The Homing Pigeons... (6 page)

“Are you going to be in Delhi for some time?” she asks.

“If you want me to be,” I say.

“Stay back. I’ll call you,” she says.

“I don’t have a place to stay,” I say.

“That’s your problem,” she says. She brings out a wad of notes from her pygmy colony purse. I earn another five thousand today, which I think is enough compensation.

Radhika

Th
e board exams weren’t the demon that people had told me they were. In fact, they were a breeze and so were the honours when the results came out. I topped the school and was a close second within the district. If my grades in English hadn’t pulled down my average, I might even have topped. The school was a little more overjoyed at my showing than I was. To celebrate, they organized a function to felicitate my achievements. The principal of the school was a cautious man when it came to showering compliments but despite his second nature, he was generous in his praises of me.

“She has done our school proud and we wish her success in all her endeavours,” he ended the speech, signalling that the few snacks, that a government school on a limited budget could afford, be served to the guests. While people were in conversation with each other, the principal waded through the crowd to find my father and took him aside.

Radhey Shyam Gupta, the principal, was a short, bald and skinny man. A chain smoker who had nicotine-stained teeth, he wasn’t setting a great example for the children under his ward.

“I think Radhika is an exceptional student,” Mr Gupta
said,  pulling  out  the  pack  of  cigarettes  from  his  trouser pocket.

“I know her results speak a lot. I am given to believe that she’s among the top ten students in the state,” my father said. “I think you should send her to Chandigarh or Delhi to study further, the education here will never do justice to her talent. I can arrange a grant,” he said from the corner of his
mouth as he lit up a cigarette.

At home, my mother had returned from another one of her now frequent trips to the hospital, this time bearing the fruit of her labour – a son. My
father’s gamble had paid off and ultimately, he had been blessed with a baby boy. Maybe, it was the coming of the baby that had made my father make the difficult decision or maybe, it was the coming of the grant from the government, but his plans for me were made. I still believe that my mother had something to do with his decision.

He made one trip to Chandigarh to have a conversation with his brother and then, another to meet the principal of a school in Chandigarh. That day, he was only announcing his decision in the presence of his family.

“I have ensured that Radhika gets admission in Chandigarh,” he said, “It will be a little expensive but Suresh will keep her.”

Chandigarh was a city much larger than Solan could ever dream to be and a place which would hold a fifteen year old girl’s fancy. I was excited about moving to Chandigarh, but then there was a hint of sadness to leave everything and everyone that I was familiar with. But then, Chandigarh was only two hours away. I hated to leave Ehsaan and my father. The others weren’t really important.

I wasn’t a sapling but I again found myself uprooted. It wasn’t until the following weekend that we made the trip to Chandigarh, with a bag of clothes that were my only belongings. The welcome that I got from my biological parents was a little subdued. The surroundings were unfamiliar. The small house that I remembered from my childhood had now been replaced by a larger but not so luxurious house. There were three bedrooms in this house, the master bedroom that my parents stayed in and one each belonging to my elder brothers. My coming had created a feud already. Both of them were asked to share a bedroom so that I could use the third. They looked at me with displeasure – I was unwelcome.

My biological parents Suresh and Sudha displayed mixed emotions. On the one hand, I was their daughter, born of their own flesh and blood and yet, I was a stranger in so many ways. Maybe it was their guilt of having given me away or the cobwebs in their brains, but it prevented them to display their affection, if there was any. The reunion was a little muted than what I had expected it to be.

School started the following day and I was alone in the presence of my biological family. I don’t know if it was the unfamiliar bed or the unfamiliar surroundings or just the unfamiliar heat of the plains on that June night, but sleep refused to come. I thought of Ehsaan and how he wouldn’t have got his meal today. I was the one feeding the birds in Solan. I sobbed with my head buried deep into the pillow until at some time sleep overtook me.

The first day of school was troublesome, even before I had reached the school. It took a lot to rid my hair of the knots that I had built into them last night. The skirt that the school expected me to wear for uniform was too short for my liking. It was such a stark departure from the salwar kameez that the government school had insisted that I wear. The nakedness of my legs made me uncomfortable and it wasn’t until a few
hours later at school that I realized that my skirt was the longest, riding two inches below the knees.

Suresh dropped me to Yadavindra Public School where my admission had been secured by my foster father.

I was a new student and as was usual, there was a small induction at the principal’s office. The principal introduced me to my class teacher – Ms Kapoor, a forty something lady, who wore a lovely red Sari and held her hair up in a bun. Sophisticated and suave, she wore rimless glasses that sat on her fair face. I was already impressed because the maid who brought in the tea for the principal was better dressed than most of my teachers in Solan.

