The Homing Pigeons... (13 page)

Aditya

O
n Friday morning, the day after she had to come to Delhi for the training, the alarm clock rang. I begged it to let me sleep. It rang again; I ignored it again. It gave up on me. I overslept, until I woke up at nine, late for a meeting. I cursed myself for having overslept. I ran into the bathroom. I was on fire: leaping up from the shit pot to reach out for the razor; the shave foam already on my face, while I had multitasked. It was already 9:45 by the time I turned the key in the motorcycle. Thankfully, it wasn’t raining today and it would save me ten minutes. There was something about this city that the traffic would snarl up the moment it saw the clouds.

I was halfway to the meeting when I realized that I forgot the silver chain. It stubbornly refused to leave the confines of my cupboard. The grand rehearsals in my mind of this evening’s event were on the brink of doom. I had booked a table at the Bukhara to play out my fantasy. I could turn back and fetch it but that would mean a month’s hard work in prepping the clients go in vain. Not for the first time that morning, I cursed myself.

I wish I could’ve slept on time yesterday. I could blame the caffeine in the coffee, but then insomnia was beginning to be such a habit. There had once been a time that I would sleep even before my head touched the pillow, but nowadays, her thoughts would keep me awake until the wee hours of the night.

The meeting was the success that I expected it to be. I walked out with a thirty lac cheque to open a Citigold savings account and the promise of subsequent investments into an investment portfolio. Either I was lucky, or I was damn good at my work. “On course” had better change into a destination than being the journey it was.

There were back to back meetings lined up that day and it was already six when I looked at my watch. I could risk a trip back home, but in the unpredictable snarl of the peak hour traffic, I could lose as much as two hours. It didn’t make sense, so I cleared out my inbox and went thrice to the men’s room to adjust my necktie while she was in training. Each time I went to the men’s room, I took a detour walking past the training room to see if the training had ended prematurely. It hadn’t, so I continued to kill time, making small talk with the only friend that I had in office –Deepika. She was another management trainee who worked with me and she would cover for me in case there were clashing appointments. We had trained together and become good friends over the course of the three months that we had known each other.

We were still chatting when Radhika walked in. She looked at me and then Deepika, a little suspiciously.

“Hey! How’ve you been?” Deepika asked.

“Very well, and you?” she said.

Why was she ignoring me?

“Perfect, but late. I have a date with my boyfriend. I need to rush,” Deepika said as she
hit the shutdown button on her machine, putting to rest all doubts that may have crept into Radhika’s mind.

“Are you ready to go?” I asked.

“Yes, but isn’t it too early for dinner? Where are we going?” she asked in return.

“I was thinking about the Bukhara,” I replied.

The Bukhara was the fine dining restaurant at the Maurya Sheraton. It served Indian Mughlai and was renowned for the skill of the chefs. The dinner would cost me two weeks of salary and I thanked Citibank for giving me a credit card that I could swipe.

We went to the Indian Coffee House again and sipped on coffee. The waiters almost knew us by name now. Having killed enough time, we started off for one of the finest five star hotels, on the back of a motorcycle.

This was the scene that I had enacted so often in my mind and it was as if the commute had been blacked out. I would’ve liked to be stepping out of a chauffeur-driven Mercedes but then the credit limit on my card wouldn’t even be able to afford another motorcycle. I wished that I had had a head start on her in terms of years and that I could afford more. These were my salad days, when I was barely making ends meet. I consoled myself – one day, I will drive her in a Mercedes. We reached the Bukhara and we stood out even though we were dressed formally. She wore a grey business suit but still stuck out in the crowd of rich, extravagant sari-clad damsels that thronged the Bukhara.

“It is obviously not extempore. Why couldn’t you just tell me?” she said. The maître d’ had looked up the reservation list when I stated my name. He took us to a table by the window and lit the candle that sat on the table.

“What’ll you drink?” I asked scanning the wine list. The prices were obnoxious. I changed the many pages on the wine list to get to the section that said “Mock-tails”. One would’ve thought that something without alcohol would be a little cheaper, but not here.

“A fresh lime soda,” she replied, obviously thinking the
same way.

“No alcohol for you?” I asked her.

“I don’t drink,” she lied.

It was difficult to be Punjabi and not drink, even though her parents were orthodox.

“You liar, I remember you telling me about your antics on your cousin’s wedding,” I said, smirking.

We ordered our drinks and the alcohol in the wine relaxed her. Her business suit didn’t seem as out of place after the first drink. I sipped on my single malt that cost me a bomb and a half. I was obviously going overboard with this whole dinner thing. I would’ve been happy to speak to her even at the dhaba near Tolstoy Lane but you know how women are. They want a candle light dinner and romance when someone proposes.

“A repeat for both of us,” I said, without bothering to ask her if she wanted another one.

“I’ll pass. Why are we here, Aditya?” she asked me.

“For a dinner. Just go ahead, we’ll have a repeat,” I said to the waiter.

“But why did we have to come to such an expensive place; all that matters is your company,” she said. Obviously, this girl wasn’t the same.

“I wanted to talk to you about something,” I said without elaborating.

