The Homing Pigeons... (14 page)

Radhika

A
s I lie in bed that evening, I can’t help feeling satisfied. It was always so apparent that I could have helped the neighbourhood children. It was a mistake to have not started earlier on this task. The word mistake always makes me reach out to the silver chain around my neck. The chain is thin but the emotions that it brings to me are always the same. They always remind me of the first mistake that I had made. It had been my decision that had probably ruined my life, forever.

It was exactly two weeks after I had lost my virginity to Aditya that I was in bed with another man. I was a veritable log as he had sex with me. If he had made love to the exhaust pipe of his Audi A8, it would’ve been more gratifying for him. I just lay there, not even bothering to emote. Not even attempting to feign interest. Not even attempting to fulfil the duties of a wife.

In the past two weeks, I had ruined my life and probably, Aditya’s too. On the Monday that followed the memorable weekend in Delhi, my mother said, “Try and come back early; there are some guests coming home for tea.”

I had been more worried about her experienced eyes making out that I had lost my virginity two days ago. I just
nodded my head as I left the house for work. Little had I suspected that the guests were my to-be husband and his parents. It was only when I returned back from work at five that my mother insisted that I change into a sari.

“Why do I need to wear a sari?” I asked

“They’re coming to see you,” she replied.

While I had successfully rejected most responses to the matrimonial listing, this one would’ve probably come through in the four days that I had been away. I was only twenty-two and my parents may have waited if it hadn’t been for an astrologer making a prediction.

Pundit Pratigya Pal was a slimy, hateful man. I had developed an intense dislike for him over the years. There used to be a time when I was embarrassed in his presence. His lustful eyes would shift conveniently down to my bosom. In May, after I had come back from the induction in Delhi, he had made a pronouncement

“You’re going to get married this year,” he said.

The better part of the year was still ahead of me, but then, except in my fantasies where I would be married to Aditya, I had never even imagined that marriage could be a reality.

I frowned, “How can that be? I have no intention of getting married, not just yet.”

“Beti, when Mercury and Venus align, no one can stop it. Any time after July, you should see yourself married. Start looking for a boy,” he said to my father.

I had dismissed the thoughts back then, but today they were back to haunt me. In fact, the recent spate of these matrimonial responses had me a little worried. I had wanted to speak to Aditya about it while in Delhi, but as things turned out, I couldn’t.

“Mamma, who is this guy? I don’t want to get married,” I pleaded, half wanting to tell her about the weekend affair with Aditya.

“Everyone has to get married, sooner or later,” she replied.

“What is the hurry? I am only twenty-two,” I said.

“I was nineteen when I got married,” she said.

“That doesn’t mean that I have to,” I said.

“Girl, now you listen to me. We never even thought that we would’ve had to get you married. When you were adopted by your uncle, we thought our responsibility was over. As things have turned out, we need to get you married and the sooner we can take care of our responsibility, the better it is. So now, go and change and be on your best behaviour.”

I should’ve rebelled. I should have taken the next train to Delhi to be with Aditya, but for some incomprehensible reason, I didn’t. Instead, I changed into a sari to meet with a prospective groom. I purposely ruined my make-up – wore the lipstick outside my lip line; smudged the mascara so that I resembled a cross between a raccoon and a monkey and draped the sari as inelegantly as I could, hoping that he would reject me on at least one of these grounds.

Abhinav Chandra was an engineer form IIT, who had done an MBA from IIM (A) and now worked in a multinational bank in New York. With those confused credentials, he needed an Indian trophy wife and would have easily attracted a few in the US, given his six figure dollar salary, if it weren’t for his parents. It was unfathomable to think that people, both me and him, with our educational backgrounds could be coerced into an arranged marriage. His annual three week vacation was being dedicated to finding a wife that would appease his parents. A week had gone by already and he was probably a little desperate.

I sat there while he admired me. I was unsmiling and put on the most unpleasant expression that I could, but he didn’t reject me. I suspected that he was probably suffering from cataract. Thankfully, my parents didn’t say a ‘yes’ immediately. His parents did say that since a lot had to be done, they would expect an answer by Tuesday.

“What do you think?” my mother asked, after they left.

I had to tell her that I was in love with someone else. I had to tell her that I could not get married to him. I still didn’t know if I had the courage to say it, especially in light of the conversation earlier that evening. Then, I wasn’t even willing to play martyr to my parents.

“Mamma, I love someone else,” I said, drawing out all the courage that I had from the deepest recesses of my soul.

Her voice suddenly changed to a hoarse whisper, as if she had just heard me confessing a sin. “Who is he? Don’t let your father hear about this.”

I didn’t know what would happen if my father did hear of this. This was completely ridiculous.

“Aditya Sharma, he works in Citibank Delhi,” I said.

“How much does he earn?” she asked me.

“I guess about the same as me,” I assumed that the bank would hire all management trainees at the same pay scale. I had never bothered to find out.

“Which is what? Fifteen thousand?” she asked.

“I guess so,” I said.

“Girl, get real. Fifteen thousand in today’s date and time doesn’t count for anything. How will he support you? And how old is he?” she asked me.

“Twenty-two,” I replied.

“I don’t even believe I am having this conversation with you. You are being so immature.”

It was ironic that she said what she had. I was immature to be in love and yet, mature enough to be married.

“But, I love him,” I cried.

“You haven’t seen life, because you’ve got everything on a platter. Your father would drive a taxi all day and for half the night to make ends meet. I used to stitch clothes for the neighbours so that you could have new clothes to wear. Here, you’re getting a rich, educated, well-settled guy and you want to get married to a young, immature pauper? And this guy that you love, even if he does marry you, what are you doing to him? When does he get a chance to grow when you weigh him down with your responsibility? I am saying yes on your behalf and this is it.”

