?” he asked. “Ho re . . . atishay chhaangla re . . . khup bara!” she said and moved her head from side to side. “Aata kaay . . . what are we going to do now?” she asked. “Just walk around Colaba area re. Then I’ll take you to a new place for dinner. Koyla Rooftop Restaurant.” He said and then made a sign with his forefinger and thumb joined at their tips and three fingers standing erect saying that it was a really special place. They walked out of the darkened temple of light and sound and out into the ever alive city. Aslam led the way as they chatted about the day that had passed and their miniature escapades. He led her into the bylanes behind the Taj Mahal Hotel and pointed out various things, one among them being the story of how the Taj was built backwards. Asawari kept thinking that he was pulling her leg but then after a lot of ‘God promises’, she believed him, at least for the time being. Then they entered a rather small bylane which was very empty and rather dark. “Why from here only . . . lets go through the other lane na . . . andhaar aahe re,” she said. “Arre, the restaurant is just around the corner at the end of this lane only. I’m there na bavdat . . . who’ll have the gotis to try anything, huh?” He said and pulled his shirt off his chest in a manner very similar to Shah Rukh’s from the film. She buried her head in his chest, smiling for a second. Right then someone hit Aslam from behind on his head, hard. Dhatttt!!! He fell forward. Asawari looked at the assailant and realized that there was one behind and now two more came onto the scene from the front. Aslam held his head which was clearly hurt badly and he began to twirl slowly and then fell to the ground, all the time trying hard to look at what was going on. The two men from ahead came towards Asawari. They held her and one of them tied a piece of cloth around her mouth. She tried to shout as the acetone like smell began to burn her nostrils. She tried to scream against the sheer power of the large man’s large hands which were holding the cloth against her mouth. She began to feel a release as if from the world itself. Her head began to spin and her eyes began to shut. Just then she heard the sound of a vehicle screeching into the lane. A van stopped in front of them and the door was flung open. She was huddled into the van and her power to oppose was now 20% of what it had been five minutes ago. With her last sight of the road, as the door began its inevitable movement towards complete silence, she saw Aslam run anyhow towards the door and hold it open. The man in the Van with her took out a knife in a swift movement and pushed it with all his strength into Aslam’s abdomen.
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“Aaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!” screamed Asawari, as she saw the horror and utter shock on Aslam’s face as he looked at his own stomach and saw the blood. Then the door was shut and the cloth pressed deeper onto her face. The mixed feeling of utter helplessness, pain, anger, shock, rage and then the white calm, was the last thing Asawari remembered of that gruesome incident which was to haunt her for years to come. Another man, another God, lost. Yet another tear rolled down her cheek as she now looked away yet again, now coming to the end of her two hour long tale. “Why me? What had I done to see such a thing twice? Why Aslam? Why him? Why us? And why on that day, our first day, our first real touch . . . Millions of such questions roamed in my mind. And sadly I’ll never really find any answers because there are none.” she said. “I was sold into the sex trade and was sold to the highest bidder for over two years till I escaped and then realized another big truth, that once a prostitute . . .” she seemed to be searching for the right word. “ . . . Almost always a prostitute. The best option I had was to enter the dance bar circuit and then remain at the top and maintain this aura about myself, so that I hardly had to sell my body, just the dancing and latka jhatkas,” she said. “And by the time I’d gotten out of that bloody chodumchaadi bullshit, aai had also expired of pneumonia. There was nothing to go back to. Nothing!” Vijay held first her hand, then moved his hand up to her elbow and then slowly and gently pulled her in for a hug. A long hug; a warm hug; a loving hug. She pushed her head into his shoulder from the side and then softly nuzzled her nose into his neck. She shut her eyes tight and let the remnants of the tear drain out. And then she held on as tight as she could for what seemed like a long, long time.
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he car lay parked in one of the alleys behind Mitthibai College, on S.V. Road. The alley was dark and almost deserted. The width of the alley was exactly that of two cars side by side and as of now the road ahead had been shut down for repair so it couldn’t get quieter than this. The fear of the police on their night patrol was always there, but somehow this just made sex here more fun for Nikita and Vijay. Vijay looked at her breasts pressed down by the rolled up T-shirt just above them as she made love to him astride him on the back seat. His mind wandered off to the morning and her restaurant which she’d taken him to. He’d quipped that if the earlier night’s crab masala was anything to go by, he’d probably end up being one of her most regular customers. He’d also told her about his past and the killing in his home the night he’d decided to run. They’d bonded over lunch some more over the thought of how each one of them had a past more interesting and painful than the other. He smiled as he thought of this and then was soon brought back to the present by the heightening sensations taking a hold of him. He buried his face between Nikita’s breasts as he came into her and she onto him. They lay like that for a while, his head just below her neck, hers onto his head from the top, their muscles relaxing after an exhausting half hour. Nikita moved her hand downwards from his head to his face and stroked it. And in that movement Vijay saw the marks on her forearm. “Arre, what’s this re? They weren’t there yesterday . . . what happened?” he asked. Nikita moved him off, letting her skirt fall into a disarray below her as she casually flopped onto the seat beside him. “Kaahee nahi re, Shashank was again in one of his moods. That’s all,” she replied. Vijay sat up. “Arre, but this is to full violence-shiolence. Nail marks, that too itne deep . . . this is becoming too much bhai!” he said. “Arre, now what can I do? The guy is just getting more and more emotional every night, followed by all that gussa and zabardasti. But it’s only a matter of a few more days na, then it’s over. Full stop.” she said. 211
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“But with the manner in which he’s getting attached to you, ekdum emotional and all . . . do you think he’ll just let you go once your term of this deal is over?” he asked. “I hope so . . .” she replied. Vijay now turned and sat straight facing the back of the front seat, lost in thought for a bit. “Once this is over, let’s move to another city for a while.” “Arre, just today only I showed you my restaurant na? And now you’re saying lets move, veda jhaala ka?” “I understand but I feel that this man will not leave you so easily . . . at least till he gets a little thanda, we should move away . . . Just think about it, bhai . . . that’s all I’m saying.” “Hmmm . . . maybe . . . once the renovation in the restaurant has started, maybe . . . Khup ved jhaali since I took a break. Lets see . . .” Vijay was lost in thought again. Nikita let him be for a while as she herself looked out of the mildly frosted window pane at the humid night outside. Then she turned towards him and asked, “Atta kaay jhala re?” “Nothing, nothing. I was just thinking . . . I should go back home soon and see if I can get any remaining money from there. After all, I am the only son. It would help me also to move out of this job,” he said. “Actually, I’ll try to go tomorrow or day after only re. The earlier, the better.” This thought grew stronger in Vijay’s mind with each passing moment. He couldn’t see any sense in sitting here and taking this mayhem any longer. The drive back home was uneventful and Vijay held Nikita’s hand with his left hand, as he kept shifting between the gear shift and her soft hand. There was no more talk of his trip back home, but Vijay thought about it through the night and the first thing in the morning he went up to Dadar station and booked tickets for the evening train. Nikita was surprised to see that he was going to leave so soon. It was most unexpected. But Vijay’s mind was made up. Getting leave, surprisingly, was not a difficult task as Vijay just had to tell the groggy Shashank that his mother was seriously ill and so he would be gone for three days. Shashank was too messed up to be able to make much sense of what Vijay was saying and Vijay knew this. He wanted to come back and try to help Nikita get out of this mess, but he knew that for that the first thing he needed was money. With the hope that whatever his father had left behind was his, he left for Samastipur to get back to his seemingly unfinished story back home. The day went by in a blur as Vijay packed for his trip. The train journey was a hot and humid one. The second class three tier sleeper bogey which he was in, was packed to the gills. There was a constant stench of dried sweat which permeated through every square inch of the space in the dark bogey. There was a clamour to get in which led to many small fistcuffs. Vijay stayed clear of them and got his seat. Fortunately he was traveling light with just one small slightly broken suitcase. He really needed to visit the toilet but knew that it
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only meant losing his seat for the rest of the trip. So he controlled himself for as long as he possibly could and soon enough he let the rolling of the train put him to sleep. In the middle of the night he awoke as he felt so much wetness around him that he couldn’t bare it anymore. He realized that all his clothes right from his undergarments to his trousers and shirt were soaked in sweat and the smell of dried and wet sweat in the compartment was now mixed with that of urine, in all probability the result of some little child’s desperation at being caught in this sweaty hellhole. “Pch!” said Vijay, as he sat up. Now he just had to go to the toilet. He somehow made his way over the sea of bodies stretched out all over the floor of the compartment and in every little possible nook and corner. In the toilet he relieved himself, somehow balancing himself against the rock and roll of the now fast moving train. He noticed how the sole steel mug was tied to the train with a steel chain, lest someone steal it. The sight amused him. On returning to his berth, he realized that a lady with her two children had occupied his seat and were either pretending or actually were, in that short span of time, fast asleep on what was his seat. He just shook his head and tried to find enough space on the floor to sit and duck his head onto his folded arms which rested atop his bent knees. In this position he waited for a while for the train to put him to sleep despite the smell and heaviness in the air. But it just didn’t happen. After what seemed like an eternity of trying, he finally took off his shirt and bundled it up like a pillow and tried the same position as before, now with a little more lightness without his shirt. This time, he was fast asleep within a matter of minutes! Getting off the train in Patna, Vijay slept through another three hour bus journey before he finally reached Samastipur at 6 p.m. the same day. The hot air loo hit his face the moment he alighted from the state transport bus. Traveling through the lanes of his little town made him feel a deep uneasiness. As he walked down Kashipur road towards Professors’ Colony, he felt his heartbeat quicken. When he finally reached his house, he saw two thick Godrej Navtaal locks on the front door. These definitely weren’t his parents’ locks. He touched the door tenderly, a feeling of nostalgia along with pain, overcoming him. The incident from that fateful night came back to him with full vigour rendering him motionless for a while. He sat down right there outside the door which still proudly said ‘Choudhary’, and wept! He let it all out, going through each and every childhood memory that came to him and then through every successive incident which led to those brutal deaths that night. He felt the sobs overpower him and he knew somewhere that he needed to let this out. At some point through that otherwise blurry space in time as he sat there amidst his tears, he picked up some of the mud from the ground outside his house and felt it between his fingers. He missed his mother. He missed her submissiveness, her love, unconditional love, her forehead as she wiped the sweat from it in the kitchen, the belan in her other hand, her cotton sarees which always smelled of her and her glass bangles. He missed her ever so much!
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After a while he decided that the best person to ask about those locks was Prakash Jha, his father’s only close friend. Walking up to Prakash’s house which was only a few yards away, Vijay rang the doorbell. After what seemed like an eternity of silence, the door opened without the normal sound of footsteps approaching the door. Prakash Jha himself opened the door and his expression was that of shock and fear. “Vi . . . Vij . . . Vijay! You!!” he finally managed to blurt out, opening the door gingerly ar first as Vijay walked in. This was Vijay’s first time at Prakash Jha’s place. How many times had this man not come to their place uninvited and stayed on for dinner, thought Vijay. “Vijay beta, are you alright?” asked Prakash, now seemingly more at peace with the idea that Vijay was back. “Yes, uncle. I was in . . . in Calcutta all this while,” he said, changing direction mid-sentence, sensing that it would probably be better to hide the truth. “How have you been and why did you disappear beta after all that happened?” questioned Prakash. “Well I was . . . scared . . . to tell you the truth, really scared. Pitaji hit mummy and that one night she gave it back. It wasn’t something ever expected. And then this continued till it was all over,” said Vijay, best describing the night in question trying to stay as close to the truth as possible. “Hmm . . . that’s what I thought . . . anyway, achcha hai that you’re back, beta. After all, this is your town and that was . . . I mean, is your house,” said Prakash. “Sit, sit, we’ll talk more . . . I’ll just get you some tea first,” said Prakash as he went inside to make some tea. Vijay sat down on the small cane chair in the drawing room. There was only one chair placed in front of a television set. ‘How lonely this man must be, no company ever,’ thought Vijay. Prakash was back in a jiffy with two cups of tea. Vijay took it gladly, the feeling of having tea in his own town again giving him a surprising sense of wellbeing. With the tea now done at both ends, Vijay resumed the conversation, “Uncle, how do I get into my house? I want to take some things. There are two locks on the front door which definitely aren’t my parents’. Do you know whose they are?” “Arre beta those two are mine only. I just put them there for safe keeping na. With the amount of dacaiety nowadays one can never be too careful. There is a lot of valuable saamaan in the house . . . I mean . . . there seemed to be. We can go and open it up. Just give me two minutes; I’ve left the keys at my nephew’s place last evening only as I was planning on going to Dilli for some work tomorrow. I get it cleaned everyday, na . . . I thought . . . they can continue getting it done if they have the keys,” he said. “Alright uncle, I’ll wait,” said Vijay, making it clear that he wanted the keys now. “Ok. I’ll just go and come, fatafat,” said Prakash. He got up and left the house, giving Vijay a nervous smile as he left.
