The Homing Pigeons... (2 page)

Radhika

I
t is freezing out in the open today. The evenings are expected to be chilly in November but this year the cold is bitter. I’m standing alone in a crowd of five people when I see an old man walking towards me. He’s wearing a pyjama and has a thick shawl wrapped around him. He’s miserably out of place among everyone else sporting their riches. I recognize him as the owner of the farmhouse we’re in.

“Who is Radhika Ahuja?” he asks the crowd.

I want to tell him that I am the mother of the woman getting married today. I am the widow of a man who passed away nine months ago. In fact, a very rich widow. My husband died and bequeathed me a house in South Delhi which even in these times of recession is worth a little over ten crores.

I am so bored that I only say, “I am.” “We need an advance,” he says

I want to tell him that I don’t deal with all this nonsense. I have people who work for me. I only sign cheques because that’s what my husband’s will wanted me to do. He’s left behind a will that leaves me a custodian and the veritable guard dog of his wealth. He’s left me in charge until my step-daughter gets married. Incidentally, that day is today.

I am so uninterested that I only direct him to the accountant. He walks away. He doesn’t remember me, but I do.

It was about six years ago when I got married at the very same place to Vimal Ahuja. He was then, a man in his early forties, and I was only twenty-five. Back then, the setting had been similar in this farmhouse on the outskirts of Lucknow. My parents sat next to me to do the
kanyadaan
, the Hindu ritual directing the daughter to be donated to the groom. They were inexperienced; they had two sons before me. They had qualms that the groom was eighteen years elder than me and had a daughter, Meera, who was seventeen. They had asked me to reconsider, but I was sure. After all, he was rich.

The lady in the blue sari asks me, “What’s the date today?” I know
it is November, but it leaves me feeling that it’s August. It is almost Independence Day tomorrow. With my step daughter Meera getting married today, my responsibility will end. It will leave me with a freedom that I have almost given up on.

I am logical enough to only say, “It’
s the eighteenth of November.”

I am just about letting out a silent prayer to a God, who I don’t believe in anymore, when a man walks over to congratulate me. He’s the attorney who read out the will after my husband died. Something about him always leaves me disappointed. Maybe because he brings out the emotions that were with me the day he had announced the will. If I say that I was upset, I’ll be lying; I was downright distressed. I could’ve gained my freedom a lot earlier if it hadn’t been for the will.

I wasn’t the only one who was disappointed that day. Meera was forced to bear with me by virtue of the will. I couldn’t blame her for being dejected. She got the lion’s share in the will. Even then, she felt cheated that I had been bequeathed a house in South Delhi that could have been hers. She’s openly lamented her father’s decision to remarry. It probably hurts her a little more because she knows that I married her father for his money. Meera was even more frustrated when she could neither sue nor show dissent.

It’s a little colder now and I wrap the shawl closer around me until it’s almost a second skin. I wish I hadn’t listened to the fashion designer; the sleeveless blouse is a very bad idea. When I still can’t stop shivering, I wonder if it is because of my state of mind.

I walk up to the stage where Meera is sitting. I am only here because of a sense of duty.

Meera and I are like India and Pakistan. We loath each other but are still joined at the hip because of the will. Even in our independence, we are only a day apart. She gets hers today and I get mine tomorrow. I don’t know if I believe in hate at first sight, but am sure Meera and I have a relationship like that.

The photographer wants me to pose. I want to tell him that I have been posing for years.

For so long, I have been posing as the trophy wife to a middle-
aged man.  It could’ve ended when Vimal passed away in February, ending his long-drawn battle with cancer. But, it didn’t. It’s left me rich though. Growing up, I had never imagined that I could’ve afforded all of this and yet, it is mine. Perhaps, it is my destiny to be rich. Maybe, I found the right man. Maybe, this is the reward for leading a loveless life with a repulsive human being.

I look at Vishal, Meera’s husband and I can’t help feeling for him. The marriage is nothing more than a transaction for Meera to obtain her freedom. Deep inside, I know that the marriage is destined to fail. You never know, Vishal might end up as lucky as I am. He was found within days of the will being announced. It is Meera’s desperation to break free of my grasp that has made her find him. Ironically, Vishal thinks that Meera is in love with him. I know Meera too well to be misled.

We are now at the
mandap
and if I put my hand out, I can touch the sacred fire that will solemnize my stepdaughter’s wedding. Even then, a shiver runs up my spine. I look around at the crowd that has formed around the
mandap
and find that I am not alone in my misery. The guests are huddled up like sheep around the
angeethis
that are set up. My designer isn’t the only one who has underestimated the cold. In sharp contrast, the bride and groom look as if they are under the Hawaii sun. They are absolutely comfortable; not a hint of a shiver, nor a feigned attempt to pull at their clothes.