Having delivered her sermon, she walked out of the room. I was still not convinced and tears rolled down my cheeks.

I was crying for the brutality of the situation and the lack of time to make a decision. I had to talk to Aditya. I somehow had to speak to him. I grabbed my purse and entered the drawing room where the entire family sat beaming. They had obviously been communicated that I had agreed to marry.

I was about to exit the front door, when my mother called out to my brother to accompany me wherever I was going.

We reached the PCO, I asked him to wait outside. Desperately, I dialled the number. No one answered. I prayed and dialled again with the same result. Dejectedly, I came back home and retired to my room. The tears refused to stop flowing.

Aditya

The phone rings, breaking me out of my day dream. It is Divya again, asking me if I have found any references. I wonder why she is being so pushy but I realize that it has been over two hours that I have just sat on the bed and thought back to the time that I had first made love to a woman.

“I’ll call back,” I say. It is obvious that I don’t have any ready references, but I think about Birendra.

He is in the same situation that I was in when I had chosen to take up this profession. It isn’t by choice, and it isn’t ideal; but heck, it pays. It pays the bills and it lets me keep a little bit of my dignity alive; I am not begging.

I leave to go to the
barber’s shop to get a haircut. At another time, I wouldn’t have cared for the hair that are just beginning to peek over my ear, but now it is imperative that I keep myself in ship shape. I am a product – it is important that the product is packaged well, and so, I have unwillingly visited the barber shop.

The snip of the scissors is mechanical, as the barber ponders over which hair to cut and to what length. Meanwhile, I am deep in thought, contemplating if I should lift the burden of my soul and speak to Birendra about my profession. There
is no doubt that he will be left aghast given the lies that I have been telling him. The barber’s razor works on my neck, scraping off the small hair that the scissors can’t incise.

I weigh the pros and cons of discussing it with him – it may mean an estrangement, he may probably ask me to leave his home. Even if he does, my life will go on as it had over the years after college. Yes, he is a good friend but will losing him change my life?

On the other hand, he is without a job and any help that he can get would be welcome; the help can be as small as sharing the rent on the apartment that we are now sharing.

The barber removes the cloth that covers me, dusting off the dry, cut hairs that have fallen onto it.

“Sir, shave?” he asks.

“No, I’ll go home and do it myself,” I say.

He makes a mockery of dusting off the short hair that are stuck onto my shirt, with the bristled brush.

“Eighty Rupees,” he says, announcing that his chore is over. Talk about recession-proof professions, and the barber is at the top of the pack.

I pay him with a hundred rupee note and don’t wait for him to produce the change. I walk out of his shop and cover the short distance to our apartment. I am still unsure if I have the courage to tell Bhatoliya. He is not the lady on the train, a complete stranger, who I can openly tell what I do.

“Aren’t you late for work?” he asks me as he opens the
door.

“I have to go a little late today,” I reply.

“Good job you have there; it gives you a lot of flexibility. I hope you’re forwarding them my resume.”

This is the perfect opportunity to come clean. And, I do.

“I want to confess something, but only if you make me a cup of coffee and promise not to judge me on the basis of what I tell you,” I say.

He is enthusiastic about the coffee and moves to the small kitchenette. It is an open kitchen and while I sit in the living room, we can still have eye contact.

“Of course,” he says, keeping a saucepan full of water to boil. He nods at me to signal that I can start.

“Do you want to wait until the coffee is made?” I am eager to get the secret off my chest but there is a risk of never getting that cup of coffee that he is making.

“Shoot, it’s only going to take two minutes to fix up the coffee,” he says. He adds the milk into the water.

“My confession is that I don’t work for Aztec software,” I say.

He looks up for a moment to look me in the eye. It is a
stare that states that he is upset that I have misled him. He turns around and puts the coffee powder into the mugs on the counter behind him.

“In fact, I don’t work a job,” I say.

He takes the saucepan off the fire and turns off the gas. I am not sure if the contents of the saucepan are boiling or he is upset enough to refuse me the coffee.

“I work as a male prostitute, a gigolo. I entertain wealthy, middle-aged women,” my voice is wavering. I have let the cat out of the bag. I have committed myself to a point of no return.

He hands me a cup of coffee and takes the other one himself. His eyes don’t meet mine. It is difficult to judge his reaction. Finally, after an eternity, he says, “Why are you telling me this today?”

There are three reasons: one, Divya’s phone call has been a catalyst; two, that I think that he will be able to appreciate my
predicament, now that he is also jobless; and three, I am sick of leading a false life. I am lying through my teeth and even if it means moving out of the apartment, I want to be honest.

“I wasn’t sure you’d be willing to accept it and I am sick of leading a false life. I don’t want to keep telling you that my boss called me on a weekend,” I say honestly.

“It must be exciting,” he says. For the first time since the disclosure, he is looking into my eyes, and I know the comment isn’t sarcastic. It is genuine.

“Well, yes and no,” I don’t care to explain.

“How did you get into it?” he asks.

His enthusiasm is unexpected
.  I recount the events of the last two months, leading up from the fateful night at the Sipper to the phone call this morning. I ask him the question, “Interested?”

“Yes, but I’m a virgin,” he replies back.

I smile, breaking into a grin which turns into a chortle. I am still wondering what has caused it; the burden off my chest, the enrolment of Birendra as a gigolo, or the fact that a thirty-two-year-old man is still a virgin.

I call up Divya to tell her that I have a ‘reference’.