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Vijay sat there for a while looking around, after which he decided to watch some television. He switched on the set and began to switch channels when he began to suddenly feel very drowsy. He walked up to the wash basin in the corner and washed his eyes but the feeling just wouldn’t go. It was as if something was pulling him into a deep sleep. He sat down on the solitary chair in front of the T.V and shut his eyes; almost immediately, he fell asleep. Vijay woke up with a stinging pain in his left ankle. He realized that it hadn’t been long. He looked down to find a large red ant on his ankle, biting away. He shook his leg vigourously letting the ant slip to the ground. Then he got off the chair. He was still feeling extremely groggy. Just then he heard a sound of people walking hurriedly. It came from outside; he got up and walking up to the door, pressed his ear to it. He could hear voices nearby, fast approaching. Quietly opening the door, just enough to peer out, he saw Prakash along with the Daroga of the area and his two hawaldars walking swiftly towards the house. “Daroga Sahib, the boy threatened me also, just like he used to threaten his mother. Bhai now I know what kind of trouble Prateek had to face living with this rebellious boy. Please come fast. I put some sleeping pills in his tea but that might not help for too long. Please come,” said Prakash, as the group of four hurried on and were now just about fifty meters away from the house. Vijay shut the door, turned around, ran to where his suitcase was, picked it up and then ran to the back window out of which he somehow managed to slip out into the backyard. No sooner had he slipped out, than he heard the front door opening and voices filtering in. He ran for his life in not so different a way as he’d run a couple of months ago that night. Vijay didn’t stop till he’d reached the ST stand. To his luck a bus was just leaving the depot. He climbed onto it and then looking back at the receding Samastipur bus depot, he breathed a sigh of relief! This town was not for him and it had told him that for the second time today. This time he would take its advice and stay away for good. Standing near a mirror at the site of Shashank and his proposed Mobile Gallery on Carter Road, Yakub checked the muzzle of his new revolver carefully. He then cocked the hammer back and pointed it towards Imran and Nasir, closing one eye. “Dhishkyaun! Dhishkyaun!” he said, and then burst into laughter. Imran and Nasir had started off as VCD pirates and had then become close friends with Yakub’s father, Mustafa Sheikh, the top shooter of the Basit Ali Gang over the years. They now handled certain sections of the drug racket which Yakub’s father handled in his position as the right hand man for one of the underworld’s most notorious men. To Imran and Nasir, Yakub was the little 16 month old tiger cub who looked like he was grown up but was still somewhere learning the ropes. His future though, in their mind, was set. He was to be the next important point man in the Ali gang in another couple of years. This was his second pistol. The first one was given to him five years ago and Imran and Nasir themselves had been the deliverers of the cold steel colt 45. The new pistol was a Walther PPK, something
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which had stopped being produced years ago. Yakub had seen too many bond movies and had requested his father to source it and send it in for him. “It’s smooth like makkhan and small enough to go almost undetected if kept behind in your belt,” said Imran. “Sollliiidd piece!” “Ekdum,” echoed Nasir as Yakub removed his older colt and kept it on the table in front of them as he put his new possession in the place of its predecessor, checking his profile in the long mirror to see if the bulge was visible. Right then Shashank walked into the store. He looked like he’d just taken a hit. “Mr. Forever Badheer? How are you? Getting good action no? From your current aachar?” asked Yakub turning to face him. Shashank came up to him and gave him a hug. Then stepping back a bit he noticed the old pistol kept on the table. “Dude have you taken up the path of non violence?” he joked. “Yes, paani girne ke baad . . . perfect non violence,” said Yakub, eliciting laughter from everyone around, including Shashank. “Try the ghoda, hero,” said Yakub motioning towards the colt. Shashank picked it up and felt it in his hands. He felt the cold steel, the lines which merged into circles. The impending violence he could render with this piece of metal and the sense of power that went with it, gave him an instant high! “This is so cool, dude!” he said. “Le le yaar, its yours from today,” said Yakub, knowing that there were so many guns being churned around the various members of his father’s business organization that something like a five-year-old colt wouldn’t be of any value to anyone anyway. “You serious kya?” asked Shashank visibly excited. “Haan re, ekdum serious,” he replied. Shashank got back to feeling the gun. Then he looked at him and said, “Dude, can I have some more maal?” “Bilkul,” said Yakub and walked to a corner of the room where he’d kept a small knapsack from which he fished out a small metal container, and gave Shashank another vial of heroin. “Get your foot off the accelerator, chodu, take it easy. Your gaadi will have a bad accident otherwise,” said Yakub. “Yes, Boss. Mmm . . . can I pay you later, dude, I’m a little broke!” “Kyon miyaan? Kangaali at the beginning of the month only?!” “Arre, dude I’ve got to pay Nikita her remaining fifty thousand, na,” said Shashank. “Kya, remaining fifty thousand?!! How much have you given her already?” “A lakh,” said Shashank. “What?!! You should have told me, chutiya, I’d have got you that raand, for free. Why are you udaaoing your money on doing chamdigiri? Just let me speak to her and you won’t have to pay her one paisa.”
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“No, no, dude, there’s no need for that. Chill!” said Shashank. Yakub looked at Nasir who gestured that he should let the topic go. And so he did. “Chal, theek hai, I’ve got some setting to do with these two punterlog. I’ll call you in some time,” said Yakub. “Ok. Thanks for this, dude. Thanks a ton, bro,” said Shashank, as he gave Yakub another hug before slipping his gun into his trouser pocket and turning around to leave, the gun forming an obvious bulge on the side. “Choot ke dhakkan!” said Yakub, getting Shahank to turn around. “Put it behind in your trousers under the belt. Pull your shirt out, aise to the first hawaldar on the road will take your gaand for possession of an unregistered ghoda!” Shashank smiled. “Yeah dude. Don’t worry,” he said as he did just what he was told and then left the mobile store. “Sort out this chhinaal yourself,” said Nasir to Yakub. “Your father has sent word for you to start this mobile shop, fatafat. He needs a storage space fast for the maal in Bombay.” “Yes, chacha, I’ve myself been thinking about this jhol for a while now,” said Yakub, a thought seeming to form in his mind. “No more money this month. I feel I’ve thoroughly spoilt you. Make do with what you have,” said Inder, as he got into his car and left. Shashank stood there fighting the confusion of resentment, frustration and pain in his head. He absolutely needed the money. He had to pay Nikita. Why couldn’t he just stand up to his father? Every time the last decision couldn’t be his. No, this time he had to get the money. Shashank turned around suddenly, his body moving from confusion to action immediately. He moved towards his car. He got behind the wheel and got out onto the road in a tearing hurry. He had to speak to his father again and get this month’s money anyhow. He swerved onto the main road and saw his father’s car right ahead of him. He then began to tail him. ‘Wherever I can make it seem like I’ve just bumped into him accidentally, I’ll ask again,’ he contemplated. Inder’s car surprisingly, took a right turn from Linking Road, onto S.V. Road at the next signal. Shashank was about a hundred meters behind. Shashank was further surprised when his father’s car got onto the highway and began to move towards the international airport. Shashank just stuck on and when his father’s car went into the parking lot, he too followed suit, letting five cars go in ahead of him to stay out of sight. He looked around for the Accord in the many lanes of the parking lot. The evening was losing its colour and moving towards night. Just when he thought he’d lost the car, he saw it again. Only the driver was in it, no one else. ‘Fuck Dude! I’ve lost him,’ thought Shashank. Then he caught sight of someone who looked very much like his father, walking near one of the terminals with a middle aged lady in a salwar kurta with thick streaked hair. He immediately shoved
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his car into the closest parking space available and got out. He ran over to where he had last spotted the man and saw them again. This time it was clear that it was Inder. Running onto the footpath lining the terminal gates on the airport, Shashank began to tail his father and the lady with him. ‘Who the fuck is this? And what the fuck is he doing here? Going on a romantic holiday? No, he has no luggage dude,’ thought Shashank, as he kept tailing the unsuspecting couple. His forehead was now beaded with sweat as somewhere within him he didn’t really want to know the answers to these questions but his curiosity was going to bring him, face to face with them, eventually. He saw Inder and the lady stopping in front of a very busy terminal gate which had almost a hundred or more people gathered around it. Shashank managed to move in behind them at a distance from where he could almost hear them, but they couldn’t have seen him unless they’d turned around completely and judging from their actions, their attention was fixed fully on the passengers beginning to come out from the immigration counters within the airport. First one passenger came, his bag sporting the Quantas logo on over a dozen baggage tags, then another. ‘So, some fucker is coming in from Australia,’ thought Shashank. ‘But why is the old man so excited?’ Inder Mehta looked as excited as Nazia and then Nazia in full view of everyone, planted a kiss on his cheek, the excitement within her reaching a high. She was behaving almost like a little school girl. ‘What the fuck? What was that about? Fuck!’ thought Shashank. A family who looked like they were of oriental origin walked out, the now familiar baggage tags sticking out from their luggage. And soon after them a steady flow of passengers began, a mix of Asians, Europeans, Australians, Africans, and some flight crew. Each person who stepped out of the air-conditioned airport into the humid Bombay air was greeted warmly by either a smiling driver holding a placard with his name on it or by smiling relatives who immediately took up the task of pushing his trolley for him as a gesture of welcoming warmth. Shashank waited to see who the mystery man or woman was whom his father was waiting for. ‘Fucker’s never bloody shown such excitement for me bhenchod, when I’ve come from anywhere,’ he thought. Just then Nazia began to squeal with excitement, and held onto Inder’s hand. Shashank couldn’t believe what he was witnessing!. He craned his neck to see who she’d spotted coming out, but couldn’t. Soon enough, he saw Inder also getting excited. Amongst the flurry of passengers on their way out, Shashank began to guess who the mystery passenger would be. Could it be the middle aged lady dressed extremely fashionably in a trenchcoat and high heels? ‘Maybe it’s her sister,’ he thought. Then he saw another couple walking out together. ‘Maybe the guy is her brother and this is his wife . . . ’
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Now trying time and again to catch Nazia’s line of vision, Shashank finally realized who they were looking at. It was a young man who, in all probability, could have been exactly Shashank’s age. And from his features, as he neared the gate, he seemed like he was the lady’s son. ‘Fuck dude, so much fucking excitement for this dick?’ As the youngster moved out of the gate, Shashank moved in closer to the three to try and understand more. The youngster came out and Nazia and Inder walked up to him and as he moved in to hug Nazia, Inder took the trolley from him. This surprised Shashank even more and he now began to feel a sudden anger rise up within him, like a sharp object being pushed into him slowly. Once the youth was done embracing his mother he moved on to hug a smiling Inder Mehta and the warmth of the hug was so evident that Shashank began to unconsciously creep up even closer. “How’ve you been uncle?” The young man asked. “Arre, ekdum changa, Salmaan, tu bata, how’ve you been?” Hearing the word ‘uncle’ made Shashank feel better fleetingly. He now moved back a bit as the trio turned away from the gate to walk back towards their car. Inder now began to look around for their driver to signal to him to bring the car and then removed his cell phone to call him as he kept looking out. Shashank knew that he had to move out of here fast, else he might just be spotted and so he slunk off in the opposite direction. Five minutes later, he reached his car. Slipping into the passenger seat, Shashank let the door remain open as he sank into the seat and stared out at the massive Chattrapati Shivaji Airport sign above. Many thoughts raced through his tormented mind. He wondered why Inder, Nazia and the young man looked so comfortable with each other. Why did they look so much at ease, why did they look like . . . family? The word ‘family’ stuck in his mind and he stopped thinking. He almost automatically reached for the glove compartment and pulled out his bag of temporary relief. After he’d administered another heavy dose of heroin, he waited for the drug to take over as he shut his eyes. But the wait was too long. Any wait, right now, was sure to be too long. As tears welled up in his eyes, Shashank punched the dashboard with all his might, first once, then twice, then repeatedly, letting his body lurch forward and then backward as the hard plastic began to cause bruises and cuts on his knuckles. ‘Fuck! Fuck!! Fuck!!’ He shouted, the tears now in full flow, his body surrendering itself to racking sobs. “Fuck!” Like a corporate executive, badly in need of a holiday, Nikita desperately wanted a break from her own routine and so had kept her phone at home for the day. She had this habit of spacing out for a while, no explanations given to anyone. The last person who’d been able to get through to her for the day was Priyanka and they’d decided to spend the day together. They’d gone and eaten golas at Juhu
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beach, followed by a lunch of spicy hot Pav bhaji which they’d savoured amidst many ‘sss’s and ‘suuu’s, smiling at each other’s painful bliss throughout the meal. After their sojourn at the beach food stalls, they’d both taken a walk along the beach commenting on how dirty it had become. Nikita spoke of how the beaches were back home in Ratnagiri and then changed the topic once she had finished her description to prevent any further talk of her home. As they walked, Nikita noticed that Priyanka had lost some more weight. “You’ve become more patli re. How come? Still going regularly for the aerobics class kaa?” asked Nikita. “No, in fact, I stopped that class long ago. I’ve been doing stepping classes. They’re very good, re,” said Priyanka. “Hmm . . . and how’s it going at home?” asked Nikita. “Ekdum perfect, thanks to you!” she replied. Nikita smiled and didn’t delve into the topic further. She knew better than to spoil a good thing. They walked on for over an hour till they reached the fishing settlement near the Versova beach side. Then they turned around and walked back. The sun had beaten down on them but they hadn’t cared. They were both in cotton trousers and had on thick dark sunglasses, the combination of which made them both look like twins. They then decided to sit on the sand for a while. Watching the sun go down together, neither of them spoke a word. Nikita loved this part of a relationship; the one in which you had reached such a state of comfort with someone that you could sit for a long time with them right next to you, but didn’t have to exchange even one word of conversation. She’d reached it with Priyanka, making her a dear friend. She thought once of telling her everything about herself; something she’d never done before with anyone from out of her profession for fear of social ostracism. But soon she abandoned the thought, for the time being at least. Once the sun had set, they moved towards Priyanka’s car. Over the months, she’d learnt to drive and her husband was out of town for a week leaving her as the tigress of the house with her Mother-in-law now having resigned herself to the role of a subordinate in all household decisions. Nikita could actually see the change in Priyanka. She was more assertive, she didn’t ask too much, didn’t apologize too much, didn’t say ‘please’ too much, dressed differently, even walked differently and the way she carried herself was almost like the way she herself did. Priyanka started her car, a white Zen, and maneuvered it out of the Juhu Beach parking lot. The sky was already dark. Priyanka switched on the CD player and a Simon and Garfunkel number, Sound of Silence, began to emerge out of the speakers. Nikita couldn’t really relate to old English music but she realized that Priyanka seemed to feel strongly for the song, seeing the way she swayed her head to the tune and almost sang along sub consciously. The feeling was contagious and soon enough Nikita too began to shake her head to the beat. “Madame you don’t have to go home today kaay?” she asked smiling.