The priest starts chanting the prayers oblivious to the chattering of the crowd. No one really understands or cares about the mantras he is chanting. If he wasn’t being paid to do this, he might have refused to perform the wedding. Who doesn’t want a little more attention? My mind is elsewhere but I still sit here.

I often wonder why Vimal never saw through me. I am not sure he would have let me control his fortune if he knew. The bride and groom get up from their seats and walk around the fire. They struggle to carry the weight of their heavily- embroidered robes. They sit down momentarily and the priest continues. I wish I had paid him a little extra to wrap up the ceremony faster.

It is unbearably cold now; I wrap the Shahtoosh shawl a little closer to my body to escape the chill and curse the designer again. I detest winters. I wish that I become the bird that flies south for the winters. If I could, I would’ve changed the seasons so that spring always followed autumn. Despite the cold, I can’t stop thinking
about Vimal. He had been well prepared for his death and the division of wealth. Cancer always gives you that opportunity. In giving Meera the lion’s share of the wealth, he has left me with an allowance coming out of a trust. The large allowance will leave me with enough money to keep my lifestyle. A lifestyle that allows me to wear a Shahtoosh shawl and maintain most luxuries that money can buy.

The priest concludes the wedding, pronouncing Meera
and Vishal man and wife. He puts the
tika
on their foreheads and the crowd showers flowers to signify blessings from gods. They are naïve. They think that the Gods will be able to give Meera a happy married life. I know that it isn’t going to be one.

Meera ignores me and goes on to touch the feet of the elders after the wedding. Most brides would be unhappy to leave their
father’s home, but not Meera. There are no tears that brim in her eyes. No bawling that one expects from a bride as she leaves the familiarity of her father’s backyard.

She leaves to consummate her marriage as cheerful as a bird in spring. The half frozen guests wait patiently for them to leave and then almost run to their waiting cars.

It is almost one at night when I stand at the exit and thank everyone for attending the wedding. The last car to enter the driveway is a black, chauffeur driven, 2007 BMW. The car stops besides me and the chauffer opens the door for me. I heave a sigh of relief, now that the marriage is concluded. The conclusion brings with it the end of an era: an era of living sans love, an era of tolerating this woman that I have been forced to call my daughter, and an era of compromise.

Aditya

I can barely open my eyes. Why is it always the same? Why do I always wake up groggy and dehydrated after these drunken nights? From the tiny slits of my eyes, I can see that the setting is unfamiliar. I struggle to get up. It has to be the air- conditioning that always wedges my joints. Clumsily, I sit up in bed, struggling with the sheet that is wrapped awkwardly around me. The synthetic of the sheet causes a rustle against the hair on my legs. Why am I not wearing my pyjamas? I am not even wearing a vest. Hell, not even underwear. It takes me less than five seconds to realize that I am as naked as a jaybird.

The pupils are a little larger now, thanks to the shock. I’ve travelled a lot and I know a hotel room when I see one; that is where I am, the naturally eerie, sleazy hotel room. The radio clock that stands on the mantelpiece says that it is seven in the morning. Then, I see her – the woman that I met at the bar. She is lying right next to me as if she’s my wife.

I think back to last night and a familiar feeling grips me. It holds me by the throat and I’ve never been able to decipher if the feeling is embarrassment, guilt or shame. It is always that same confused feeling on the mornings after these wretched drinking bouts. I vow to myself that I will cut down on my drinking.

The hammer in my head refuses to stop, but I attempt to think about what happened last night. The events play themselves out scene by scene and then there is darkness after I puke. I wish the darkness breaks to explain how I end up in this hotel room, naked, with a complete stranger. I pull the sheet a little further up as if it will undo my crime. It isn’t often that I land up like this. I am really not a drunkard.

“Don’t bother, there’s nothing to hide,” she calls out from beneath the sheets. I think the person who invented the pronoun must be in my situation. He probably didn’t remember her name either.

“What…What happened here? Where are my clothes?” I
ask sheepishly.

I need some answers which can confirm that I haven’t slept with her. Everything else points in that direction.

“They’re at the laundry. You should be thankful that you met me or you’d still be lying in that shit hole where you passed out,” she says.

“Thanks. I’m really sorry for what happened last night,” I
say, even though I don’t know what really happened.

