The Homing Pigeons... (20 page)

Radhika

I
have no business being in an abandoned cricket stadium but I am here, led by my memories of the past. I remember when I had come back from the States, Aditya had met me at the airport and asked me to meet him here. It was an extraordinary choice of location because there were places in Chandigarh where lovers would date and there were places where acquaintances and friends could meet. A cricket stadium that was lonely, except for the few gardeners, is probably ideal for a meeting between people who had once loved each other.

I sat on the wooden stands, where many a cricket lover had admired the proceedings in the past; today, there was no one. It was just me, the gardeners and the few children in the distance. Aditya was still not there and I almost began to doubt that I had heard him correctly. I hoped that this was the place where he had expected me to meet. I searched the stadium, craning my neck to see his form appearing out of the long shadows that covered the ground and the stands. Almost out of nowhere, I saw his familiar form making his way down from the grandstand.

It was still warm, and in the company of the gardeners we restrained ourselves from giving each other a bear hug. It could’ve been mistaken for a business meeting if it weren’t for our refusal to leave each other’s hand. The touch of skin created a longing that we had both craved for in the time that we had been away from each other. Yet, morality didn’t allow me to hold on for any longer. Despite my hate for my husband, I was still married.

“How’ve you been?” he asked.

“Not the best that I’ve ever been,” I said.

“What happened?” he asked.

If  it  had  been  one  thing  that  had  happened  it  would have taken a little time, but it was dark by the time I finished recounting my tale. All that had happened in the space of the last nine months – my leaving Aditya, my reasons for doing so, my marriage, the pregnancy, the seizures and then the separation, until now that I was talking to him. It could have been considered strange that I was sharing all this with the same man that I had let down because of my foolishness. I don’t know why, but I didn’t tell him that it was his child.

He was empathetic as he listened to every detail. He stared into the horizon and looked at the setting sun without commenting, without telling me I was wrong. I wondered if I might’ve pulled out his hair, cursed him or kicked him in the knees if I were in his shoes. Would I still be here talking to a woman that had left him and gone? I admired his patience.

He finally broke his silence, “What now?”

I wasn’t sure, a feeling that I had by now been accustomed
to. When Abhinav had suggested we separate, I had looked at it as the best option available. It would let me go back to familiarity and be around people I knew. But I had expected too much from my family.  I had come back expecting them to support me through this ordeal, but instead, I was condoned.

This morning’s conversation with my mother had been frustrating. When I narrated the incidents of the past nine months, putting special impetus on the part when he had hit me, I had expected sympathy. Instead, she was unsupportive. She thought my grounds of separation were flimsy and urged me to reconcile. “These things happen; you can’t just leave him and come,” she said.

Now, without their support and without another means of a livelihood, I would need to resolve my dispute with Abhinav. Knowing him, it would be the death of the little self-respect that I still possessed. I’d have to go back to him begging to take me back. Even if he did agree, it would be a life of degradation. In that moment, the only surety was that I wouldn’t go back to him.

My only other option was to restart my career. Assuming that I did find a job, it would make me financially independent to take my own decisions. I had been hustled into a decision and the experience taught me a lesson on how wrong decisions can change your life.

“I am not sure. I want to find a job. I am certain that I don’t want to go back,” I said, summarizing my thoughts out aloud.

Aditya looked at me with those deep, dark brown eyes that had made me fall in love with him six years ago in school. He took my hand between his; the giant palms dwarfed my hands. In that instant, he was the father-figure that I didn’t have, in spite of calling two men father. He pressed my hand softly, as if to say that he would help. He remained silent and I did too. I just savoured his company and his touch.

The sun had set and the moon was shining, but it was still warm; the heat of the May sun had left a warm breeze to hit our face. We continued to sit there, knowing that we should’ve gone home like the gardeners and the kids. There was a solace in that place that made me think why my love story couldn’t be ordinary. A story where a boy and girl fall in love, get married and live happily ever after. A story in which there was no villain. A story in which I wasn’t the villain.

On the plane back from New York, I hadn’t slept. I had thought a lot about what I should tell Aditya. I wasn’t sure if he would be interested in knowing what I had gone through. I didn’t know if I should be completely truthful when I spoke to him.

I knew that he loved me, or at least loved me until a month ago when he had called. I simplified my conundrum and searched for a friend that I could talk to, but I really only had one, and that was him. He was the only one that I could bank upon to help me. I knew that I was the cause of his heartbreak. Yet, he was the only one who would understand me. Even after I had told him, I felt guilty about burdening him with my troubles. I was broken and confused – emotionally, mentally and physically.

“Send me your resume; let me see what I can do,” he said and stood up.