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“Nope. I’ve said I’ll be back late,” replied Priyanka, not once taking her eyes off the road. This was another thing Nikita loved; the comfort of knowing what another wanted and felt and not having to ask. Priyanka took it upon herself to decide that she wanted to spend the day with her and Nikita too wanted to continue spending time with her. She didn’t ask. The drive went on with more of Simon and Garfunkel. Priyanka spoke of the film, The Graduate and how she’d loved it. She’d seen it for the first time when she was still in school and she could relate to what young Benjamin felt throughout the film. She told Nikita of how he is so nervous and such a bhondu that he keeps fumbling and goofing up and under all those social niceties he really wants, like every other young man, to have sex with this lady. Priyanka then took Nikita to one of her favourite places to eat kebabs, Raju Kebab at Four Bungalows in Andheri. There they sat on faded, dirty plastic stools, amidst throngs of families and bachelors, eating steaming seekh kebabs with spicy pudine ki chutney for dinner. Just when Nikita thought the night was over, Priyanka seemed to have another surprise in store for her! Instead of continuing straight on S.V. Road towards Malad, Priyanka took a right onto the Andheri bridge and then onto the highway, then taking a right towards Marol, they passed all the big office buildings and hotels that lined the Saki Naka area. “Arre madame, where are we going, baba?” asked Nikita, not being able to contain her restlessness and curiosity anymore. “Arre, just driving around,” replied Priyanka, without the faintest of smiles. “Accha madame, khup heroine you’ve become now haan, ok, I’ll also keep quiet. Let’s see,” said Nikita, looking ahead again, and then breaking into a secretive smile. They drove on for another twenty minutes, the traffic becoming more congested and the lanes becoming narrower. The area was predominantly a Muslim one now and dozens of meat shops, small kebab corners, marble shops and the like, lined the roadside. The city in this area, like its many other areas, had just sprung up out of nowhere and so the road twisted and turned according to the latest outgrowth of buildings which tried to dissect it. Tempos and trucks were either parked on the roadside or added to the already choked traffic. It being late, most of the shops were shutting down, their last customers on their way out to get another day’s restless sleep amidst this dust laden city. Nikita looked out of the car’s air-conditioned confines at the moving film which went on right outside her window, the film that was Bombay at night. After another fifteen minutes of driving and Nikita’s curiosity getting stronger and stronger, Priyanka’s poker face got even more set in its steadiness. The car veered off the road almost suddenly to park itself behind a stationary truck. Without saying a word, Priyanka got out. Nikita, not knowing what else to do and this anxiety of wanting to ask and not doing so killing her, stepped out too.
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“Atta saang . . . what’s the big surprise?” she insisted. “Arre no surprise furprise, just stopped because I got tired, that’s all,” said Priyanka. “Maich mili kya since the morning?” quipped Nikita. Without further response, Priyanka began to climb the wall by the side of the road, using the truck as support. “Oh Baavdat! What are you doing now?” asked Nikita, not able to hide her absolute astonishment at this sudden action. Priyanka just kept climbing and after she’d hoisted herself onto the wall fully, she stood straight and then with not so much as a turn of the head she said, “Come up fatafat, or you’ll miss this!” “Miss what, re?” asked Nikita. “Just come up,” repeated Priyanka and then as Nikita began to curse under her breath and climb up, she looked behind. “Arre, arre, come fast, come fast!” she said and then bent down to help Nikita up. Just as Nikita had managed to stand up, the curses continuing under her breath, Priyanka said, “Look!” and pointed to something in the sky just above them. Nikita saw an Emirates Boeing 747 pass just about 1000 metres overhead. The sudden noise was deafening and Nikita screamed out aloud with joy. “Aaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhh!” She turned quickly, enabling her sight to follow the plane as it crossed them and went across, right into the international airport which apparently was right beyond the opposite wall across the road, the whole of which could be viewed by standing on this wall. The red and white lights flashing on and off reminded Nikita for a split second of her Dance bar, Athiti. Now as the plane was taxiing on the runway, the blast from its turbines was enough to blow both Priyanka and Nikita’s hair in the air like those of Bollywood heroines in songs sung on hills. “Maasssstttt!” said Nikita as she smiled broadly, looking like the little Asawari, years ago at Ram Kaka’s workshop the day before Ganesh Chaturthi. As Priyanka and Nikita both looked on at the numerous large airplanes which lined the runway and the various activities which were happening on the airfield, another plane readied itself for landing behind them. This time Nikita looked behind in time to see it coming from afar and was eyeing it carefully as it approached them from behind. Then it did its number right above them with a loud “swoooossssh” full of a deep bass and the following sound of thunder. “Wow this is one of the best places I’ve ever visited in Bombay! Thank you,” said Nikita and turned to Priyanka to see her already smiling at her. “I know, I thought you’d like it. My husband brought me here some time ago. He’s started sharing his childhood and teenage years with me now, and that day I thought of bringing you here. Thereafter, I’ve come alone many times, whenever I could. Then sometimes I thought, maybe I shouldn’t disturb you, you helped me, now I shouldn’t pakao you too much.”
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“Kaay vedi aahes ka re tu? Call me anytime, patla ka, anytime!” said Nikita. They stood there for a good half an hour before alighting from the wall, their secret viewing galary, and getting into the car to get back home. Nikita got off near the highway and Priyanka left from there. She took a rickshaw to get onto S.V. Road and then headed back home towards Malad. On the way home, Nikita thought about Priyanka. Someday she would definitely tell her everything. On reaching home, Nikita first walked over to her phone and checked it for missed calls and text messages. She saw missed calls from a couple of unknown numbers throughout the day. This had to be Vijay. She felt bad that she’d missed his calls and wondered what must have happened of his visit home; how he must have felt visiting his home after what had happened between his mother and father, with no one there now but himself. Then she saw Shashank’s missed calls and felt good about not having taken the phone with her. She kept the phone down and went over to her cupboard. Removing her night gown she walked over to the dressing table and switched on its powerful sidelights. She removed her top and looked at herself. She looked at and felt her tummy. There was a slight amount of fat there, almost negligible except for when viewed by the ever-particular owner of this body. Her stomach with its slight softness reminded her of Urmila Matondkar’s stomach from Rangeela. She hummed the song, “Tanha Tanha Yahaan Pe Jeena,” and moved her hips from side to side as in the film for a few seconds. Right then her phone rang again. Hoping that it was Vijay she ran up to it and picking it up, was about to answer it when she realized that it was Shashank. She rejected it out of anger instead of letting it ring in silent mode. Right then she heard the doorbell ring. Putting on her gown, she moved up to the door and peeped through the peephole. It was Shashank! ‘Now he’s come ghari also! Bloody Bastard!’ she thought. “Open the Fucking door, you bitch! Why the fuck aren’t you answering my calls?! Open up!!” shouted Shashank. Nikita didn’t know how to react. The neighbours would all wake up any moment. She opened the door. “Why have you come here? This is my house!” she said. Shashank just pushed the door and walked in. “Please leave immediately. This is my house not some randikhana!” said Nikita, hurriedly shutting the door so that the racket would remain slightly confined. Shahsank turned around and faced her. “Why the hell have you not answered my calls?” he demaned. “I wanted to spend some time alone. That’s all. I hadn’t taken my phone with me, it was at home,” she replied, realizing that explaining was the best recourse at the moment. Shashank seemed fully ‘tun’ and had definitely taken a fix of heroin. “We’re supposed to meet every night till the month is over, that’s the DEAL!” shouted Shashank, the word, ‘deal’ ringing all over the house.
