The Homing Pigeons... (10 page)

Radhika

A
fter he had dropped me at the gate of the guest house, I went past the landlord’s fierce Alsatian tied to the trunk of a large palm tree. I went upstairs to the first floor of the large bungalow that had been leased by Citibank to cater to the many visitors that would throng the headquarters of the bank. I changed and came out to find Roshni, the girl from Chandigarh, sitting on the dining table

“Good date?” she asked.

“Date?” I questioned her and myself.

“Ya, that’s what we thought,” she said. The length of the
‘ya’ was directly proportional to her eagerness to pry into my personal life

“He’s just an old friend from school,” I clarified. I didn’t sound very convincing when I said it.

She looked at me; a little disappointed and deeply saddened. She had lost out on a bedtime story and promptly went into the other room leaving me alone in the drawing room.

I  sat  on  the  couch,  surfing through  some  of  the  most ridiculous television programs ever created. There was nothing that held my attention and I called out to the caretaker
to make me a cup of tea. It was a habit that I followed from the nights when I would study.

I bolted the bedroom door and turned off the lights. At the train station, I had picked up a novel by Sidney Sheldon. I snuggled under the covers and started reading in the light of the table lamp that rested on the bedside table. Like most characters in his novels, the ones that I was reading about were in bed, making wild, passionate love. I loved reading Sheldon, even though he would always turn his characters into bunnies that were ready to reproduce. It wasn’t long before I closed the book; I was too distracted. I turned off the table lamp and attempted to sleep.

My thoughts went back to Aditya – he was even more handsome than what I remembered of him. He was tall, lean, and athletic. His skin had a richer tan than what he had in school. It was almost the colour of that rich caramel sauce that I had had with ice cream. He wore his jet black hair differently now. They were longer than the mushroom cut that he would sport in school. The new hairstyle matured him. The baby face had matured too, making him a man worth dying for. I wasn’t sure if he knew that he could arouse a woman’s sexuality. I think he did, for why else would he have that air of arrogance. Alone on the bed, I thought of him walking into the training room. He had worn a light tan trouser and a spotless white shirt. Unconsciously, I fantasized about his body under the white shirt until we were the characters of the Sidney Sheldon novel, making uninhibited, unbridled love.

The crush that I thought had passed when we passed out of school was still alive and I was feeling it. Despite the tiredness and lack of sleep the night before, sleep refused to come. Maybe, this was what love did to you. I didn’t know the feeling; I had never experienced it but it must be this. I had a sudden longing to call him. I looked at the watch; it was
a little after midnight, a trifle too late to listen to the heart’s whims. I tossed and turned some more, looking at the watch intermittently, calculating the time that I would have to sleep, if sleep did come.

It wasn’t unnatural to wake up tired and lifeless. I’d had less than four hours of sleep. Already late, I rushed into the bathroom and got dressed. Roshni sat at the breakfast table and eyed my swollen eyes suspiciously.

“Didn’t get too much sleep, did you?” she smirked. It was the smirk of someone who understood what had kept me awake all night.

“No, it’s the new bed. Always have trouble adjusting on the first couple of nights,” I lied.

“He’s quite a looker, your friend,” she said laying special impetus on friend. Either she was a psychic or could see right through me. She reached the darkest corners of my soul where I hid my little secret.

I ignored her
comment; not knowing if that would fuel her anxiety or kill it. We made our way to the waiting car and were at least fifteen minutes late for the training. Today’s training was being conducted by the head of branch banking. He was a surly man with thin, vicious-looking lips. He was to give us a brief overview of the products and services that the branch offered to its customers. He looked at us from above the rimless glasses that he wore on the edge of his nose. It was a discerning look to signal that he did not appreciate our unpunctuality. I apologized, and found my way to the empty chair at the back of the room on the table where Aditya sat.

He looked at me, feigning that he was still interested in the lecture. A small smile appeared on his face, a genuine smile to indicate that he was happy to have me for company on his table.

He scribbled on the thin notepad that hotels provide and turned it towards me. It read “What happened?”

