The Homing Pigeons... (12 page)

Radhika

“I’ll buy the material myself,” I say, “Quote me your price for labour.”

I am haggling with the contractor
. Why? I do not know. Maybe, the upbringing that I had and the economics of those times has made me into what I am today. There will be so much less trouble in just outsourcing the entire renovation work to the contractor but my small town upbringing refuses to let go. Even if he does overcharge, I can afford it. Even if he fleeces me, I can afford it. Even if he cheats me, I can afford it. Yet, letting go is so difficult.

“One lac for the entire thing,” Sudhir, the contractor replies.

Sudhir is one of Laxman’s finds. When I told Laxman that we need to start the renovation of the house, his resourcefulness introduced me to Sudhir, a middle-aged, dark man. His generosity with mustard oil makes his dark, dyed hair shine. This is his second visit to my home. On his first visit, it had taken more than a few hours to rid the house of the strong odour of mustard oil.  He already took the measurements and came back today to give me a quotation. I am already wondering if I should have this conversation out in the lawn.

“That’s too high,” I say. I know that it isn’t. “No, Madam. Not at all,” he almost cries.

“Okay, but I won’t pay you if the workmanship is poor,” I am unforgiving in trying to steal a bargain.

“Don’t give me a rupee; give me to the police, if you find me wanting. You won’t find a reason to complain.” Either Sudhir is very desperate or wants to make a career in theatrics.

“When can you start work?” I ask him.

“Today, but when will you have the material available?”
he asks me.

I have no clue. I don’t even know where the hardware stores are and I have volunteered to buy the material. Sometimes, I am not sure if I know Delhi. I have spent time in this city, I have stayed in the suburbs, yet, it remains alien.

“Give me your number, I’ll call you,” I say. I will not let Sudhir take wind that I am going to struggle with the bargain that I have just hit.

Laxman is versatile and it is hardly a wonder that Vimal had employed him. He takes care of the house; he doubles up as a cook and can also drive. He is a virtual ‘Man Friday’- capable enough to carry off the entire load and even then have time to find a contractor. He can almost be perfect if he stops smoking. I am sure that he’s in the kitchen garden where we haven’t seen a radish grow. I think it’s because of all the stubs in the ground that vegetables refuse to grow. Sure enough, I find him there.

“Laxman, where are the hardware stores? We need to buy the material,” I say.

“Kotla Mubarakpur,” he replies, referring to the maze of streets that lie hidden between two very posh colonies of South Delhi. You can find anything from a rubber band to a steel cable there.

“Get the car out; let’s go shopping for the material,” I say.

I walk back inside to gather the list that Sudhir left for me. Laxman is almost becoming Ghanshyam. He has scurried off in the direction of the car. Back inside, I am picking up the list off the coffee table when Laxman comes back and says, “Kotla is going to be closed today. It’s Monday,” he says.

“Is there no other place where we can buy the hardware?” I ask him. I want to get this chore off my back. I remember the days in Lucknow when it took ages to complete the renovation. I know that the sooner the work starts, the sooner it will end. I want to get the renovation off my list before I give serious thought to what I need to pursue.

“There are some shops in Sant Nagar; we could go there, but they’ll be a little more expensive,” he says. I think he makes that comment on purpose. I am widely being recognized as a miser. I take heart that Vimal has set very high benchmarks.

“That’s fine, get the car out,” I say.

He backs out an old Honda Accord. It is a second hand car that Vimal had kept in Delhi. He thought that it would be cheaper than hiring a taxi. His trips were very infrequent, but even then, he did some calculation to prove that a second hand car is cheaper than hiring a taxi. I think he bought it for the same amount as a six pack of beer. It doesn’t surprise me when I look at the moth-ridden back seat. I am thankful that in his will, he was considerate to give me enough money to renovate the house and buy a car. I am not sure what car I should buy. Everything comes at huge discounts in these days of recession. The automobile industry is in as bad a shape as banking was. It needs to be changed but it is lower down on my priority list. I sit on the back seat as Laxman drives out.