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“Keep your awaaz in low, you halkat! This is my house. And as for your ‘deal’, you’ve still got to pay me the remaining money which is already overdue, so I don’t owe you anything!” said Nikita, realizing that explaination was calming Shashank down at least momentarily. “Have you brought the rest of the money?” she asked taking her ploy further. “No,” said Shashank, this time in a much calmer voice. “Then get out, attaaaach! And don’t even call me till you have it! How dare you come into majhaach ghari and shout at me only without even having the money?!” she said cautiously, making her move by trying to move slowly but surely into the strict mother’s role she’d used countless times to bring Shashank in control in the past. She knew she had to ease herself into that role in a conversation and now she felt she was at the right point. Shashank was quiet for a second. And then he stepped forward and slapped her across her face with all his might. Nikita was flung sideways with the impact of the slap, her eyelid immediately splitting slightly to let some blood out. On the ground, she touched her own eye and discovered the damage. She was badly shaken up. Things were already out of control. Today, this man was on some other trip altogether. She feared of what would come next. Shashank walked up to her, bent down and moved his hand close to her face. She moved her face away. Then he reached for the pistol which lay at he back of his trousers and pulled it out. He cocked the hammer. Seeing the gun, Nikita was now shit scared. “Hey Kaay? What’s this for?” she asked. “I can have you whenever I want and wherever I want! Get it babes?” he said. “No you can’t, you Bastard!” she said and tried to get up to run, but Shahsank was upon her in a second! He held her leg and dragged her back. He got up again and began to kick her. Nikita took the kicks from those heavy legs and the thick leather boots. She tried to control her own screams so as to keep the noise down. After the kicks Shashank bent down again and got on top of her. He pushed the gun into her cheek as he spread his legs. She was in her nightgown which had a loose neck and he could already see enough to turn him on. Nikita now felt him begin to pull the gown up. With all her might she pushed him with her hands, keeping her elbows close to her body for maximum effect and in that same movement she turned around; the heavy body was moved off her for a second. For this insubordination she had to take many more punches and slaps, but she knew that she’d at least saved herself from certain possible future effects of what was to follow. “Okaay, if that’s how you want it, that’s how you’ll have it, bitch!” said Shashank and yanked her gown up from behind this time, the gun now digging deep into the back of her neck. The grogginess that clouded her mind didn’t let her get any sleep. Nikita woke up yet again and decided to sit up this time. After Shashank had left, she’d walked up to her closet, removed a bottle of whiskey which had been lying there untouched
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for years. Nikita had drained it down in one continuous gulp. Then she’d walked up to her bed as she was and had laid there waiting for sleep to take her away from the present. It had come in sporadic spurts, the spiral of the whiskey making the moment even more complex. Instead of helping her to sleep, the whiskey had only given her tortured body another reason to want to stay awake and figure things out. She’d looked at her toes for a few seconds in the dark. She’d wondered how things had suddenly turned around in her life again. Just a day ago she’d made love to Vijay, had shown him her restaurant, her dream, and now he was away and she was here like this. Her body hurt but she wanted to pay it no heed. She didn’t want to admit deep within herself that this had actually happened. She’d finally seen what she thought of all women; that which she never wanted to see. Just then there was a knock on the door. Nikita was amazed. She just sat there shaking her head for a few seconds. ‘Would this night’s wrath never end? Who was it now? An angry neighbour? Can’t they wait till the morning? Would they do this if it was a normal married couple who’d had a row in the middle of the night?’ she thought as she got off the bed and moved towards the door towards the knocking sound which was growing louder. Looking through the peephole she saw Yakub outside. “Chal re, open this up before I break it down. Fatafat! Chal!” he said. Nikita had no choice. She walked back to her cupboard, quickly pulled out another gown and slipped it on. Yakub seemed to be giving her a moment. Then switching on the lights, she opened the door and let him in. Her demure manner itself was enough for him to guess that something was amiss. “Kyon re, randi, Shashank seems to have come and done his taandav already!” he said, looking her up and down and then breaking into a thin smile. “I’ve come to tell you, stay out of his life! Ekdum! I hear that he’s met you, called you, spoken to you, SMSed you and I’ll make your zindagi a jhaat!” he said, walking around, obviously looking for something. Then he found what he was looking for; her cellphone. He picked it up and then raising it in the air a bit, threw it to the ground with all his might, crushing it. He stamped on it a couple of times violently till it was clear that this phone would never work again. “Don’t you dare try to take the sim out and get another phone. I want you to leave this city for now, till I get Shashank another gori raand. Till then, if this number ever comes back on, I’ll find you!” he said moving menacingly close to her. Nikita felt herself trembling. She’d never felt this kind of fear. “Or, would you like me to explain in Shashank’s language? After all, I am like his brother. We share everything,” said Yakub and put his finger on Nikita’s waist, thoroughly enjoying her moment of discomfort. “I think you’ve got the point,” he said again and then taking his finger back, he moved towards the door and within a second, he was gone. Nikita didn’t know if she should even shut the door anymore. Her most private spaces had been violated so thoroughly that she didn’t feel secure anywhere now. At that moment, every iota of her being felt exposed, malled. She knew she wouldn’t
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get any sleep tonight. Leaving the door wide open she walked up to a corner of the drawing room and sat down, leaning against the wall. She put her head onto her folded knees and shut her eyes. There was an absolute quiet all around. The still of the night had taken over again from the noise of a few moments ago. At times like these, all she wanted was not to be able to think. It had been ages since she’d spent time with herself all alone; it was generally at times when she faced a problem which was life altering and yet something she had almost no control over. She remembered that her father used to do that too. He’d once done it when he’d been fired from his job at the government guest house. He’d just taken a day off to wander around the town alone. He’d watched a film alone, walked around various favourite roads alone and pampered himself, spending on things he’d generally never buy, eating things he loved to eat. Then he’d soon gotten himself a better job. “It’s just life giving you a pause before putting you into a new direction; enjoy karaycha! Patla ka?” he’d said to her once. She had no phone and she wished dearly to get in touch with Vijay right then, but there was absolute no other way and staying at home meant facing the catch twenty two situation which awaited her. Don’t meet Shashank= trouble; meet Shashank= trouble. She left the house by 9 a.m., sure that this was a time that Shashank would definitely be asleep. She took the bus to Malad station, from where she took the slow local which started at Borivili to Churchgate and then hailed a taxi to Colaba. She decided to shop for colourful bracelets and other accessories from the Causeway. With her colour streaked hair and green eyes she was always mistaken for a woman with at least some foreign blood and had to keep proving herself by resorting to a thick bambaiyya accent whenever she began a conversation with the men selling their wares on the Causeway. After bargaining and buying a lot of colourful bead, metal, glass and wood bracelets she walked up to Regal Cinema and bought the tickets for an afternoon film. She then made her way to Café New Martin and ate some Fish Curry and rice for lunch. The owner, a mild mannered man knew her as an old, loyal customer and always gave her that homely smile that he had grown famous for. She remembered the previous day spent with Priyanka on the beach when she’d made the same suuu’s and ssss’s while eating the spicy pav bhaji as she was making now with the spicy coconut flavoured fish melting away in her mouth. Other than Vijay, it was Priyanka who’d become a family member of sorts to her in the short time span that they had spent together. Maybe it was because they hardly spent time together, she thought with great bitterness. She then pushed the thought out of her mind, deeming it silly. She followed the lunch up with the film, half of which she slept through as it was standard Bollywood fare; all looks and no story, went for a ferry ride later in the evening (reminiscing about the previous one with Vijay) and then went to Picadilly for dinner. Here she ate the chicken chello kebab with the rust coloured
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cinnamon powder sprinkled atop the buttered rice. After dinner she decided to walk from Colaba to Fountain and then head towards Churchgate station, from where she moved on at a slower pace towards Marine Drive to enjoy another small rendezvous with the sea, the chronicler of her life. She walked at Marine Drive till the police hawaldars on their night beat began to shoo away people from the promenade as it was past 12:30. The whole day, she’d been pushing away the thought of what to do at night and now the time had come to address the problem and face it head on. She thought of staying at a hotel this side of town, but then the only chance she had of contacting Vijay was to at least go home once. She decided to take the chance, albeit a little later when the night had worn on further and the chances of Shashank coming over were at least slightly lower. At 1.40 am, when the last local left Churchgate, Nikita climbed the footboard at the last moment. She loved to travel by train at night; it offered her an even quiter view of all the land which existed between stations around the railway tracks which was to her almost another city, undiscovered and thick with its own rules and secrets. She loved speeding past the Mahim creek in the dead of the night; the plastic and the waste attached to the roots of the mangroves formed a unique jungle and the river, thick with waste and sludge, forming the perfect accomplice to that jungle. On reaching her area, Nikita was on high alert. She kept looking around for any signs of a gold Ford Ikon but couldn’t see one anywhere. Entering her lane was the scariest thing for her as it was dark and narrow, with the possibility of grave danger lurking around the corner. The thoughts of last night’s violation came hurtling into her mind, not quite unlike the local train she’d just gotten out of moments ago. She pushed them out and made her way home, ever so cautious! Instead of taking the elevator, she decided to quietly take the stairs and have the element of surprise on her side. When she reached her floor, she almost had a minor heart attack when she saw a solitary figure sitting right outsisde her flat. He seemed to be fast asleep. Then she recognized the wiry frame; it was Vijay! Once inside the house, they embraced and held on to each other like two hungry bears for almost ten minutes, finally falling slowly to the floor where they kissed and groped for a while. Then hearing the faintest sound of an approaching car, Nikita got up and rushed to the window to check. Realizing that it was just another car passing by, she breathed a sigh of relief. “Kya hua bhai? Why are you so nervous?” asked Vijay, sitting up. Nikita came back, sat down near him, dug her head into his neck after placing her arms around his shoulders and told him the entire sequence of events which had occurred since he’d left for home. Vijay listened. Before she could even end her tale she’d gotten up, the urgency having been drilled back into her by her own narration. She walked up to her cupboard and started removing whatever jewellery
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she had at home, cheque books and other such items from the safe and putting them into a bag. She then proceeded to take out some clothes and pack them. “So you’ve also decided that its time to move out of this city for a while kya?” Vijay asked. “Yes. I don’t want to at all, but yes,” she replied. Just then there was a loud bang on the door. “It’s that madarchod! Hide!” whispered Nikita, fear written all over her face. While Vijay went into the bathroom, Nikita moved into the drawing room where the banging was getting louder. She walked up to the door and opened it, not pausing even for a second to let any thoughts enter her head. “Where the fuck were you the whole day, bitch?! And what the fuck’s happened to your phone?” asked Shashank walking in like he was the lion of this pride. “It broke,” replied Nikita, moving away without even realizing it. “I told you once, to me you’re going to be bloody available . . . anytime . . . any place!!” he roared. Nikita could see that he was drunk and stoned and there would be no graduation upto him repeating last night’s events. It would just happen straight off in a split of a second. “I . . . I . . .” she began. Shahsank had begun moving towards her slowly, when he noticed something on the chair in the room. “What the fuck is that? A suitcase?” he walked over to it and observed it closely. Nikita was beginning to panic despite using every ounce of self-control not to. “Fuck, this is from my house . . . Vijay!!!” shouted Shashank, as the realization dawned upon him. “You Bitch! Where the fuck is he?” shouted Shashank, ready to pounce onto Nikita. Just then Vijay rushed out of the room with the old wooden flat stool and hit it with all his might onto the back of Shashank’s head. SLAM! The large body fell like a ton of bricks to the floor and lay there slumped like a pile of clothes. “Chal, bhaag!” cried Vijay as he pulled Nikita’s hand. “We have no time to lose! This madarchod will wake up any minute.” Nikita pulled her hand free, ran into her room and was back with her little bag which she’d been packing and saw Vijay ready with his bag in hand, standing in front of the open door. Just as they were about to exit the apartment, she thought of it, went upto Shashank, pulled out his wallet and gave it to Vijay, who took it after a second’s pause. Once out in the open, they ran out of the dark, narrow lane onto the main road like two fugitives and hailed a rickshaw. “Dadar,” said Vijay, getting into the taxi from one side, Nikita from the other.