I pulled the notebook in my direction and scribbled on it, “Didn’t sleep very well. Woke up late.”

“You look tired,” he scribbled back on the sheet. “I am. Tough night,” I wrote back.

“If the two of you have stopped exchanging notes, I’d like  you  to  give  me  the  names  of  three  liability  products that Citibank offers,”
Mr Garg, the head of branch banking hollered.

Fortunately, I remembered, but the virtual rap on the knuckles succeeded in keeping me away from the notepad. At least for the rest of the morning session, we stayed away.

It was in the afternoon tea break that he asked me. “What’s the plan for the evening?”

“No plans. I don’t know anyone here. I guess I’ll go back to the guest house, read and sleep,” I replied.

“Have you been to Delhi before?” he asked.

“No, this is my first time,” I replied, hesitatingly, as if it were a crime to not have visited the city.

“I could show you around, if you’re interested,” he said.

I wasn’t sure why I accepted immediately. Maybe, it was his company that I had enjoyed last evening or maybe, there was something deeper that I could not understand yet.

“We could go out, but want to catch up on my sleep,” I said, trying to be a little more reserved. Even when I said it, my eyes were sparkling, excited by the mere thought of seeing the city.

After the day was over, he pulled the motorcycle out of the parking lot and we went to Dilli Haat – a street food plaza and a craft bazaar from each sta
te of India. Each stall held my attention – be it the Rajasthani stall that sold the camel leather juttis or the Kashmiri stall that sold the pashmina shawls. I was like a small child whose attention span would last a few seconds, before moving onto another wonder.

We had dinner of Rista and Gustaba – fragrant Kashmiri meat balls in gravy. We made our way back to Vasant Vihar, where he dropped me and made his way back home. I was still wondering if this meeting could be referred to as a date. It was apparent that we both enjoyed each
other’s company, but wasn’t a ‘date’ meant to be a form of courtship? And were we really courting each other?

Aditya

T
he morning after my arrival, I wake up to the sounds of a thin man scampering in the drawing room to be dressed in time to go to work. I look at the watch besides the couch that I have slept on; it reads eight twenty five. It is a Monday and although it has been a long time that Mondays have ceased to make a difference in my life, I still hate them. If inexplicably, Mondays were people and had a face, I would gladly punch them.

“I am already late. Just fix up something for breakfast. What time do you need to go to work?” Bhatoliya cries out while combing his hair.

“Four o’clock,” I reply. Assuming that I do have a job offer at Aztec Software, four in the afternoon is probably the best time to go.

“Leave the keys under the brick,” he says and runs out of the front door. It leaves me wondering which brick he is referring to. The truth is that even if I leave the door completely ajar, burglars will probably leave without taking anything. There is hardly anything to take away from the apartment.

I switch on the radio, an old transistor from the middle ages which stalls and has to be beaten up to life. It refuses to take a FM frequency and the only option is to listen to a presenter on All India Radio. The faceless voice is giving out information on which seeds to sow in this season. Bhatoliya doesn’t even possess  a  TV;  I  wonder  what  he  does  for  entertainment. I reckon that he must be earning a decent salary and could afford it. Where is the money going?

I  make  a  phone  call  to  Jasleen,  my  first since  leaving Chandigarh on Sunday morning. I think that the only reason that I want to call her is that it will give her one less reason to crib. “Hello,” I say into the mobile phone. In the many ways in which telephony has evolved, a solution to the crackling is yet
to be found.

“Aha, look who is calling! So, you finally found the time?”
she replies back sarcastically.

“Sorry, I got busy. How are you?” I ask.

“Settled in?” It is that awkward moment when a question is answered with another.

“Yes,” I reply.

“I’ll talk to you later. Driving. Bye,” and she hangs up the phone. The conversation that has shown so much promise of being converted into a row fizzles out.

I pick up the phone again and call Divya.

“Hi,” I say. I assume my deepest, huskiest, sultriest voice when I say it.

“Hi! Are you in Delhi?” she asks me. She is probably in a meeting, the voices in the background certainly sound like she is.

“Yes, came yesterday,” I say.