We exit the colony and leave behind the sleepy guard at the gate. Laxman drives onto Khel Gaon Marg and takes a left near Siri Fort. We enter Greater Kailash 1; I love the market in M-Block. There was a time when I would come here and shop for clothes. You know the clothes that you can wear on a weekend. It has been such a long time that I haven’t worn those sorts of clothes. I don’t know why but I suddenly get that heady feeling. I had yearned for freedom and I finally have it. Maybe, it is time to live up my life. We go past the busy M-Block market until Laxman parks opposite a small plywood store in Sant Nagar.

It is almost evening by the time I am through with the shopping list. Laxman makes a U-turn and we start to travel back on the same route. It’s the rush hour and the traffic is slower. I wonder why the traffic isn’t lighter when so many people don’t have jobs to come back from.

It takes us about thirty minutes to enter Greater Kailash and we are somewhere in the vicinity of the M-Block market. Laxman honks at the car in front of him. It braked suddenly because the car in front of it braked as suddenly. We are at a complete stop, yet again.

I hate the winters because it makes me pee so frequently. My bladder is on the verge of bursting. I am stuck in a traffic jam but I must go. I ask Laxman to park somewhere. I am in front of the rows of
houses that have been converted into shops. There’s a coffee shop and a saloon. Instinctively, I enter the saloon.

Aditya

Those days, I would often wonder why the world’s largest bank could not afford to give me a salary that would help me buy a car. How could they let the face of their bank travel to meet a client drenched to the skin? And worse still – why couldn’t I have chosen Chandigarh as my first posting? At least, I would have been closer to Radhika.

I stood at the traffic signal braving the rain en route to a meeting with a potential client. I said to myself, “There has to be a light at the end of this tunnel; you are doing this to make a career. You are doing this so that you get a promotion. You are doing this to have a better life.”

There are some people who don’t need motivation and there are some who need a reason to do well. I fell into the second category. I had to have a reason why I wanted to be successful and that reason was Radhika. Despite having not made a trip to Chandigarh or having expressed myself, I continued to build a fantasy world around me. Unknowingly, I justified each of my actions with “I was doing it for us”.

I squeaked through the lobby of the office of my client.
The leather shoes were squirting water from my sodden socks. A Vice President of an Insurance firm had given me a late afternoon appointment and I had accepted without expecting the rain to fall as furiously as it did. Maybe, it was my physical state and the sympathy that arose of it, that made him give me a cheque of three lacs for his investment account. The bank would get two per cent of that amount, about half a month’s salary for me. If I were to believe my boss, I was doing well. “On course,” he would say, without implying what the course really was and where it would eventually lead me.

In the bargain, he owned me. I spoke to him about taking a few days off to go back and meet Radhika in Chandigarh.

“The bank’s policy doesn’t allow any leaves in the first six months, unless it’s for a dire medical or personal emergency.” I had half a mind to fictitiously kill a few relatives to create a personal emergency; after all, there were so many. And then, the tiny voice in my head would say, “You’re doing it for us.”

A famous writer once said, “Absence is to love, what wind is to fire; it extinguishes the little and enkindles the great.” If it had been infatuation, this was the perfect opportunity for it to die down.

After all, it had been over two months since the incident at the train station. The monsoons had come. We seldom spoke because I was hesitant in calling her home. Her parents were orthodox and too many phone calls from a male friend were frowned upon. Why else would she call me up from a PCO, with the background chatter of a few hundred people, taking away the pleasure? I wished that I had been able to gift her a mobile phone instead of the worthless silver chain that I had bought – at least it would keep us in touch.

It  was  a  Friday  evening  in  late  July  when  we  finally spoke. It was a chance occurrence when I was at my desk and answered the phone.

“Good Evening. Citibank. This is Aditya Sharma. How can I help you?” I said into the receiver, thinking it to be a call from a client.