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very time she was about to fall into a deeper sleep, the feeling in her stomach would sway from side to side as if in a dance with the swaying of the Volvo they were in. The ghats, just before they slipped into Goa, were murderous and the driver seemed to be high on the thought of getting cheaper booze once across the border. The large bus swerved like a whale in an attack mode from one dangerous side to another as it executed the hairpin bends on the dark, misty mountain roads. Nikita opened her eyes again and looked out of the window. She saw that they were inches away from the boundary wall just before the ravine. “Unnnhh,” she gasped! Turning to her side she saw Vijay asleep with his head resting diagonally on the window, bobbing along everytime the bus went into a pothole which was almost every few seconds. His head even kept hitting itself against the steel pillars between the windows, time and again but he didn’t seem to mind. She looked at his features; the sharpness of a thin face, the curly, wispy hair which had just settled in some odd shape or the other, appearing askewed. She then looked at his shut eyes, holding within them the innocence and mystery of an infant and then at his mouth from which a couple of drops of saliva had dropped onto his shirt. This, most of all was what Nikita loved about Vijay; amongst all the supposedly strong men, this one boy-man was the strongest one she knew. Not afraid of letting his fears show, not intent on having his way and thoughtful enough to consider someone else’s feelings and opinions when taking major decisions, always letting others have their say. Sliding her hand into his, she thought then of the night that had just passed them by. She thought of Shashank and then wiped all thoughts of him out of her mind. She realized that the bus had finished its race through the ghats as the rocking of the bus had ceased. She moved the plastic curtain aside a bit to look out of the window and she saw that they’d just entered Sawantwadi, a town which she’d been taken to when she was five years old and had lived in for two months when her father had had to sort out some inheritance paperwork from his father’s land. From that frosted, dirty bus window she could see the jackfruit trees on the sides of the 229
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road with the thick, heavy fruits hanging like a close-knit family in a bear hug, right under the branches on the tree trunk. She looked down at the red soil to the sides of the road, traces of it left on the tarmac, the red of the rich soil moved from the drab grey of the roads to its full splendour just a few inches away, winning the battle between grey and red. As the bus moved onto the road which encircled the lake of Sawantwadi, Nikita remembered how she’d lived in a house that went down to the lake. She actually spotted it somewhere along the way and out of excitement thought of waking Vijay, but then decided against it. As the bus moved out of Sawantwadi, Nikita reveled in the memories of her childhood which sooner or later always brought pain with them, like an unwelcome visitor who enters right after your loved one has just entered through the door. Nikita thought of distracting herself before that black hole in her stomach began asking for its pound of flesh threatening her with memories of her father. She shut her eyes and now let the gentle rocking and rolling of the bus do exactly what it prevented her from doing just minutes ago, falling asleep. When she awoke next, it was amidst a lot of commotion with bags being removed from the carriers above and people arguing to get off first. She looked for Vijay and found him missing. Just before the anxiety of that discovery could set, in she felt a hand on her shoulder and looked up to find him. “Chalo, chalo madame ji . . . we’ve reached Panjim. Chalo utro, lets get down,” he said mockingly. Nikita stretched her arms and gave a mock sigh and shut her eyes moving into a fake sleeping position, before again opening her eyes and smiling at him. Then they both went through the entire process and line to get down from the bus. As they left, Nikita saw the bus driver and wondered what it must be like to just drive from one place to another all the time, to lead so many people to their dreams, small and big, across dark nights. Then they were out of the bus stand and into a taxi which was to take them to Palolim, the place Nikita had suggested. In her mind, not only was this the most idyllic and beautiful of the hundreds of beaches of Goa but was also at the absolute southernmost tip, the last place anyone would think of locating them. They entered a taxi and the driver, Ajay, began to drive them out of Panjim towards south Goa on NH 14. The Maruti van which was to be their vehicle for the next few hours was another rickety affair with some corners so rusted that one could see the road underneath and the sky overhead. “So what you do for living, man?” asked Ajay. Vijay looked at Nikita and smiled. He’d never been asked this by another driver before. It was then that it struck him that he was living someone else’s life, a borrowed existence, one into which he’d slipped under the cover of night and which was a cloak, not his skin. “Not much . . . this and that . . . you know . . .” answered Vijay. Ajay had been around for long enough to smell something fishy and be right about it. He knew right then that there was something not quite right about this
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couple. This boy who looked like a young boy from Bihar and this hot diva with the perfect airs of someone who Bombay has brought up for a while at least, just didn’t fit. He let it pass as he saw odd mixes everyday, from young starlets with middle aged, amoeba shaped men to old ladies with little boys barely 13 years old! This was a taxi driver’s life, to watch and not get involved, to have company but not really, all day long; loneliness amidst chaos. Ajay was just beginning to settle down into this as he’d been in this line only for a couple of years and didn’t picture himself doing this for too long. “Your first time in Goa, kya?” he asked instead. “My first, her first. We’ve heard a lot about Palolim so we thought of going there,” said Vijay. “Palolain . . . yes yes, best beach . . . perfect for honeymooning couple like yourself,” said Ajay, knowing fully well that they weren’t honeymooning but enjoying the slight sadistic thrill of watching them feel uncomfortable with the line. Then he decided to keep to himself, taking out a Lucky Strike cigarette, no doubt borrowed from his last phirang customer, and lighting it to keep him company. Nikita was busy looking out at the lines and lines of coconut palms which dotted the highway on both sides. Every now and then they’d see a mini lake or pond along the road and then some big hoarding set amidst the greenery advertising a luxury watch, car or hotel. During the following two and a half hour journey, Nikita and Vijay learned that Ajay had dropped out of school and started working as a guide, then had bought a water scooter along with four other friends and then started renting it out at Colva beach. From one water scooter they’d graduated over the next three years to two banana boats and three water scooters, but then had a fallout as one of the guys wanted to start a resort and sold out his share, then another and another, all falling like pawns for the quicker money. By the time Nikita and Vijay finally reached Palolim, it was close to noon and they were starved. With no advance bookings, they’d first have to find a place to stay at and then rent a scooter, as was the norm for almost every tourist. The current favourite was the Kinetic Honda, a scooter with automatic gears. Ajay left them at one of the entrances of Palolim beach. The sun was high upon them. As they stepped onto the beach with their luggage, the hot sand slipped into Nikita’s sandals. “Aaiga!” she exclaimed. Almost immediately even before they could really feel the burn of the intense Goan sun, a wiry, tall, dark man with thick dreadlocks walked up to them. “Alex,” he said as he extended his hand to Nikita even though Vijay was up front. “Rohini,” she said and shook his hand. “We’re looking for a room with a beach view,” she added. Vijay smiled, amused with the fluency with which she gave another alias to hide her first one. “Sure, follow me. I’ll show you the best place at Palolim!” said Alex.
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He began to walk further up on the beach to the right of the place where they’d entered. Nikita noticed how he was dressed and how she and Vijay looked and dressed so differently. Then as they walked on to the beach, she noticed the lovely lush green island which stood silently across the blue water, a couple of hundred feet away from the end of the crescent shaped beach. What caught her eye next was the lovely half moon shaped crescent of coconut palms which dotted the beach away from the water, further inland. This was the most beautiful beach she’d ever seen! She immediately held Vijay’s hand, walking up to him. He too was looking at the coconut trees. He turned and smiled at her as they walked on. Nikita then removed her shoes and took them into her hands; despite the heavy rucksack she was carrying on her back. “Arre, what are you doing? The sand is very very hot,” said Vijay. “Arre, ghabru naka re . . . I’ve loved doing this ever since I was a kid,” she said. The warm, soft sand stung the soles of her feet but it also almost immedaitely acclimatized it to its temperature, like an old friend met by chance on one’s first day in prison. She spread her toes and dug her feet into it with each further step, watching it embrace and suck in her toes into its beige mystery. They continued walking for a while before they reached Palolim Beach Shacks, a set up of about thirty tents made of straw and coconut palm leaves, rope and bamboos. Some tents even had a top floor above the ground settlement. “Wow!!” said Nikita. “Pch!” said Vijay with raised eyebrows. “Told you . . . best shacks in Palolim,” said Alex. After settling the price per day, they met the caretaker who was obviously a paying customer of this local guide and booked their room for a week. They’d taken a room atop another and it seemed almost like a tree house. It was sparsely furnished and the manager had told them to keep all valuable articles at the reception in a locker, the key to which he’d presented them with on payment of the advance for two days. Nikita went and set up one of the stools in front of the open side of the hut which looked out onto the sea and then sat down to gaze at it lovingly. She looked at the blue-green waves and then lost herself sometimes in the full picture of the coast and the waves and sometimes in one small ripple or a patch of white froth. She sat there for what seemed like an eternity and when she finally turned around, extricating herself from the clutches of the temptress that was the sea, she saw that Vijay had passed out on the bed, his rucksack to his side, one arm still entangled in its sling. Nikita decided to lie down right there pushing the stool aside. She let herself enjoy the colours of the sand and the surf with which she’d grown up for a while. Not long thereafter, her eyelids too began to feel heavy and she succumbed to the lullaby of the waves. Waking up almost an hour after they’d slept, Vijay and Nikita both decided that it was time to let their pleading stomachs have their say. They took their
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money and changed into what they considered Goan clothing, shorts and T-shirts and set off to find food. “Arre, we also need to hire a scooter, fatafat!” said Nikita. The manager told them of another fellow back near the entrance who rented out bikes, no doubt another school time buddy of his, waiting for another commission. Nikita and Vijay walked all the way back to the entrance which was easily a kilometre away from their huts and went up to the man they’d been told to find. They were quoted Rs 200/-per day for the bike. They agreed as Vijay was doing the talking. Just as they were leaving on their vehicle for the day, a grey, battered, coughing Kinetic, Nikita pointed out to Vijay that another couple was hiring the same bike for Rs150/-a day. “Changla re . . . khup changla . . . act like a laad sahib and just agree straight away to whatever the guy says huh?!” she said, annoyed at being cheated. Vijay smiled on as they rode into the deeper bylanes of Palolim. They realized that there was a little hut a few hundred meters away, on the little road which led away from the beach into the little township of Palolim. It had a television and a DVD player which it rented out to people who wanted to hire out their room to watch a film. They went ahead and checked out the elderly foreigner’s entire collection. He had come to Goa eighteen years ago, in the times of the Hippie movement and had never left thereafter, falling in love with the tropical climate as opposed to his native all year round chilly winds back home in Russia. They picked out a couple of films they liked and the Russian volunteered to keep the films aside for them. They then rode on through the small township. A very large and probably the most colourfully designed five star hotel in Goa was just a few kilometers away. They rode up to it, Nikita admiring the architecture which had strong Portuguese influences and had colourful mosaic patterns laid out in different sections. They made a mental note of coming back here for an occasional coffee or dessert. They rode back to the beach, parking their bike right at the same spot from where they’d hired it, with the owner standing right there chatting with his friends and giving them a friendly smile. They walked onto the beach towards the water. Nikita wondered how it felt to give out something which one considered one’s own to people and then see them ride around on it, day in and day out using it as if it were theirs, making it a part of their momentary existence. Then as she was still lost in this thought she saw a middle-aged foreigner lady lying on a beach towel, rubbing generous doses of sun tan lotion onto her already bronzed skin. Seeing her, Nikita realized that they’d need beach towels and sun tan oil as well! “Let’s go back to those shops there . . . beach towel and sun tan lotion . . . chal,” she said to Vijay who had already rolled up his jeans and walked into the water. He extended his arm towards her indicating that she should take his wallet and go herself. She did so adding a mock ‘hrrrmmmph’ as she acted like she’s snatching the wallet from his hand. Then she smiled at him and turning around, moved towards the shops.
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The shops were arranged side by side on the left of the road that led to the beach. The first two, right next to the entrance to Rudra, the hottest eating joint on the beach, were the general provision stores. They looked colourful and had everything from a vast array of imported shampoos and sun tan oils, lotions and creams, to an assortment of imported chewing gums, cigarettes and smoking pipes. Nikita wondered how they got these goods transported all the way down south to Palolim on a regular basis. She bought some mint chewing gum, a tube of toothpaste, some sun block lotion, the strongest kind, and two beach towels from the lady selling them. With her provisions, she strode onto the beach to go and set them up in their temporary new love nest. She walked up the makeshift steps to their little love loft and placed the items on the bed. Then watching Vijay enjoying the sea for a while, she decided to go explore the rest of the beach before the sun went down. It seemed that it would happen quite soon. Getting out of the ghetto which housed their huts, she began to walk towards the side of the beach which was closer to the dense green island. Walking into the water, she let it wet her jeans and began to enjoy the warm evening waves mellow down into creamy froth and then gurgle around her legs as she waded through the water. She began to notice many small beach shacks that were located much closer to the water than their’s. When she reached the end of the beach, she saw a cluster of shacks that were set up in such a way that they were only a few hundred meters away from the water. These were under the name Cozy Nook. The front of each hut had a small verandah covered from all sides with a transparent plastic which enabled one to sit inside and enjoy a 3-D view of the beach and the sky but also kept one away from the wind or rain when the need arose. One of the huts was just being vacated and so she decided to go have a look. Speaking to the young Goan standing outside, chatting with the departing phirangs, waving them goodbye, she got the permission to walk in and have a peek. She was amazed by the simple beauty and furnishing of it. Each hut had two tall fans on stands facing a large double bed on either side. There was a mosquito net above the bed, a small almirah, a coffee table and a bed outside, even in the plastic covered verandah. This was like a dream home as compared to where they were living! Two plastic chairs had also been provided outside to sit on and enjoy the view. From here one could see the island, the beach and part of the mangrove-laden backwaters of this little alcove. Nikita decided that she just had to stay here. Even as she walked out to find the young boy who seemed to be in charge, four little puppies scampered up to her and began to whine and tug at her shoes. She bent down and began to caress and pamper them all, one by one. Now her resolve of staying here was set in stone. The mother dog also walked into the scene out of nowhere and got friendly with Nikita. Then the boy came up from behind her and cleared his throat. “Mhrrmmm.” Nikita turned around. “How much for a day?” she asked.