“I’ll arrange something; wait for me to call,” she says and hangs up. I am getting accustomed to women hanging up on me.

I unpack my bag and bring out a black t-shirt and a pair of jeans. It is still warm during the daytime and a t-shirt will do. In case my escapade does extend into the evening, a wind cheater will suffice. Delhi is always warmer than Chandigarh.

I shower and dress and wait for Divya to call back. It is painful to be in a house bereft of any form of entertainment, especially when you are expectantly waiting for a call that has no timeline to it. I thank God for the man who invented cell phones and lock up the house. With the key in hand, I search for the elusive brick to hide the keys under.

I find the brick – a half broken piece that rests obtrusively on the niche below the electricity meter. The brick is so apparent, that it is the first place a stranger’s eyes will rest on. Hiding a key with a key chain under the brick isn’t the smartest idea but Birendra’s instructions were explicit. I do as I was told and leave the house, uncertainly. I am not sure where I am going but am desperate enough to leave the desolate apartment.

I have just reached the corner of the street when a familiar number flashes on my mobile phone screen. The name “Divya” confirms it.

She speaks in a hushed whisper. It is obvious that she has excused herself from the meeting to arrange a side income for herself.

“I’m sending you an address, reach there,” she says. “The rate today is seven thousand; I take fifteen per
cent,” and she hangs up without giving me a chance to negotiate terms.

I get the message and make my way to the rendezvous. It is an address in Aurangzeb Road, one of Delhi’s posh colonies. It is a residential address and probably my first house call.

*

The last few weeks since I have moved to Delhi have been exhausting. Unexpectedly, my schedule is keeping me very busy. Divya has lived up to her promise in providing me an endless supply of women. Frankly, I had never thought that there were as many desperate women who would pay to have sex. I was ignorant until now.

It is one of those rare evenings in the last three weeks that I have no appointments. I choose to laze all day in bed with only a book for company. It is in the evening that I finally push myself into the shower. I come out of the bathroom with only a towel wrapped around my waist when I see a forlorn, brooding character sitting on the bed.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“It has finally happened. My company gave me the pink slip,” Birendra says.

“Why? I thought your industry was unaffected by the recession,” I ask.

Birendra worked for a fast moving consumer goods company. The likelihood of people not brushing their teeth or not having a bath due to the recession was remote. His job was insulated, unlike bankers like me, who lived off the interest of subprime credit.

“I don’t know, I thought so too, until the son of a bitch called me into the office and told me that I needn’t come from tomorrow,” he says.

“Did they give you a reason?” I ask.

“Yes, the recession; it’s the most convenient excuse everyone has these days,” he replies. He is holding his head between his hands. Despite the sombreness, he reminds me of an actor from the mid-fifties who specializes in tragedy.

“Cheer up, it’s all going to work out,” I say. I try to sound optimistic but I know it is in vain. I know the feeling and it is terrible. I was close to tears when I had been asked to leave.

“How come you didn’t go to work today?” he asks.

“There’s some work over the weekend, so my boss thought it would be best for me to take a day off during the week,” I lie. I am lying with so much confidence these days that I can become a specimen for a multiple personality disorder.

We step out for dinner to the nearby dhaba to enjoy a sumptuous meal of mutton curry and rotis – they are the only highlights of an otherwise melancholic day. The food that I had so missed when I was jobless is returning to my life. The mutton is a little overcooked and spicy but even then, it almost gives me an orgasm. My mouth is burning long after the meal and we make the short walk back from the dhaba. We stop to a get a sweet paan at the cigarette shop. I need something to help me douse out the fire of the green chillies. While the paanwaala puts in the right amounts of kattha and choona, I light a cigarette and inhale. I am back to smoking regularly. Everything that I had forgone to save money is re-entering my life.

“Can you refer me for a job at your company?” Birendra asks.

I want to tell him that there is no such company but I say, “They are just a start up; they don’t have any revenues coming in. I’ll try.”

“If they can hire you, they obviously think that there is potential. Please try and push it.”

“I will,” I say half-heartedly.

I hate to lie, especially to a friend. But such is my destiny that I cannot confide in anybody.