“Well, so did
I. But why does it mean burning up money?” she asked me.

“Because this is a good setting,” I said. I just couldn’t gather the courage to tell her without some more alcohol in my system.

“Can’t we just drink somewhere else?” she asked me.

“We could go to another place – a discotheque?” I asked her. I was disappointed that she didn’t like the place.

“I’d rather go somewhere quieter where we can talk. I really need to talk to you about something important,” she said.

I looked at my watch. It was about nine-thirty. The waiter arrived with the drinks.

“Places are going to be closed by the time we get out of here. We could go to my place, if you’re fine with that,” I said.

We had our drink as quickly as we could and paid the bill. I had my credit card out before her and she threw a tantrum. “You mind if I buy some more alcohol on the way?” I
asked her.

“Of course not, get some for me too,” she said.

We stopped at Kailash colony where I ordered chicken
tikkas
at Saleem’s and ran in the direction of the wine shop to fetch alcohol. She was still waiting at Saleem’s when I returned with a bottle of whiskey and another nip of vodka, just as our order was being wrapped up.

My apartment was a typical flat that the Delhi Development Authority is so notorious of building – shabby on the outside and uglier on the inside. The walls had unsmooth plaster, the floor bereft of tiles or stone and the fittings cheap. My roommates were either sleeping or away and we tiptoed into my room. I brought two glasses from the kitchen – thick, cheap glasses that were meant for water; a sharp contrast to the crystal that we had left behind at the Bukhara.

A few drinks later, we were relaxed, sitting on the single bed in my room, devouring the delicious chicken
tikkas
and enjoying the alcohol when the power went away. It wasn’t uncommon to lose power when it started drizzling. It sounded like it was going to rain if you heard the thunder in the distance. I went to the kitchen and returned with a candle. In the light of the candle, we dug into the chicken
tikkas
. That was the most imperfect candle light dinner that I ever had.

Radhika

It doesn’t take long for me to realize that this is all a sham. I  came  to  Shiksha,  the  NGO,  to  volunteer  my  time  for something noble. I didn’t know that it is a con that someone is running under the garb of a NGO. The signs were always there but it takes me time to understand them. Sneha, the lady that runs the NGO is quite unashamed about the fact that most grants that come her way are siphoned off to maintain the luxurious office and acquire the diamond necklace that hangs around her neck.

“This is business,” she says.

I wonder why she doesn’t open a private school instead of stealing from donors. I am happy that I have discovered this in my first meeting. I walk out in a huff, upset with the greed that has pervaded our society. It is not that I think of myself as a saint but this isn’t something that I can agree with.

I walk up the stairs to see Laxman smoking a
beedi. I don’t know why I vent my frustration on him.

“Stop smoking. Let’s go,” I call out to him.

“Yes, Madam,” he says and opens the door for me.

I sit inside, still fuming about my meeting. I don’t know if it is really Sneha that has brought about this angry streak in
me or if it is the lost promise of a vocation. On the way to East of Kailash, I was dreaming that I will finally have something to fill my days. Now, that promise has evaporated. It is my destiny to sit on the porch with pigeons for company. I am a middle-aged woman who can’t get anything right.

Sometimes, help comes from the most unexpected quarters. Laxman isn’t the sorts to want to have a conversation with you but today he is singing like a canary.

“Why did we come here?” he asks me.

Normally, I won’t answer this question. It is none of his business. He is a driver and it is best that I ignore him, but I find myself saying, “I wanted to work with them to educate underprivileged children.”

“Why do you have to work with them when you can do it yourself?” he asks me.

“What do you mean?” I ask him. I think to myself that I
am not going to start a NGO.

“Look around you. There are so many underprivileged children in our neighbourhood. You don’t need a NGO to help someone,” he says.

So many times, we are unable to see everything that exists in front of us. There are underprivileged children in every neighbourhood. Who hasn’t seen a labourer’s child with his nose running, while the mother carries brick loads on her head? Who hasn’t seen the maid’s children neglected when the maid is washing dishes? They are always there, but somehow, we don’t see them.

I am silent for the most part of the journey back home thinking about the difference that I can make to people’s lives that I am in touch with. Even in Lucknow, I would do charity but that charity would be in the form of money. It would be in the form of a donation to one of these charitable organizations
like Shiksha. After what I have seen today, I am not sure if this is the right way to contribute to charity.

As we pull into the gates of my house, I tell Laxman, “I am willing to help these kids. See if you can get them over.”

Laxman serves me lunch before venturing out in the afternoon. He returns in the evening with three kids. He tells me that they are our dhobi’s children. They go to the government school but need help. I know all about Government-run schools; I studied in one.

As a first task, I help them with the homework. It is a little strange to look at algebra after all these years. Algebra is almost like riding a bicycle. No matter how long ago you rode it, it just comes back automatically. It is almost dark by the time the children leave. Although, I sit on the porch of the house in the rocking chair, I don’t feel that bad.

I am a little more cheerful this evening when I go inside. I don’t know why but I have a feeling of indescribable contentment. It can be because I have done something that gives my self-esteem a boost. It can be as simple as finding something worthwhile to do.