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“Off season, no, so I give you best rate . . . Rs1000/-daily money,” he said. “Ok, done,” she said, surprised at how badly she wanted the place herself, realizing that for once she hadn’t bothered to bargain. She took out the money and paid him for 3 days. “Most probably, we’ll be staying for much longer but I’ll pay you more later,” she said. “No problem, no problem,” he said. Having acquired the room of her choice, it was time to go back and get out of the other one. Vijay was taken by surprise when she told him about the change in accommodation, but seeing the immense excitement on her face, he decided to just play along and enjoy the shift. It was a bit difficult at first when they decided to leave their other tree house kind of room. But Nikita quickly shifted from vamp to seductress and coyly got the manager enchanted by her spell, so much so that he not only gave them back the money they’d paid in advance for the upcoming days but also paid them back what they’d paid for this day itself, saying that it would be really unfair as they’d hardly stayed in the room, a fact Nikita could see was played very differently with other guests, made obvious from the stunned expression on the face of the bell boy who was arguing with her about ‘no refund’, just minutes ago. Vijay and she shifted base to the new room and made friends with the dog family even before they entered the new room. Nikita got Vijay to open up his half sleeved shirt all the way and let it hang. “Be Goan, yaa,” she said. Then she took out the latest copy of Stardust and Vijay got his newspaper out, and they got down onto the reclining cane chairs which were set into the sand right ahead of their little cottage and began to read. Every now and then, both of them would put their papers down and sneak a peek at the sea, not yet believing that they were finally here and the water was just a hundred metres away! Just next door was an Australian couple who were also reading out on their porch. The only difference was that they were truly dressed in the bohemian Goan way. The man had no shirt on and had acquired quite a tan over time and the woman had on a bikini and a sarong and was a stiff competitor for the tan. She also had on a large circular wrap around sunglasses which resulted in a circle of white skin around her face when she took them off. Nikita saw this and almost chuckled to herself. She thought about how at this very moment Vijay and she were like husband and wife and this was their little hut very much like Ram and Sita, millions of years ago with their little kuttiya in the forest during the period that they’d been banished from their kingdom. She looked at Vijay reading his newspaper, lost in thought, not unlike a school boy reading a chapter of a subject he actually liked, for the first time. Right then she decided to split up things. “Aga, why don’t you go get us some bottles of water and maybe some daaru and I’ll arrange for food. Let’s eat in the room only tonight. “Chalel ka?” she asked.
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Vijay put his paper down, thought about it for a second and said, “Don’t you want to go to that restaurant which the scooter wala was saying is very good?” he asked. “Ho re, but first let’s order some shtarter waarter in the room na, private type,” she suggested. Nodding his head a couple of times from side to side, Vijay got back to his paper. How he understood her, thought Nikita. She smiled at that thought. After reading through almost every word of the Stardust, including the advertisements and their fine print, she decided to go for a walk along the beach alone. Walking along the shoreline, this time knee deep in the water, she looked out at the horizon and the setting sun. There were foreigners in the water, some on half boogie boards riding the waves, some wading deeper into the sea, some playing with each other, a couple of lovers coochie-cooing in the water, letting it push them closer and then away and a bunch of kids playing in the wet sand. Palolim was a quiet beach as compared to Baga and Calangute which were situated in north Goa and about which Nikita had heard some not so very nice things. She’d heard that they were always crowded to the hilt, the water sport that occurred there added to the noise and commotion all year around. Nikita looked at the foreigners lying down on the beach on beach towels, getting themselves whatever they could now, of the day’s remaining sunlight. Then she saw an African-American lady in a bikini. “Masta . . .” thought Nikita. She admired her body and how it looked when she ran across the sand. The bikini looked so good on her, she thought! This suddenly made her want to get one for herself. She hadn’t pampered herself in quite a while. She’d done all that for Priyanka but hadn’t been able to do anything for herself in some time now. She’d been so busy trying to find work and dealing with the complexity of Shashank and Vijay entering her life that anything to do with vanity had gone out of the window! Nikita reached the little shopping area which she’d been to earlier in the day. Walking by the daily provision stores and the restaurants, she came up to a stall selling T-shirts, tracks suits, shorts and bikinis. She began to go through the bikinis, selecting a full black piece which would be an absolute stark contrast to her fair, slightly red skin. She picked it out as her first choice and then picked up another pastel blue one for another day. Paying the woman who ran the shop, she walked back to the beach, pleased as a punch with her new possessions! She had a smile on her face all the way back to the hut. Vijay was nowhere to be seen, so she went in and changed into her bikini and then ran out onto the beach, into the warm water. She felt the water as it resisted her forward motion into its depths, simultaneously warming her in its embrace. She felt the first wave which threw her off her feet for a moment. She began to enjoy it thoroughly and walked further in. She dove into the next wave head first like she used to in her
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childhood. She let the warmth engulf her with its fluidity and lack of rigidity. She moved her arms around freely and fondly felt the water all around with her fingers. She then remembered her father’s last moments and that brought her crashing down from her watery cloud. She stood up right where she was, letting her neck come out of the water as her eyes filled up. Right then she felt Vijay’s hand in between her legs. It felt good and was exactly what she needed to get out of her previous thought. She turned around and hugged him tight and then almost climbing onto him, began to kiss him wildly. She let her legs tighten around his slender waist throwing him off balance. They both fell, one on top of the other, into the frothy warmth, Vijay flailing his arms around to regain his lost balance. Crashing into the resistance of the water, they then sank to its very hospitable depths, Vijay’s head slowly hitting the sand below. Nikita moved her hand down onto him. He too stopped panicking and put his arms around her instead, nuzzling his head into her neck, bosom and then into the side of her cheek. They came up for air as one, breathing in deep. Nikita didn’t want to waste a single moment and she leaned on him again and continued her indulgence. Vijay responded with equal zest and they began to kiss, grab, feel, rummage, restrain and then give in from time to time for a while. Once they were spent with the water making it increasingly difficult for their tiring muscles to go on any longer they stopped. “Nice re,” said Vijay about Nikita’s all black bikini. Nikita smiled. “First time,” she replied. Vijay responded further by widening his eyes and shaking his head from side to side meaning that for the first time it was a perfect piece and that he loved it. They moved out of the water now on towards their hut, letting the water drip into little pools along the way as it slid from their bodies. Reaching their hut, they went in for a shower with Vijay agreeing to go in first and then being accosted by Nikita. It was here that they finished what they’d left incomplete in the water outside. In the privacy of their love nest they made love. Love to last. Sprawling onto the bed after their exhaustive sequel to what began in the water, Nikita and Vijay slept peacefully for a couple of hours. Nikita let the sound of the sea put her to sleep. Nothing made her feel more at home than this, the swishing and swaying of that particular sound. She awoke to it and felt gratified immediately. “Aah!” she moaned as she sat up on the bed. Then she nudged Vijay and got him to wake up. “I’ll make this room chakachak in no time. Till then please go get some petrol na in that scooter so we can do some night riding, seeing more of this place.” Vijay sat up and rubbed his eyes. Then nodding his head in agreement with her, he got off the bed and quietly began to move towards the desk on which his wallet and the scooter keys were kept. “Oh and some toilet paper and one khokha of Old Monk rum for our ratri daaru session,” added Nikita. Vijay nodded again. Looking at him leaving, she
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couldn’t help but think what it would be like to settle down with this man. He was groggy, as all men, when he awoke, but he wasn’t grumpy and irritable. He was just quiet. Perfect. Once Vijay left, Nikita began to tidy up the room. She took out their clothes and arranged them in the one Godrej steel cupboard which the room had with a lock and key. She moved their luggage under a trolley, out of sight. Then she rearranged the bedsheet to make it appear like it hadn’t been touched. Next she took out her toiletries and went and kept them in the bathroom. She’d known from friends who’d visited Palolim that since it was predominantly a phirang beach, safety was no problem. No one really bothered you no matter where you went and what you did. Then once she was done, she remembered that another thing they needed was a torch but now it was too late to tell Vijay and the walk to the shops was a long one, longer when done alone. Moving out into their courtyard on the sand, she sat on one of their two plastic chairs facing the black sea. The dull yellow light of two bulbs strung from two tent tops illuminated the area. Another foreigner couple sat and read their books nearby, right outside their hut. Both of them had LED torches tied to their head in a head band which helped them read in the dark. The lady had a bottle of the local Kings beer in her hand. Seeing her, Nikita suddenly felt like drinking some Kings beer herself. She’d tasted some years ago when a friend had brought some in a crate to Bombay, after going off to Goa for a weekend vacation with one of her regular customers, whom she later married and then soon divorced. The friend had described drinking the beer in similar circumstances talking in great detail about the surf, the sand and the cool breeze making Nikita regret her own life in Bombay for a second. She now made a mental note of getting a crate of the beer for the room the next day. Letting her mind drift of to various places, she now felt a certain mild anxiety, almost as if her mind and body weren’t used to being left alone anymore in quietitude. “Bombay . . . this is for sure Bombay’s effect,” she thought to herself and nodded in agreement to her own thoughts. Vijay walked along towards the tent from afar coming into focus, “Chala . . . maidam, I’m hungry now,” he said as he walked into their new home to keep the things he’d shopped for. “I bought two bottles of Kings beer also re . . . supposed to be good.” Nikita smiled. The walk to the restaurant nearby was a peaceful one. At every few feet Nikita and Vijay could see, in the blue moonlight, hundreds of crabs running helter-skelter and then rushing into the ground away from these human intruders. There were fishing boats lined up inland and the crescent of coconut trees which lined the seashore about 500 meters from the sea looked even more beautiful by night. They reached Rudra and sat themselves down. There was a speckle of phirangs around, even though this wasn’t exactly the ‘on’ season in Goa. Nikita ordered
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Prawns Balchao, Fish Xacutti and a helping of the local Goan Pork Sausages which weren’t even on the menu but were granted to her when she spoke to the manager in Konkani, using the few words which she knew. She told the manager where she was from and that made him smile. The restaurant was alive with lounge music which was a fusion of slow soft rhythms from across the country fused with Gregorian chants and some jazz instruments. The walls of the restaurant were lit up with small light bulbs hung in series in various colours. A few beers and a lot of seafood later, Nikita and Vijay both decided to get back. The walk would be a long one and they were happy that it would help them digest their food a bit as at this point, they were both feeling over full. The moonlight gave the beach a bluish tinge and the stars were out now and clearly visible from the beach. The two green islands in the distance were just a black blur obscuring the little light. Beyond a particular point, as they walked on, Nikita saw the crabs popping away from them by the hundreds. She could feel the sea breeze pass through the thin cloth of her sarong. The thought made her tighten. “Ay Vijay . . .” she said and then pulled Vijay in for a kiss. It had been Nikita’s dream for years to make love on the sand, right near the waves and now she intended on making that dream come true. She pulled him down onto her, spread herself out and got him into her. For the next twenty minutes all she heard was the sound of the waves, the surf and imagined again as in her childhood, the waves dying out from left to right and right to left. Her eyes were shut and she could feel the grains of sand clinging to her body, to her feet, her legs, causing more friction between Vijay’s thighs and hers and then beginning to slowly cause soreness. She enjoyed this soreness and its accompanying bliss. She then opened her eyes to look past the laborer at the sky and the stars. She’d thought of all this many times, what the various elements of making love on the beach would be, and now she was in the throes of each and all of them. She was finally enjoying herself, really enjoying herself. With this thought in mind, she shut her eyes and relaxed herself further now becoming aware of the upcoming surge. Nikita awoke to her favourite sounds. She stretched her palms outwards and her heels downwards as she lay flat on the bed, on her back. The whole room was full of the sound of waves. She sat up slowly and looked out through the light curtains at the sea a couple of hundred meters ahead. It had been two weeks now since she and Vijay had settled down to life together in this dreamscape of Palolim. They’d traveled to Panjim to watch a film at the best cinema hall in Goa, they’d visited Baga, eaten at all the best restaurants, tried out the water sports which were cheaper than any other Goan beach at Colva, visited, Arambol, Vagator, Morjhim (where they’d seen the turtles) and visited the backwaters in their backyard at Palolim. One day as they were walking around, they realized that in their backyard itself was a back water ride in a boat. They set off during high tide to explore it
