The Homing Pigeons... (8 page)

Aditya

M
uch later in life, I would understand that an ego tussle between a Sikh cleric and the then Prime Minister had changed my life, forever. It started with the Sikh cleric standing for his rights, or that was what he proclaimed, deeming him an anti-national. A holy shrine was desecrated and the Sikhs wanted revenge. The Sikh bodyguards got the community their revenge and then the Hindus wanted their revenge, against my community at large. In the pursuit of revenge, most victims were innocent. They neither believed in the cleric nor in the ability of the Prime Minister, but they were punished. Sometimes, I would wonder if religion was really that important.

The madness manifested itself in the form of riots, arson and focused destruction of property that was even remotely connected with the Sikhs. Our factory in Faridabad and the house were burnt down, with my Darji inside it. It was luck or the lack of it that we weren’t in Delhi, where insanity took the most brutal forms.

Our return to Delhi wasn’t until two weeks later when some sense of normalcy had been restored. My hair had been cut to a short length and my name changed to Aditya Sharma, through a public notice. It is always difficult to change, especially if it is your identity that changes. Everyone in Chandigarh thought that it was quite unnecessary but my mother was scared. She thought that it was best for me to lose my hair than to lose my life.

Somehow
, my mother gathered enough courage to make the return trip to Delhi. We stood in front of the once white  coloured  house  that  had  been  the  funeral  pyre  of my grandfather. Today, it stood charred, black and sooty. My father had received the news too, and had delayed his return from New York. We stood there in silence, grieving for our loss, without a shelter over our heads. A family of garment manufacturers that now only had two suitcases full of clothes.

My
father’s eyes were cold and expressionless; grieving for a father that he could not give the last rites to. He put some ashes from the charred house into an urn and laid a garland at the entrance of the front door. The next trip was to the factory, an arduous journey on a public bus that would make the Padmini feel like a Lamborghini. The stares on the bus made us more uncomfortable; each stare questioning us how were we still alive?

We reached Faridabad and went to the factory on the back of a Rickshaw. We saw more ashes and more charred concrete. We heard more stories of the devastation that had occurred. There were horror stories of how the clothes and the stock of cloth inside had burned incessantly. While I didn’t understand much at that age, the impression was grim. Tired of standing, I tugged at my
mother’s shirt and asked her “What happened to our factory?”

“It was burnt down,” she replied. “Why?” I asked earnestly.

That was a question that most people can still not answer. My mother was no exception. She shrugged her shoulders and turned around, so I couldn’t see the tears that were freely flowing down her cheeks.

Ironically, the insurance company that had insured the properties made a killing in the fine print. Of the
few exclusions where the insurance policy would not be liable to pay us were the destruction of property arising out of an act of rioting or arson. The loans on the property, the stock of clothes and the advances against expected deliveries, were all the liability of my father. With no assets against them, it took several months to get out of the financial mess that had occurred as fallout of the arson.

I was admitted to Yadavindra Public School. My mother and I were staying with Jassi Mamoo’s family in Chandigarh while my father tried to wrap up his affairs in Delhi. The land took time to sell, and went at huge discounts. The buyers knew my
father’s situation and the real estate hawks knew that it was a distress sale.

It was only after five months, in the March of nineteen eighty five, that we were together as family. The debts had been paid off, the lands sold and the customers informed. We had no home, no car – not even a Padmini, and only six thousand rupees left to our name.

We rented a house in Chandigarh for two-and-a-half thousand rupees in rent. The landlord asked for a deposit and we paid, not knowing if there would be a way to raise money to pay next month’s rent.

Radhika

I wake up tired and wilted even though I have slept for a straight ten hours. The journey from Lucknow was tough – first, the airline cancelled the flight. In these times of recession, business travel has dropped.  The airlines aren’t getting enough passengers to make the flight from Lucknow to Delhi worthwhile. Very few people from Lucknow are willing to spend money on an airline ticket when a train ticket is about a third of the fare.

Somehow, I got a reservation on the train. I had barely boarded the train when I got the news that there was a minor accident along the route and traffic was delayed. The journey that should’ve taken no longer than six hours, took ten.

Laxman picked me up from the train station and brought me home. Despite sleeping for ten straight hours, I am still a little weary, probably because of the alien bed. The mattress is sagging and that prompts me to create a new to-do list. Even while some items on the Lucknow list remain pending. I drink the water from the bottle on my bedside and I call out to Laxman to make me a cup of tea.

Laxman knocks on the door and serves me a cup of tea. There is no teapot; just an old bone china cup that is chipped
at the edges. I disguise my revulsion and Laxman leaves. I sip on the tea and am tempted to throw it up immediately. It turns out to be tea leaves steeped in milk. The cream in the milk coats my tongue and I leave the cup three quarters full. I am not able to tolerate it anymore.