Later that evening, I call up Shipra. I want to tell her that
I believed and I did.

“I finally did something worthwhile,” I say.

“What?” she asks me.

“I taught a few children,” I say excitedly.

“I told you. You can do it as long as you believe in it,” she says.

In a strange way, today’s events are a huge change even though it is such a simple thing. I have been so accustomed to being a rich man’s wife that I have started feeling worthless. Although, it doesn’t show, I lost my confidence. It wasn’t that
I was always confident but the last few years have dented me some more. I had lost belief that I was young.

When I go to bed that evening, I don’t feel that old. I don’t see myself as a piteous thirty-two-year-old widow. There is a life ahead of me and I will make the most of it.

Aditya

S
itting  in   the   candlelight,   I   wanted   to   start   off   the conversation,  but  I  still  didn’t  know  how.  For all the rehearsals in my brain, I was still inhibited. I was on my fifth drink and knowing my capacity to drink, I knew that I should do it now, rather than later. I didn’t want to sleep before I got this off my chest.

The air in the room was heavy; a combination of the humidity in the air, the smoke of my cigarettes and the heaviness of expectancy. Even after spending hours this evening, we hadn’t been able to break our shyness and bring forth our thoughts. The flickering candle created our alter egos on the rough walls of the room. The candle died devoid of fuel to sustain it.

It was that catalyst that I was waiting for. We both spoke simultaneously sitting in the pitch dark. Only a faint light from the street light below created a silhouette of her form.

“I wanted to talk to you…” we both said.

“You go first,” she said.

“I just wanted to tell you something…” I hesitated. “I hope that even if you find it inappropriate, it will not impact our friendship…”

“I promise it won’t,” she said a little too eagerly.

“I am in love with you,” I felt the burden being lifted off my chest. It was probably not the ideal setting or the most eloquent prose to express it. Even then, I had said what I had been endeavouring to do for a long time. I looked in her direction through the dim light that strained in through the cheap floral curtains, half expecting a blow to come flying.

Instead, she said, “What took you so long?” I didn’t answer but reached out for her hand. Her hand was cooler than mine and I held it, caressed it. She put her other hand on my hand, as an affirmation that she understood. We sat there for an eternity in the silence and darkness. The only sounds were of our breath and the rain on the window pane. I pulled her towards me until her head rested on my shoulder. We embraced each other; our bodies spoke to each other- her cool skin against my warm body. She clung onto me, pulling my shirt, as if she was trying to make up for the years that we had been together, and yet, been so far away.

I snuggled into her neck, feeling the smoothness of her skin on my face. We were both longing to move forward but a little unsure of how the other would react. Our lips
met; our breaths heavy with alcohol. The sweet-sour taste of the lemon mixer mixed with the peaty flavour of my whiskey. The sensuousness of her moist lips pervaded my senses; I pulled on her lower lip, she didn’t resist. Emboldened, my tongue entered her mouth; unhurriedly exploring every corner of her mouth. Her tongue had similar ambitions, she responded. We kissed, deeply and for the longest time, attempting to stop, but in vain. It was an alien feeling; neither of us had experienced this before and our naivety was telling.

She didn’t stop me when I put my hand on her breast, instead she cupped my hand. She approved. I wasn’t sure if
it was the alcohol in our blood or the humidity in the air that made us lose our inhibitions and our middle-class values. The rain continued its monotonous thump on the window. Our clothes came off – my shirt, her jacket, my vest, her blouse until we were naked.  Our  hands  explored  each  other ’s bodies,  while  our  lips  were  locked.  My tongue travelled down her neck until I reached her breast. I pulled off her bra, exposing her mounds of flesh. My tongue continued to explore, forming imaginary, concentric circles around her nipples. The maelstrom was pulling us in and both of us were willing to explore its depths. My hand reached down to feel her; she was wet. She held me and helped me enter her. It was nothing like anything I had imagined or seen. Ever since adolescence, I had dreamt of being here and yet, I was such a novice. It was hurting her. I tried to be gentle but the animal inside me wouldn’t let me be. We were gyrating in a rhythm; the thunderclaps drowned our moans. The occasional bolt of lightning revealed our nakedness as the rain continued to fall, a little faster than before, until it was a downpour. Then it stopped.

The power came back. The sudden light blinded our eyes as we lay together, spent. I turned off the light, preferring the darkness.

“I love you,” I said.

“I love you too,” she said, and we embraced each other. We were like two lost travellers in the desert who had just chanced upon an oasis.

We made love again, until the first rays of the sun defied the clouds. She didn’t bother going back to the guest house and I didn’t bother going to office. We only stepped out for food in the afternoon and for coffee in the evening, before being back in bed, gaining a little more experience, being a little more experimental and loving every moment of the investigation.

Too soon, it was Sunday afternoon. The train schedule made us make our way to the train station, stopping at her guest house en route. She returned in fifteen minutes, dressed in a long red skirt and a white t-shirt that made her body look more luscious than ever. Around her neck, she wore a thin silver chain, with a small pearl pendant that her lover had gifted her.