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with the boatman whose monopoly it was to conduct these short half hour trips. There was a dam which had been shut off and when the water from the sea flowed into this mangrove it created a different world altogether. There were many rock faces which arose above the water to towering heights. Among them one which was a round ball like rock, placed on a flat rock stood there almost as if upheld by some supernatural power. Many varied species of birds and fishes thrived in this environment. What really caught Nikita’s attention were the plants which breathed through a kind of straw, they’d shot up over the years to reach just above the water level. To her they looked like millions of refugees hiding underwater using straws to breathe. She had felt like joining them! Getting off the bed she looked at her tummy which after three weeks of a lack of exercise, had acquired a nice likable amount of soft fat around it. She pressed her stomach and enjoyed the softness of her own flesh. She walked out onto the beach and saw Vijay sitting and reading the paper in his chair, facing the blue sea. He looked more and more like a local with each passing day, she thought. Now he wore a shirt which was left open all the time, a straw hat and shorts accompanied by rubber flip-flops. “Ekdum localite jhala re . . . look at yourself . . . fultoo Goan!” she said. “And I’m no less,” she added, looking herself up and down. Vijay put his paper down and looked back at her. “Yes, I was thinking the same thing this morning, re. I feel that’s its only now that I’ve really become comfortable in this place, the pace of life of this place. So easy, slow, peaceful,” he said. “So . . . breakfast, kya?” “Ho re, really hungry,” she said. “Chal,” said Vijay. Over the time that they’d spent here, they’d set various places up for their three meals a day and the Palolim Beach Resort and it’s sea-facing restaurant was their regular breakfast haunt. At this point of the year in Goa, Russian chartered flights were coming in with hordes of Russians and so there was a sudden demand for rooms and the handful of restaurants were running full. Vijay and Nikita walked towards their breakfast haunt, Vijay about ten steps ahead of her as he generally liked to walk faster, and she, to stroll at peace. They reached the restaurant and realized immediately that it was packed to the gills. Fortunately, just as they entered, a foreign couple got up and began to move off leaving one of the best tables in the house vacant. Without wasting a second, Nikita and Vijay occupied their seats. The waiter, obviously wanting to make the most of the packed houses came over almost immediately. “Omlette Sandwich, Oat Porridge,” said Nikita. “Cheese Toast, Potato Chips,” said Vijay, almost in the same breath. Then as the waiter moved away, they looked at each other and smiled. “I’ll just go to the toilet and come,” he said and got up. Nikita turned to look at the sea. Three little boys were using a wooden board to do exactly what they must’ve seen the foreigners doing day in and day out, boogey
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boarding. The boys seemed to be locals. Nikita looked on admiringly as they took turns at riding the waves and squealed in delight each time they were able to ride it till the very end without falling off. Nikita could hear a flurry of activity in the background in the restaurant. Today seemed to be an exceptionally busy day. Then she heard a voice which, for some reason, struck a chord. “Jaan, then we’ll go straight from Goa to Bombay!” Nikita winced as the sound seemed to hurt her and for a split second, she couldn’t understand why. Then she slowly turned around to look at a table which was diagonally behind theirs and her mind went numb and her body, limp. Aslam! Talking to some girl who looked very similar to Nikita, fair, light eyes, though this time they were hazel brown not green; another gorgeous body! “Arre Jaan, if you think Goa is lovely compared to Godhra, wait till I show you Bombay! Ekdum Class place it is. Ekdum Class!” he said. “Yes, but I’ve not even told kaka na . . . he’ll be worried na Aslam,” said the young girl. “Arre you don’t trust me kya?” he asked with the most earnest expression Nikita had seen in years. “Of course I trust you,” said the little girl with awe and love in her eyes, now holding his hands in her own. Nikita began to feel the adrenaline kick in after what seemed to have been a temporary system shut down in her body. Now there was a surging rage which just wouldn’t keep its hands to itself and was waiting to burst forth from her almost shivering body. Just then Aslam and the girl seemed to be paying the bill and moving off. She got up not knowing exactly what to do but wanting to cause some serious harm, nonetheless. Rivulets of tears had begun to flow down her cheeks as she followed them in a half daze out of the restaurant. Just as she began to gain on them, she saw Aslam getting onto a parked motorcycle and the girl following suit. Now she began to run up to them. “Aslam, madarchod!!! Bhadvya!!! You bastard! You’re alive! And now pataoing another girl to send into that same shit!” she screamed. Aslam took one look at her and his instant cool, calm, collected reaction was to start the bike and put it into gear. “Stop, Madarchod! Stop right now!” shouted Nikita as she ran towards the bike which had now started up and had begun to move away. She almost touched him as she took a swing at him but the bike was in motion now and even as she began to run alongside it, she knew she hadn’t a chance. Through the mixed feelings of pain and rage, she ran on and on looking through her teary vision at a fast disappearing motorcycle with one confused girl and the man who had ruined her life, years ago! By the time that she had slowed down a bit she realized that everybody on the road was looking at her. She slowed down but kept walking listlessly, now having reached the main road. Seeing a small roadside liquor store, she approached the
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sole trader and bought a quarter of Old Monk rum, opened the bottle up and began to glug it down as fast as she possibly could, continuing to walk away from the store to avoid drawing any further attention. ‘This was all a scam! The ambush was a planned one! Nothing had happened to Aslam! That love, those times, the holiday, was all a set up to get her into Bombay and into the sex racket. Her first love was pure bhankas!’ she thought as she walked on, the tears streaming down her face in one continuous flow. Her eyes had begun to burn with their sting, her thoat and chest, with the neat alcohol. Love, first the feeling of love lost in the form of her father, pure but lost and then that of Aslam, had kept her as she was from within. She’d always thought of love as something strong and positive, pure, though lost. But now love, the thought of it, the feel of it, made her burn, burn till she could feel her chest heaving and the palpitation in her stomach rising to its peak. Then, as she tried to push the thoughts out of her head, she remembered . . . Vijay. But the thought of him suddenly made her even more incensed. The fury was back. The name which until a few moments ago had brought about a feeling of unadulterated love, now brought with it only intense pain and rage. She threw the bottle to the roadside having almost emptied it and quickened her pace. “No! No! Not again! Not again!” were the only words she could hear in her head. She saw a telephone booth nearby and her body almost involuntarily, began to walk up to it. She picked up the receiver and dialed a number, the action making her tears stop momentarily. “Hello Shashank . . . Nikita.” It had been two hours since the incident at the restaurant. Nikita was now sitting on a rock face at the top of one of the tallest hills in the area facing the sea. She could see the beach from here, the sea, and the coconut crescent. This was another side of the beach. She looked out at the sea. Her face felt hot. And another round began. She let the sobs take control of her as they surged up through her throat taking her vocal chords also into their conspiracy as they began yet another round. She wailed, she cried and bawled, letting the anger out, letting the pain out but it seemed to stem from some inextinguishable fount. “Aaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrgh!” she screamed at the top of her lungs, pulling at her own hair till her head began to ache with the pain. Then the sobs began to mellow down as her body stopped moving to their tune and she began to breathe slower. Nikita lay on the yellowed grass close to the rock and shut her eyes. Sleep came almost instantly. When she awoke the sky had lost its blues and was now thickening with grey. The day had passed by as she’d lain there in her only escape; sleep. She sat up and the first thing that came to her mind was Vijay. But this time the name didn’t bring with it anger or pain; but remorse, guilt followed by a kind of pain which was new to her. She shook her head. Her eyes were sore and her head still ached a bit. Then she remembered what she’d done; the call.
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“No . . . mi kaay kela?! No!” she said, as she got up and began to hasten down the hill. When she reached their side of the beach, it was already dark and when she was about 500 meters away from their cottage, she could see a flurry of activity there. And then she saw the police. There were a number of them there. She stopped in her tracks. A local fisherman was standing nearby. She went up to him and asked him in Konkani what the confusion was all about. “Young boy . . . Bihari . . . shot dead. Some young film producer’s son from Bombay . . .” he replied in English. “Police took the murderer away.” Nikita slumped onto the sand, holding out her palms onto the sand in front to break her fall as she just lay there for a moment. Then seeing two policemen beginning to walk towards her from near the cottage, she got up and began to move away. “Hey!” shouted the policeman as he gathered speed. Nikita began to run. She ran with every remaining ounce of her energy, not bothering to look back or to listen for sounds of her assailants. As she reached the road with the shops, she hailed a taxi and said “Baga”. She rummaged in her skirt pocket and found some money. Having seen that, she pushed it back in not bothering to count it. Her legs, her head, her nerves were all one jumble of pain. The tears were coming again. She looked out at the dark Goan night and then decided to shut her eyes again. Then she dropped her head back onto the seat and let her body slowly go limp as she let the rolling of the car lull her into a sleep. Baga beach was alive even at 1 a.m. The numerous beach shacks were closing up but the din of their competing tracks of music still filled the cool breezy night air. Nikita walked along the beach letting herself get distracted by the throngs of foreigners who walked along as couples, singles and in groups. Some of them sat astride bean bags placed near the waves, being served hookahs and drinks from the nearby beach shack. Walking on, Nikita reached an area which was much quieter than the rest of the beach front. This patch was in between Baga and the beginning of Calangute beach and so for almost half a mile there were no shacks and the dark of the night prevailed. Today she couldn’t feel the cool of the sand, the wetness of the waves which lapped at her ankles or even the white surf which gathered at her heels, tugging to get her attention like a child of an oblivious mother. She looked at the sea here. It was the only thing which made her feel anything right now. She looked at the waves and then consciously made an effort to hear them. Slowly the left right rhythm began to pervade into her; the rolling made it clear. She began to walk into the water letting the froth get acquainted with her calves, knees and then her thighs. Soon she could feel the surge at her waist. The sounds of the sea were deafening in the still of the night.
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Like the flash of lightening, Nikita jumped headlong into the water, crashing into an oncoming wave, hitting it in its belly almost like an angry ram going at its attacker. She began to swim into the sea letting the cold, wet darkness embrace her. She swam on, letting her arms and legs move into an almost automatic motion for a while, letting the exhaustion settle in. When she felt tired enough, she turned around and let herself float. She could see the beach far away in the distance, the many glittering lights of the shacks, the only colour left in the world. Then she turned again and swam some more. When too exhausted to move, she let her body go limp and breathed out as she began to sink. From the noise of the surface, she sank slowly, weightlessly to the calm of the deep sea below. She shut her eyes and tried to concentrate on the burning which had begun in her lungs. ‘Sampla aatta, khel sampla, the game is over,’ she thought as she sank. But as the burning in her lungs increased, it brought with it flashes of Shekhar which made her open her eyes. The moment she opened her eyes and saw the murky water around, many more flashes invaded her mind; Aslam and then Vijay. She remembered their first meeting, their first conversation, their two nights out in Bombay, the first time they made love and everything that followed in a fast moving blurry spiral. Something within her forced her to start flailing her arms about with her last ounce of fast disappearing strength. Now the visuals were mixed as she began to fight for her life. Shekhar’s smile, followed by Vijay’s, followed by Shekhar’s shoulders, the thoughts just kept coming. She kicked and pulled at the sea, shouting out to it that she had ended the pact which she’d just almost made with the sea. With a final splash she surfaced onto the bobbing grey. She inhaled part salt water, part air with more gratitude than she’d ever felt in her life and she felt good. She couldn’t believe it, but she felt good. She took in a few more greedy breaths and then began to swim to the shore. She was soon upon land gasping for breath, panting from the extreme exhaustion. After crawling onto the sand to get herself completely out of the water, she pushed her head into it and let herself go onto the soft sand. She lay there for a while letting her body catch up. Then she stood up, turned to look at the sea one last time, turned around and began to walk back to the road. It was time to go home, where home would eventually be; what she would do, these were things unknown. She knew that she definitely wanted to be alive. And at this point that seemed like a lot to know.