She sits up in bed and the sheet that covers her slips down. I can see that she is wearing a black negligee that barely covers her ample bosom. “No wonder they fired you, you dumbass,” she says

I feel slighted by her comment. My natural instinct is to retaliate but the lack of clothes makes me resist. I wrap the sheet around me to search for my clothes even though she’s told me that they’re at the laundry.

I haven’t even stepped out of bed when she says, “Get back into bed, now.”

“Lady, I am married,” I say.

I’m not sure if married men can’t get into bed with strangers but maybe I’m just trying to ignite her morality. By the looks of it, I have been through a typical one-night stand. Even though I don’t get along with my wife, I have never been unfaithful. I am a little ashamed.

“You didn’t remember that last night?” she asks

“I remember telling you that I am married… The last thing I remember is that I went to the washroom and puked. What happened after that?” I almost cry.

“You passed out and the bar owners were about to throw your sorry ass out on the street. I intervened and brought you to my hotel. I undressed you, sent your clothes to the laundry, cleaned you up and put you to bed.”

I am completely horrified. Like I said, this doesn’t happen often.

“Since I am neither your wife, nor your mother, nor your lover, I want you to do something for me,” she continues

“What?” I ask.

I am a little relieved because I am not sure what a jobless, penniless man can give her.

“Have sex with me,” she says without batting an eyelid.

“You can’t be serious. I’m really thankful for what you did for me, but this is not right,” I say.

It is obvious that even jobless, penniless men can be put to
some use.

“Well, that’s fine then. You owe me about 500 rupees for the taxi, another 500 for the laundry. I’ll give you a discount on my nursing charges. Keep the money on the table and leave. Thank you,” she says.

A wave of anxiety hits me when she speaks about the money. I am dead broke; my last penny has been spent yesterday and now, I owe her money.

“I don’t have the money,” I say.

“I know that; I saw your wallet. So take the easy way out,” she says.

This is ridiculous, this can’t be true. This is too sleazy to be happening in real life. I pinch myself, half hoping that this nightmare will break. I will be awake again, in a real world, where some strange woman isn’t making sexual overtures at me.

“I can’t do this,” I cry like a two-year-old who’s been asked to tie his shoelaces.

“Honey, trust me you can, the alcohol has worn off. It’s not like last night when you couldn’t get an erection,” she says.

“Did you try to have sex with me last night?” I shout. Each passing moment is a little more shameful than the last one.

“Of course I did, and you were very willing to do it. The morality of being married wasn’t showing under the influence of alcohol. Now, stop being a put on and jump in. The condoms are in my bag,” she says.

It is too seedy to be real. I weigh my options; I can borrow the money from my wife but it would mean a lot of explaining. I can bolt out the door, but with no clothes on, I’d be lucky to get past the hotel lobby. Even if I do run with the sheet wrapped around me, the stray dogs that throng the city will rip it before I get past the main door. Really, there are only two options: to talk her out of this, or do it.

“Lady…” I start

“My name is Divya; I think I told you last night,” Divya says.

“Sorry, Divya.
I can’t do it,” I reply firmly.

I am standing at an awkward angle, not unlike my situation. I almost feel like a Roman statue – the ones that have a sheet wrapped around them.

“Do you have doubts on your virility? I’ve got Viagra as well. I wasn’t sure how well it would go with the alcohol, so didn’t give it to you last night,” she says.

Bitch. This woman is a walking sex shop: Condoms, Viagra et al. I am just hoping she doesn’t produce a dildo to sodomize me.

“No, it’s not that. It’s just that this doesn’t seem right,” I say.

“It’s a one night stand; we have sex in the confines of this
room. I go back home, you go back home and all’s forgotten. That’s it!” she says.

Simplistically put, that’s it. Most complications in my life occurred when I enhanced my vocabulary to include words like guilt, morals and cheating. Ignorance is definitely more blissful.

“You can make some money too, if you are good. Let’s call it the performance incentive,” she says, luring me on into immorality.

Money was always a priority in my life but now it is a real need. The last year has been such an eye-opener. When you are living off your wife, you have no rights. I have been living a life of being questioned for every little expense. It has brought me to a point when suicide seems like a viable option. The money can be used.

I look at her. Even without the make-up that she wore last night, she doesn’t look repulsive. A thought crosses my mind – what’s the harm? We are complete strangers and the moment I walk out of this room, this will be forgotten. Never to be retold. I make my decision.

“Are you coming to bed or leaving? I didn’t give standing there and brooding as an option,” she says.

Divya is pushy and demanding; I pity her subordinates at the advertising agency. I climb into bed and do what most people count as unethical and immoral. But sometimes, food, water and shelter counts for more than all of these.