“Hey,” she said. I looked around to see who else might be able to eavesdrop
on my conversation with her. Thankfully, there weren’t many people around.

“Hi! How are you?” I was happy to hear her voice.

“I am coming to Delhi,” she said excitedly.

“When?”
I asked, more excited than when I had seen my first porn movie.

“Next Thursday. There’s a training scheduled in Delhi,”
she said.

“Wow! For how long?” I asked.

“Two days. But I’ll see if I can extend it over the weekend.”

I almost said, “I love you” at the end of the conversation,
but it would be so much better to say that in person – at least for the first time.

I was excited, happy and expectant. The evening refused to give way to the night. The five days that lay between now and meeting her were unbearable. I lay awake until past midnight, knowing that Saturday was a working day at the bank. I tossed and turned, replaying in my mind a thousand times over – how and what I would say to her. I imagined us in the finest restaurant, where she was dressed in the peach sari and I was dressed in a tuxedo.

In the light of the solitary candle on the table, I would hold her hand and tell her how much I loved her and what she meant to me, and justify why I had taken so long to say what I was saying. At some point, after I paid the bill and before we made love, I slept.

The next morning, I cancelled a meeting with a stingy client to take the silver chain to the jeweller. The humidity in the air had tarnished the silver beyond the two-and-a-half months that it had existed.

Radhika

W
hen I walk out the door of the beauty parlour, I see Laxman standing in the distance. I wave to him but he doesn’t wave back. I cross the street and go to the parked car where Laxman stands smoking a
beedi
. I am almost in front of him but he still doesn’t recognize me. I am not sure that a haircut can change me so much. I could’ve easily walked out of the parlour once I had used the wash, but I didn’t. I got rid of my tresses. It’s quite a fashionable cut – it’s left me feeling like the rats ate my hair. It’s that uneven. Even before the hairdresser chopped off the first tresses, I was unsure. Now, I am upset. I sit in the car thinking that I am overdoing this freedom thing.

It’s almost January by the time that I am able to get rid of Sudhir and his workers. I have struggled to be lost in my thoughts while the workers hammered nails. I have been able to buy a new car though. It’s a brand new white Honda Accord. It isn’t by accident that I got stuck with the same car. The year- end discount on that model was the highest. I don’t spend too much and most of the allowance that the trust gives me is sitting in the bank account. Even then, I’m stingy. I’ve saved from the budget of the car with absolutely no recollection of
what I will do with the savings. It’s the darned piggy bank from my childhood that’s making me do this. I wish I could change.

I don’t know if it’s because of the workers moving out or that I have most items struck off the to-do list, but the days seem longer. They’re also duller than before. I still sit in the winter sun on the porch for hours together. There is nothing that fills my days except the pigeons. Ehsaan must have died but I have new favourites. Even then, I feel that I am living a worthless, lazy life that bores me and questions my very existence.

Often, my thoughts veer towards having an occupation. I wish I can have a job, like I used to before I married Vimal. He had insisted that I leave my job right after I married him. I don’t need the money but it’ll give me a routine. I’ll be doing something better than reminiscing and brooding about a love that I had lost. It is magical how some people can remain etched in your memory.

Laxman brings in the morning papers for me and my first reaction is, “Where’s the rest of it?”

The paper has thinned. Not many companies advertise and I have heard that people are losing their jobs. Yet, I am immune. I wonder if I didn’t have the luxury of my marriage, would I have kept my job. Maybe, some things just happen for the best. My marriage was a nightmare; I had foolishly rushed into it. But it has left me with the comfort of not having to work.

Shipra and I meet often. She is the only saving grace from my dull routine. There are times when I feel that I am bogging her down. She has responsibilities, unlike me, in bringing up the twins. I never had children. Sometimes, I think I should’ve had them; they’d give me a p
urpose in life. Vimal was happy with Meera and I didn’t want children. Maybe, I did but I didn’t want them fathered by Vimal.