About The Author T
he author, Aditya Kripalani, has a passion for writing in its myriad forms—short stories, poems, scripts screen plays and magazine write-ups, on topics as varied as watches, films, fashion and fitness. He is a post graduate, qualified in Script and Film Screenplay writing from the Film and Television Institute, Pune, and has also taught screen writing at St. Xavier’s Institute of Communication, Mumbai. He currently heads the Script Department of one of the film industry’s established corporate film houses, I Dream Production. 27 year old Aditya is fond of cooking, music, travelling, observing and analysing people. He has the ability to get into the psyche of the characters, male and female, and view situations from each one’s unique perspective. He has spent a major part of his life in Mumbai city which has moulded and influenced him tremendously. Multi-faceted Aditya has a degree in fitness training from the Reebok University and is a Karateka practicing Karate in the GoJu form of Karate. Readers can interact with him by email at
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Back Seat Reviews Subject: Back Seat : Well Done! From: Megha Zaveri <
[email protected]> Date: 28/12/2008 12:08 pm Hey Aditya, Congratulations first of all, for achieving the first milestone of your success It was truly a great experience reading your book!!! So well done!! You have spun the plot quiet interestingly. It kept me intrigued as to why would have Nikita entered into such a profession. I liked the minute details that you captured about the “Sweet Mess” of Mumbai. It shows that a thorough research is done behind it. Vijay and Nikita were absolutely amazing. It was good to see how two extreme personalities fall in love with each other. Nikita who wants get out of her profession as soon as she can and Vijay who really loves her and can’t stand her being with Shashank. The story paints a vivid picture of one’s emotions and thought process very well. Shashank is another strong character of this story that yearns for his father’s love and is unsuccessful at that. This feeling is described quiet well. But what I as a reader felt that, since I was being told so much about this character, he must be of some crucial importance in the entire story. However I found his end a little abrupt. The title justifies the plot of your book. Actually I really liked the title a lot more after I finished reading the book. PS: I suggest a thorough spell check be done once again, since a few typos could still be spotted even for the English words.
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Aditya Kripalani
The ones id put up on facebook have no names to keep it confidential. But this is a direct forward frm the email id behind the book. This lady is a copy editor -original messageSubject: Review for Back Seat From: Jasmin Lord <
[email protected]> Date: 03/02/2009 2:50 pm Review for Back Seat Back Seat is, by far, one of the best stories I’ve come across in a very long time. It made for a read which was refreshingly different. Gripping and exhilarating, it went to the depths of human character and emotion. The characters playing out their lives before our very eyes. The innocence, the excitement and even the silent suffering of each individual was put across beautifully by Aditya. The simple tone he chose for the book was fitting and the description elaborate. Having known Aditya for almost ten years, I’ve seen him blossom into a wonderful young man who is charming, has a great personality and, to top it off, immense strength of character. I heard him say at the book-reading at the launch of this novel “It feels like someone is reading my personal diary out loud” and he truly has given us a glimpse into his soul through this piece of work. Aditya, even though Back Seat was initially meant at a film script, I am thrilled you decided to release it as your first book. As for the characters, my favourite was Nikita who feels like someone I have known all my life. Someone whom I have a very strong connection with and whose story I will carry with me for the rest of my years. Vijay’s story is the epitome of what real life is truly like, with no exceptions or fairy tale illusions. Shashank is the little child inside of every one of us who only wants to be loved and accepted. These three protagonists seem like they actually exist out there, in real life, somewhere. You have given them life Aditya. And how wonderfully vivid their journeys have been. Being totally unbiased, I have to say the written English needs to be polished up a bit and a few punctuation and typos here and there. If I may make a suggestion, try not to use so many brand names in the book as that tends to distract the reader from what is more important, the characters and the story. Thank you for sharing Back Seat with us. I really enjoyed reading it. Bet you’re gonna have a huge fan following soon, so get started on your second book.
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Subject: Yet another review . . . a very different kind . . . from another artist, in a different field! You are a professional! I like that :) I have almost done reading the book. You must be surprised at the speed with which I am reading it and the amount of time I am taking to finish it!! Let me admit, the kind of novel it is, is not my obvious choice when it comes to reading. I am more into classics and that sort and have conveniently decided to overlook the fact that world is more of a shithole than a fairy land. I feel better and stronger this way to go on with life. It is quite obvious that I read it because it’s by you and I have no qualms to admit that I liked it. I liked the way you write. Its very detailed and elaborate and somewhere very modest. The descriptions about the city have made me hate it even more. May be that’s somewhere the success of it. I didn’t find liking the idea of calling it sweet little mess. All the time while reading I kept messing up with the fact that the character Nikita or Asawari, is not real one, but at the same time it somehow ended up hurting even more. A very composed and strong character. I have come to the point where she tells her story to Vijay. So I am hoping to find a little bit about what made her take the way she did and so would be clearer about the proportions of her age and her earnings and achievements The description where vijay leaves his house and the reasons behind it are really very painful. Honest. I went mute over it for a long time. It’s the way you have described it and of course the way the reality is, makes it a great pain to read and even to imagine it. (I hope you are not thinking that I am criticizing it. I am not. Rather an effective read!) Dance bars, brothels, prostitutes, horny and cruel men, disturbed families, lust and greed . . . you tired me out through your words Aditya !! I don’t know what you wanted or thought as a reaction to your book from me. I am being just too honest. You know I am. The mention when Vijay starts his first job and handed over all the home duties, that he realizes that how painful it must have been for his mother to look after the house, was a very touching mention.
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You showed me a typical Mumbai life without having to go there to specifically see the shit. I have a very deep relation to the city since I was born there, but even then my life has never gone beyond a certain boundary when I used to be there. Not that I am sorry for it. One need not be in the shit to feel it. One just needs to be sensitive enough and you are in a truck load of it. In the years which matters the most in our life I have seen and experienced a very sophisticated version of Mumbai. . . . . but perhaps I am too positive to see the negative and that was the reason the reality in it disgusted me to the core. Teenagers or youngsters and their attitude towards girls, the desperation for sex, life ending or threatening indulgences . . . it’s all such a contradiction when I think of you as a writer behind it. Contrast. The way Shashank roamed around the city and the kind of routine he led. You have succeeded in making people engrossed in the plot to a very positive extent. This all and a lot more. I found it gripping slowly. Somewhat the way you would eat a chocolate. Not all of it in one go but enjoying every piece of it. Each time I read it and if we meet later, I get into a strange feeling that all this world is in your pocket in its literal sense and its not real but it is real. For example, today I ended up thinking: ‘oh, it was all in his mind. Don’t worry nothing real!’ And then when I saw a man fallen on the road, I remembered the incidence where nikita and vijay with a man fallen in the middle of the road. Heartiest congratulations!! :) luv, xxxxx (again words which talk about the person who has read the book and their personal life have been removed before sharing this review, or even words which talk about my personal life. But I’ve kept the good with the bad. What moves me is that people feel so deeply, whichever way they feel, good or bad! Kudos to readers who take the time out to send such a heartfelt review!!) the last part of the review after the reader had finished reading it came by sms . . . . it was “BTW finished the book. Quite an unexpected ending . . . . very surprising . . . . liked it! :-)”
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Subject: Another response to the book, a doctor this time!! (no names) I read the novel over 3 days . . . . just for the lack of time!! But I have to say . . . that all these days I have dreamt & thought about the story . . . . how it will progress . . . what will happen to Nikita . . . . Nikita became a part of my life as if an old friend . . . I could connect to her pain, her sorrows, her joys, everything about her! I must say its a dark story & that out of all the 16 chapters . . . almost all of them build up to a positive note in the middle . . . but by the end they all have a sad ending!! Or rather no fantasy & Yash Chopra type endings but a REAL ending!! Sadly whether one accepts it or not but thats how life is!! Very tough!! . . . . thats the kind of bonding I have developed with Nikita, though in my heart of hearts I am aware that she is not real . . . she is just a fragment of your imagination!! just a fictional character!! Too much sex, violence & abusive language . . . Was just thinking if one was to make a movie . . . . more than 90% would be beeped & distorted . . . . So in a way its good that its a book!! (she’s exaggerating, I promise :-)) Not recommended for people who are already depressed & the ones who look at life through rainbow hued spectacles . . . . but for people who are real & who accept strength with weakness . . . . I surely recommend this book . . . . Go live life of Nikita, Vijay & Shashank . . . . Its so true that this city of ours . . . our Mumbai ( Aamchi Mumbai) takes much more in return than what it offers!! Highly recommended!! I wish you all the success & happiness . . . . Hope to hear about your next book launch very soon . . . Take care . . . Dr. xxxxxxxx (certain parts have been removed from this review, only because they talk about plot points in the story. but I’ve left the bad with the good even after removing the spoliers!!)
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Subject: one of the responses to the book!! (no names) Hi Aditya, Firstly let me introduce myself. Im xxxxxxxxx from Bombay You met my parents in Goa at Britto`s when they were on holiday a week back. You handed the book to my mum xxxxxx . . . dunno if you remember though. However she told me tht yu wud really appreciate it if i mailed back with my comments. I really enjoyed the book an thought it was a great read. What i enjoyed the most was the characterisations. Each an every character in the book grows on you as it progresses. They seem so real its hard to believe its fiction. Had me thinking about the characters even wen i took a break from reading. All in all a very good story an i thought the end was absolutely fantastic an was absolutely shocking. Great stuff an i wish yu all the success. Cheers !! xxxxx Subject: One more!! A Lawyer this time!! read THE tome. nikita is some protagonist. loved her fiesty spirit and never say die attitude. just her take on everything is so refreshing and nice. very delicious prose too especially when it relates to this sweet mess of a melting pot of a city. like i said loved it. xxxx
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Subject: Another Review. This time, the owner of a software company, and a bit of a philosopher. Authentic ! Thats my one word review of Back Seat. The sights, smell and sounds which the book wanted to convey came out of the pages and touched me . . . the end touched me . . . poignant. The fiction was blended so well with the non-fictional, that after a point it all blended into one and when one went with the flow, it does not strike at all that one is reading fiction. Philosophies and ideologies of various kinds were oozing from the dialogues the characters were rendering and that made interesting reading. That made the moments come alive . . . the sudden surge one feels when you see a character thinking like you, talking like you, behaving like you would have . . . even if she is a prostitute or a driver . . . just re-affirms the fact that being righteous, rational or just pleasant is not the exclusive domain of the elite, a common falacy we hold while having our social interactions and judgements of people. If there was one thing which was common streak across all characters . . . it was the fact that their life sucked ! everyone was struggling to find a purpose . . . in a life which have been dished out to them mostly by chance. This struggle got each one of them my sympathy vote. The book stood out in its brave stance of not worrying about set norms . . . abuses galore were fun! . . . nikita sees it all . . . but yet grapples for that last breath to die another day ! This ‘will to live’ when there is actually no sound reason to do so, is the central tenet of the phenomenal success of the human species ! Wish you all the best bro ! You have a long way to go . . . i will be around to congratulate you then too ! xxxx (I as an author again have a different feeling when I read ‘Back Seat’ but again it’s interesting to see how each person who comes to this story experiences a different perspective. One thing stands out of course, that it’s not a story for those with ‘rose tinted’ spectacles.) (this person is one of my closest friends. And he doesn’t read fiction as he considers it a waste of his time. So I was apprehensive if he’ll ever read my book and then even more apprehensive if he’d like it. So I was pleasantly surprised by this review. And let me tell you, close friends at times make the worst critics!)
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Subject: Another Reader Review The first thing that struck me about the book was that it was pleasantly easy to read. It was straightforward and simple. This is actually a nice thing! The story progressed easily and the characters just kept getting deeper. Aditya, in his own style, gave the characters life. You could actually understand what they were feeling and what they were going through. Vijay and Asawari / Nikita became real. Their pains became real and their small achievements became milestones. I am not going to quote parts or incidents from the book so I don’t ruin it for those who haven’t read the book! What I liked about the book was that he built the story gradually giving the reader time to grasp the emotional nuances of the characters before he went ahead with the story. And he didn’t complicate the story by adding unnecessary characters. He had just the bare minimum for him to tell the story like wanted to. Although the book was a delightful read, the fact that it was Aditya’s first book came across to some extent. There were times when he made certain characters speak in heavily accented English where I thought there was no way that person could have know those English words! But I guess that’s the author’s creative liberty. Also, for me as a reader, I found the ending a bit too abrupt. I wanted to know more. All in all, it was a lovely story told in the most simple and delightful way. I didn’t want to put the book down until I read it all! Looking forward to his next book and hoping I get one of the initial copies! Well done, Aditya, and good luck for your next book! xxx
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Subject: another review . . . . im happy they re good . . . for now!! this time a film editor I haven’t read much of books, just about here and there . . . . The book starts at the forked tongue tip and leads you into the beauty of the monster’s belly. It’s a trip alright, a trip alternating between a breeze on the streets of mumbai, the beaches of Ratnagiri, and the hot alchohol tinged breath on your neck. Nikita sure as hell is a woman who somewhere gets by with the utmost strength, her practicality is heartbreaking. The others are casualties as her tornado of a life takes turns and twists. The unbelievable thing is, the son of a gun can so detailedly write how and what a woman feels. I’d like to figure that out, and i will Kripalani, i’m heading ur way ! cheers xxxx
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