We walked out of the cricket stadium taking the longer route through Shanti Kunj, the same place where I had made the decision of leaving him. I couldn’t help but wonder how life would’ve been if I hadn’t chosen to leave him. We walked on the trail that would see many a jogger in the morning. At this hour, it was desolate. We reached the bridge built over the stream that runs through the park. The bridge was still the same as it had been ten months ago, but a lot of water had flown under it.

At home, I was being treated like a stranger. It was almost akin to the day that I had come from Solan to live with them. They didn’t say anything, nor did they demean me. Maybe,
that was the problem. If they had cursed me, it would have sounded  better  than  the  pall  of  gloom  that  engulfed  the house. I yearned to get out of the house, to break away from the accusing eyes of everyone at home. Those five days before I got a call from Citibank were unbearable. I knew Aditya would have arranged that call.

Citibank didn’t even bother taking an interview; they just said that I could pick up from where I had left. They were extremely gracious, given the circumstances and the notice that I had given on my separation with them. There was just one condition – the Citibank branch in Chandigarh wasn’t profitable enough to pay my salary and hence, they would require me to move to Delhi.

It was a Godsend, given the accusing stares that I had been getting from the family ever since my return. To be fair, I was an exception in the family; male or female, not one person had come close to separating from their spouse. Even if you traced back four generations on either side of the family, there still wasn’t. So, I had the dubious distinction of being the only woman who hadn’t been able to adjust to a life with her husband.

I waited until that evening before I spoke to my mother just as she was folding the freshly laundered clothes, “I’ve got a job in Delhi. I will be moving over there.”

“You’re ruining your life. I am telling you, go back to America, and reconcile with Abhinav. These small things happen in marriages, but you shouldn’t let it bother you,” she said.

I wasn’t going to fall for it, not this time. I had listened to her once before and I had hated it. I fought with myself to not be impolite and chose only to say, “Mom, I’m not going back. Forget it!”

In less than three days’ time, I was on a train to Delhi, armed  with  almost  everything  that  I’d  need  to  start  life afresh. I realized that it was going to be a little awkward to be a management trainee when most people of my vintage were Assistant Managers. I compared it to being in New York, where anonymous sail boats and a ruthless, unlovable man had been my only company; suddenly, the awkwardness left me.

The morning I entered the new offices of Citibank, Aditya stood there waiting for me. He beamed at me like a child who had done his parents proud.

“Thank you,” I said. I couldn’t help but say that, although the words were too small for the favour that he had done me. I wondered what would have happened if Aditya hadn’t been there. I would have been forced out of the house and sent back to the States. Nowadays, I couldn’t be sure about anything.

Even though my salary was small, it would at least help me stand on my own feet. And it wouldn’t have been possible without Aditya.

“I’ll meet you after work. There’s a coffee shop close by. It’s not as good as the Indian Coffee house, but should do,” he said and entered the elevator.

I nodded and went about my work. The work on the first day in an organization is really only about filling in forms, and Citibank wasn’t very different. I met Deepika when I was filling in the forms and she obviously knew my story, for she put an arm on my shoulder and squeezed it. I sometimes disliked these gestures of sympathy; breaking up a marriage was common, but in our psyches it was still a stigma.

I was assigned to credit, the function that dealt with underwriting and risk. It was such a welcome change from sitting
in the bay window.  I had brought up the topic of starting work with Abhinav once, but he had curtly reminded me, “Who’s going to hire you when you’re pregnant?” He was right but that had left me bored and jaded. I yearned to do something meaningful with my life and here was the perfect opportunity.

I was told that I could use the guest house for three weeks after which I would need to move out. I met a few people that day and found out that rents were steep, even in a suburb like Gurgaon. By the sounds of it, I wouldn’t be able to afford a place of my own. I would need to share an apartment, which in itself was alien. It might not have sounded so strange if I had stayed in a hostel in school or college.

Aditya was standing at the same spot that I had seen him this morning. He led me to the car in the parking lot.

“Yours?” I asked him.

“Yes, Ma’am,” he said.

“Very happy for you,” I said as he opened the door for me
to sit.

We drove down a short distance until we reached Barista, a relatively new coffee shop that had opened up in Gurgaon. At some point between the coffee being ordered and the coffee being served, I asked him, “Adi, How much are you paying in rent?”

“Seven grand” he replied.

My heart sank as I did a mental calculation; it would be over fifty per
cent of my take home salary.

As if he had read my thoughts, he said, “I have a spare bedroom that you could use.”

I shook my head. At heart, I was still that middle class girl that couldn’t be seen in a live-in relationship. It was a wee bit too scandalous given that I was still married.

“Never mind.
We’ll figure something out,” he said.

It wasn’t really very difficult to find a place that I loved. It only took a week to find a four bed apartment on the second floor of a house that a group of three girls had taken on rent. They were looking for a fourth roommate and I was looking for a place that was clean and affordable. Without a moment’s hesitation, I took up the offer and moved over the weekend. Aditya put my belongings in the trunk of the car and that was all that it took.