It is one of those days that I’ve driven to Delhi Cantonment to meet Shipra. She brings in the tea and even before she’s had a chance to pour it, I say, “I feel like I’m wasting my life”. It is an honest confession. I think realization is the first step to change.

“Honestly, you are,” she says.

She reconfirms what I know already. It’s not difficult for anyone to make that out.

“It feels like I have no purpose in life. It feels like I am just a rudderless boat that’s floating around,” I say.

“I don’t know if I can comment on that, but you must do something,” she says.

“What? I mean there are no jobs. What can a thirty-two- year-old woman do?” I ask her.

When one starts feeling that at thirty-two years you are not capable of doing anything, it’s about time to see a psychiatrist. Somewhere within, I always feel like I’m fifty. Why can’t I break out of this
mind-set? I often ask myself this question but never get a perfect answer. Even my trendy new haircut doesn’t help me feel young.

“Lots. As long as you believe in it,” she says.

Long after the meeting is over, I keep thinking about what I really believe in. I mean, I am the perfect case of someone who doesn’t need a financial motive. I can do stuff that people only dream of. Everyone else is so caught up in food, water and shelter. Maybe, I can do something for charity. Volunteer?

I am hit by inspiration. I log on to the Internet to come up with a few options for myself. I will speak to a few NGOs tomorrow morning to find out what I can do to help them.

Time is usually more precious than money.  Maybe, I can volunteer to help them in whatever they were doing.

When I look at the causes of these NGOs, they all seem noble. None of them are worth ignoring. It isn’t by accident that I choose to go with NGOs that support education as a cause.  I  remember  my  first day  in  YPS  when  I  had  been hesitant introducing myself because I wasn’t able to speak in English. Maybe, I can make a difference to someone’s life as Ms Kapoor had influenced mine. Determinedly, I put some phone numbers on a notepad promising myself that I will call them up the next day.

The next morning I am back in the dumps. The familiar laziness that prevents me from going out for a walk is with me again. Maybe I am just destined to be sitting on a chair on the porch of a large house. Maybe, I am only fit to have pigeons for a muse.

It is past eleven that I break my inertia. I pick up the phone to dial a number that I have saved. The number belongs to a NGO that helps underprivileged children study. I am a little shy when I say, “I’d like to volunteer my time for something noble.”

“You are most welcome,” the woman on the line replies.

“So, how do we start?” I ask her.

“Can you come over and meet us?” she asks.

I note down the address that the lady gives me. It is an address in East of Kailash. I can wait for lunch but I don’t want my familiar lazy
self-overtaking me. I call out to Laxman to pull out the car.

I wonder why I hadn’t chosen something flashier than the Accord. I could’ve afforded to buy a BMW but it has to be a deep-seated wish to become one with the people that I interact with. Shipra drives a Zen and I fail miserably in
doing that either. The Accord is about four segments ahead of her, still.

Laxman drives through almost the same route that we had driven when we went to the hardware store in Sant Nagar. I cross a neon board that I had seen a few days earlier. I am tempted to go down and smack the hairdresser. My
hair has grown but they still look like the pigeon’s nest.

We reach the address that is our destination. Shiksha, the NGO, is housed in a basement and I take the few steps down to reach it. I ring the bell and wait at the door until a lady opens the door for me. She is almost as tall as me and I can’t stop admiring the necklace that she wears around her neck. It is a pure gold necklace that has fine diamonds studded into it.

My perception of people who work at NGOs is very different. I expected to see someone wearing a cotton kurta and jeans. I turn around to see the board again, as if to confirm that I really am at the place that I intended to be.

She extends her hand to me and I shake it. I introduce myself and she recognizes me from our telephonic conversation an hour ago. She introduces herself as Sneha and says that she is the founder of the NGO. She asks me to accompany me to her office and I can’t help admire the office. It is too richly decorated for it to be for a non-profit cause.