The weariness refuses to go without a cup of tea and I go down the wide staircase to the hall. I vaguely remember the kitchen being beyond the hall. I walk into the kitchen and I feel like an alien. I don’t even remember when I last saw the insides of a kitchen. Cooking was never my forte or passion. I open the cabinet and the door almost disintegrates in my hand. I peer into the dingy cabinet but I can’t find a kettle or a sauce pan. The cabinets are decaying. I wonder how many termites share this home with me. I call out to Laxman who is outside tending to the kitchen garden. He runs the few steps to come back into the kitchen, panting. The
beedis that he reeks of aren’t helping his stamina.

“Where’s the kettle?” I ask.

“We don’t have a kettle,” he replies.

“A saucepan?
How did you boil the milk? Sorry, the tea?” I ask.

He opens another cabinet. The handle on the cabinet comes off when he yanks it too hard. He brings out a freshly washed, almost wet, yet dirty saucepan with a broken melamine handle. He holds it out for me without an iota of disgust.

“Is this the best that we have?” I ask. Even before he answers, I reach my hand out for the shabby container that faintly resembles a saucepan.

“Yes. Otherwise there is the
patila,” he reaches into the cabinet again, his head completely inside the hollow, before he emerges with a huge brass pot. The brass pot is tarnished. It hasn’t been used in ages. I am not surprised because it’s big enough to serve an army.

“No, this will do. Where are the tea leaves and milk?” I ask. I move towards the sink to scrub the saucepan that I have in hand. It will have to be changed but till then a scrub will do.

I turn around to see Laxman pulling at the door of the refrigerator. The door almost drops off the hinge. I can’t control myself any longer. I almost shout when I say, “Why is everything in shambles? Why don’t you get this repaired?”

“Madam, it only came off last week. I’ll get it repaired,” he says. His voice is a whisper. I don’t want him to run away. I don’t want him to become a Ghanshyam who saw me as a tyrant. I control my anger. Laxman isn’t to blame because when my husband had been alive, he would come to Delhi alone. Once or twice a year, I would accompany him, but I had never bothered to venture anywhere near the kitchen. If Laxman knew any better, why would he be working as a help?

I make the tea, putting in just a dash of milk. I carry the cup back to my room and sit on the bed. I can’t help praising myself for the tea. It’s been a while since I entered the kitchen but the tea is perfect.

The  house  is  an  independent  house  built  on  a  plot  of three hundred and sixty square yards. The architect has done well.  He’s built a duplex structure to leave enough room for a kitchen garden and a front lawn. I love the porch that overlooks the front lawn. Even on my trips with Vimal here, I would often sit on the rocking chair while he was gone. When his will was announced, I was happy that I didn’t get the mansion in Lucknow. This house is better. It’s smaller and easier to manage. It has three bedrooms which is also a luxury. I don’t think I will ever have as many guests.

I step out to the balcony that opens out from the master bedroom. From where I stand, I can barely make out the street in front of the house. The high boundary wall almost blocks
out the view. I look at the lawn. It’s been neglected for so long that weeds overshadow the little grass. I know that there’s a lot of work to be done. If the kitchen cabinets are anything to go by, the termites would have done more damage than the cabinetry in the kitchen. I make a mental note to try and arrange a contractor who can help me make the changes.

I shower and dress and sit alone in the den. If the handle on the shower hadn’t come off while I was bathing, I may not have made this a priority. I ponder over a to-do list.

I write ‘renovating the house’ at top of the list. There’s also the matter of buying a new car. I scribble on a yellow legal pad that I found in one of the drawers. I look up from the pad, trying to get my thoughts together. A question arises: what will I do now that I am away from everything familiar? I choose not to answer the question because it can be procrastinated. I owe myself better living quarters first.

Aditya

I am not sure if Punjabis are enterprising or merely resilient but it wasn’t long before my father was creating a business out of nothing at all. He could have chosen to work a job; it would have given him the security of a salary. Instead, he employed a tailor, took cloth on credit and converted the unused servant quarter on the terrace into a tailoring shop. He arranged a buyer for the finished product and had Jassi Mama become a guarantor. All this, when he didn’t know how he was going to pay next month’s rent.

I continued to school at the Yadavindra Public School, in short, YPS. The tuition was steep, given our circumstances. My father refused to compromise on education. The school was an educationist’s dream that had gradually taken on commercial overtones. They ceased to exist as just another school being run out of residential premises. Even when they had bought the land they still didn’t have enough to construct a building. The school sent a notice to all the students’ parents to voluntarily contribute to the cause. There was hardly anything voluntary about the demand and my father was willing to sell my
mother’s jewellery for the deposit. He always said, “We can eat less but not compromise on education”.

My grades were among the best until the tenth standard and I was a sportsman, leading the school team in soccer. For my sins, I chose to study accountancy.

I never could fathom why I needed to study those damned debit and credit entries. I revelled in hating the subject, knowing that my future depended on it.

Between my hate for the subject and the pleasures of soccer, I met Radhika – a new joiner in class eleven, who was as misfit in the class of sixty as a penguin in the Sahara. At best, she was a village belle who was rudely thrust into the urban landscape, with snobbish, noveau rich, spoilt brats for company. I had half a mind to ignore her or taunt her like the others but the smell of paranthas enticed me. I didn’t know if it was her mother or someone else who cooked them but they were heavenly. The stuffing of potatoes was admirably spiced up to leave a lasting sensation on the tongue. I was evil; I knew that the paranthas would be in constant supply over the next two years. So, it was best to befriend her.