I wondered where I would be if it weren’t for Aditya. He was doing it out of love; I could see in his eyes the same passion that had existed earlier. But a large part of me was dead; I needed time. I needed time to break away from the mess that I had created. I wish I had a time machine that I could turn back a year and undo the decision. I had to constantly remind myself that I was still married to keep myself from hugging him and kissing him passionately as I once did. I couldn’t be sailing in two boats.

I unpacked the suitcase and as I put the final set of clothes into the closet, I fell on the bed. Lying on the bed, I looked up at the monotonous whirring of the ceiling fan and heaved a sigh of relief. It had all worked out. Well, almost. Three weeks after moving back from the States, I had a job and a home to go back to. With those essentials in place, I wanted to move forward.

It had been such a long time that I had felt that I could achieve something and be happy. I had almost lost hope that this day could ever be a reality. I felt like the bird that had just escaped from its cage and was ready to fly. Fly it would, if it weren’t for that feeble string of a failed marriage that still shackled it. Maybe, now, was a good time to cut those shackles.

Aditya

We have our bags packed – it has taken exactly thirty-three days from that fateful day at Jwalaheri to have come to this point. When Birendra had proposed, I had disposed, until I finally came around to the consensus that we could open up a massage parlour. It makes practical sense. I am spending a large sum of money in hotels and guest houses, and a massage parlour will be a great front for the business that we are in.

Bhatoliya is excited and somewhere, very deep inside me, I am too. I have never imagined myself doing this. It is by a quirk of destiny that I have not only entered the world’s oldest profession but am now looking at ways to legalize it.

We have used a broker to negotiate the lease on a three bedroom apartment on the ground floor house in the posh neighbourhood of Greater Kailash 1. The house is a short walk away from the busy M-block market. It is nestled amongst the many houses that have been converted into commercial complexes to satisfy the never-ending need of retail space. In the vicinity is the branch of a multinational bank, a constant reminder of how my life has degraded. The plush office of the bank that I had once inhabited has given way to an under construction massage parlour.

Bhatoliya is leading the charge at the site of the renovation. He has spent the better part of his life’s savings on his dream parlour. He chooses a tacky, ludicrous name for the project – “HappyEndingz Massage
Parlour”. I beg him to be a little more discreet, to avoid the attention of the authorities and to give it a slightly more suave feel, but he is adamant. My learning in life is that whoever has the money calls the shots. Given that my investment into the project has been minimal, I have suppressed my rebellion. The parlour has been designed such that the drawing room serves as a reception and waiting area; the two bedrooms that have attached bathrooms are massage rooms designed to entertain patrons and the one large room at the back has been partitioned into two rooms, serving as our living quarters.

It has been painstaking work to get the entire thing completed in record time, and now, only the finishing touches remain. The carpenters, having created the partition, are making the beds; while the painters are polishing the newly- created reception desk. Above the din of the hammer hitting the nail, my cell phone rings. It is one of those rare occasions that my wife has found the time to call me. Not wanting to let go of this momentous event, I answer the phone.

“Hello,” I say. The carpenter drives the nail home, bringing a brief moment of silence

“Hi, how are you?” She sounds surprisingly happy in her
demeanour today.

“Very well. How are you?” I reply trying to sound as chirpy.

The carpenter starts hammering another nail.

“Good! What’s that noise in the background?” she asks.

It is an unanticipated question. I can tell her the truth; this is a perfect opportunity to come clean. It will mean a failed marriage, but then it has failed already. After an eternity, I say, “Just some carpenters working at the new house.”

“New house? Where are you moving?” she asks me.

“Greater Kailash,” I reply, knowing that it will ring some bells.  An unemployed man, who within three months of moving to Delhi, in a job that doesn’t pay enough to send anything back home to his wife, is shifting to a place that commands an exorbitant rent.

“Greater Kailash? Who’s paying the rent?” The surprise in her voice is apparent.

“Bhatoliya. His company got him this place,” my voice is quivering. Despite the noise of the carpenters hammer, I know that she is certain that I am lying. It will not take a genius to figure out that at the peak of the recession, no company is willing to expend a dime.

“
The reason why I called is that your provident fund came through. I want to send the cheque across to you, so just message me your address,” her voice is a lot colder now than when the conversation began.

“I’ll do that,” I say.

“Bye,” she hangs up. The traffic cops in Chandigarh are on leave.

The provident fund is good news; a few years’ worth of deductions from salary, held hostage by the government, are finally being returned reluctantly. I didn’t see the money when I had needed it the most. If I had that money then, I wouldn’t be here today. If I had the money then, Bhatoliya would most certainly not be here today. If I had the money then, I would have been writing a different story. I text her the new address. There is an appointment later this evening and I go into the bathroom to look worth the few thousand rupees that my patron will pay me.