My mother, despite her best qualities, had failed to inherit her mother’s culinary genius. Unfortunately for her, my taste buds were oversensitive. She would attempt to make good food. Her attempts would be shot down by my criticism until her demotivation had led her to delegate the duties of the kitchen to the maid.

Radhika was a welcome change from the maid’s cooking. It was much later that I began to notice the face and the person behind the tiffin box. The face was beautiful, although it did need a little brushing up – the eyebrows had never seen a beautician’s thread and the facial hair had never been bleached. As the two years progressed, she changed in her appearance. It was as if she were the statue that the sculptor creator was polishing, to smoothen out
the edges. The changes weren’t sudden; they weren’t apparent, but subtle. One day it would be her hairstyle and then the facial hair would blend in with the skin.

She helped me with my nemesis, accountancy and I would feed on her tiffin. I didn’t even know when we became friends or when I got attracted towards her. I didn’t know when I
developed a fondness of her.  On more occasion than one, I thought about telling her what I felt, but then I was a little afraid. At heart she was still rural; I wasn’t sure how she would react to any of my overtures. I still remember the last few days of school after which I hadn’t seen her for a very long time.

“
Will you participate in the fashion show?”  I asked Radhika.

“Yes, and you?” she asked me in return.

It was the school farewell set in the mid-nineties; the most fashionable event on the agenda was a fashion show. It was a display of the finest suits and saris that our parents could wrap us in. I had chosen to wear a charcoal black suit over a pin- tucked white shirt and matched it with a red bow-tie that had once belonged to my father. Already, the tailors at dad’s shop were stitching it.

“I will,” I replied, sounding more carefree than confident. The practice for the fashion show started the next day, the outcome was the crowning of a Mr and Ms YPS. The fashion show would bring an end to years of studying at YPS. The last two years would also mean an end. It would mean an end to
an unfulfilled desire of loving a woman – Radhika. It would all end with a fancy cat-walk routine on the make shift stage at the lawns of Yadavindra Public School. Only memories would remain.

The farewell party, a weak replica of a prom, began in the mild sun of that February afternoon – a time when one
isn’t sure if it’s cold enough to keep your sweater on or warm enough to wear a t-shirt. My father dropped me to the school on his faithful scooter, the machine that had been running for over twelve years and despite its coughing, so reminiscent of old age, refused to die on him.

I saw her; she was almost like Madhuri Dixit in the movies. You know, how the long hairs fly in the wind when the actress makes her first appearance. Her peach chiffon sari ballooned up as it caught the wind.

She reached the parking lot of the school where a few classmates stood, accompanied by very caring mothers who were adjusting safety pins on the saris of their little girls.

She towered over the crowd, a shade over five and a half feet but still tall enough to dwarf the crowd. I felt a familiar longing of reaching out to touch her; of kissing her until one of us collapsed on the ground, breathless. Every eye that existed in the parking lot turned towards her, some stopping momentarily and some continuing to admire the beauty of this young woman.

She walked in my direction and I felt myself burn with desire. I looked into the side view mirror of the nearest car in the parking lot – to get a sense of reassurance that the blushing of my skin didn’t give away what I was feeling inside. I was still a light shade of pink, but my heart was the deep red of burning embers. “All set?” she asked me in the same nonchalant way that she would always address me.

“Yes, sort of,” I replied.

“You’re becoming Mr YPS today,” she stated, knowing that I probably stood no chance.

“If I get past the first round, I’d call it an achievement,” I
replied.

“You’ll make it; you’re the best,” she said.

“Let’s go,” I said, and we walked the fair distance across the lawns to where the event was being staged, leaving behind a large gathering of girls, women and safety pins.

The music started – the cacophony of
Roxette singing “It must have been love…,” a bitter reminder that the end was near of a love that had never seen a beginning. I was painfully aware that I might hardly see Radhika again, except for the few times that we would meet at the examination hall.

One part of me wanted to express myself – to tell her that I wanted to be with her and to date her. I sometimes even imagined myself being married to her. I guess that’s how first love is. Yet, the other, saner part of me said that this was the last day of school. We would go our different ways after the exams were over, in search of our education and a means to a livelihood. In the process, we’d meet people who possibly, would be more interesting. Maybe, they would be interesting enough to fall in love with. The pain lingered on, of not being able to garner the courage to express what I felt for her. I felt the agony of never being able to dance with her to the tunes of old English songs. I felt anguished that even if I met her later in life, I wouldn’t be seventeen.

The evening ended when Radhika was crowned Ms YPS. She walked away in the glory of being crowned, far away from my life. I wipe the one tear that has broken my command and made it to the corner of my eye, mourning the loss of my first love. The love that had never been expressed.

Through the tears, I look out of the window to see that the train has stopped at Chandigarh. I have
returned to the city where my first love had happened. So much has changed during this time. Today, I am not the young Sikh boy who had come here on vacation with his mother. Today, I am a gigolo.