“She is your class teacher – Ms Kapoor. She will help you get introduced to the other teachers,” the principal said, with a wave of her hand to signify the end of the conversation; a chore had just been finished.

Ms Kapoor escorted me to the classroom filled with over sixty pairs of peering eyes glued on me.

“She is Radhika. She has just moved from Solan and will be studying with you. Try and help her settle in,” she said and continued with her lecture. She taught English to the 11th class students that had chosen to take commerce over humanities and the sciences.

There were about twenty-five girls and thirty-five boys in my class. The class’ attention was focused on me, despite the fact that Ms Kapoor endeavoured to hold their attention. The English lecture ended about an hour after it had started.

Only in the five minute break before the accounts class started that I made a few introductions; a short girl who sat next to me introduced herself as Shipra and the boy who sat behind me was Aditya. The accounts class started and that was all I could find out until the recess.

The bell rang to signal that it was recess and I opened the tiffin box that my mother had packed for me. Suddenly, the smell of
paranthas
and pickle pervaded the classroom and everyone’s attention turned towards me, as if I had committed a cardinal sin. It had been ordinary to do this in my school at Solan and I had expected it to be the same.

“Why don’t you go out of the class and eat this stuff?” an anonymous gruff voice from the back of the class shouted out. “Junglee girl from Solan,” said another anonymous girl’s
voice.

It was obvious why Ms Kapoor had stressed on ‘settle in’. Fifty-nine of the sixty students had studied together for the last ten years, they had known each other, they were friends or foes or indifferent to each other, but I was a new entrant and I would need to settle in. I would need to make my place among the other fifty-nine.

“They’re crazy; don’t let them bother you,” Shipra said in a consolatory, sympathetic tone.

“I love paranthas. My mother can barely wake up in time to give me this boring butter toast,” said Aditya and lunged the three feet from his desk to grab the paranthas.

Within the first few weeks of knowing Aditya, I knew he would never become an accountant. Even after studying accountancy for over a year, he wasn’t getting any better at ledger entries and would often be confused between debit and credit entries. When you can’t master ledger entries, a balance sheet is a distant dream. It wasn’t short of a miracle that he had cleared the last exams, barely scraping through with a grace mark from the gracious teacher. And even though his parents had a private tutor coming home to teach him accounts, there was still little hope that he would succeed. Meanwhile, my grades in English remained poor. How could they be better when all along I had only spoken in Hindi? Ms Kapoor spoke to my parents and offered to coach me. I think people come into your life for a reason. Maybe Ms Kapoor was one of those people who leave an indelible mark on you. Under the pretext of tuitions, she moulded me. Not only did my grades in English improve, but she gave me confidence that I so severely lacked.

It was the early nineteen nineties, a time when India was metamorphosing; when fancy Coca Cola bottles in their bright red crates appeared on the pavements in front of shops. I was going through a transformation too, not unlike the caterpillar, which had never dreamt of becoming a butterfly, yet found itself in the middle of the chrysalis.

Back home, the situation was hardly getting any better. My biological parents were still cold. I wanted to go back to Solan. I wanted to speak to my parents but their visits had stopped and my phone calls went unattended. It was as if I had been estranged; my adopted parents took no interest in my well- being and my biological ones weren’t sure of the course they should take.

In the economics lecture about demand and supply, I had learnt that when the demand of a particular commodity drops, the importance or the price of the commodity comes down. In my context, I was the commodity. I had been wanted and cherished until my parents had had their own.
And now, as a matter of convenience, when my importance was diminished, I had been sent back to the supplier, my biological parents.

I was still hopeful that it would be temporary but as the days turned to weeks, a fear gnawed me that the laws of economics were true and I was indeed that commodity.

A
ditya

I
don’t have a place to stay, so I check with the clerk at the front desk if I can extend my stay. He confirms in the affirmative. Like a caveman, who has found a cave to spend the night, I venture out for food. The warmth of the currency notes want me to go out and live my life as I once had. I leave the drear of the guest house and walk a couple of miles to go to Culinaire in Greater Kailash 2. I love the place, not only for its food but for the memories that I have from that place.

The waiters have changed; they don’t recognize me as a regular. I order a raw papaya salad that was my favourite. They refuse to change. They refuse to get an appetizer for thirty minutes. I seize the opportunity and call up Jasleen to tell her that I have cleared the first round of the interview. “I’ll just wait here a couple of days for the other rounds to get scheduled,” I say.

She doesn’t care. I wonder if she thinks of me as furniture. Who really misses a couch being away for a couple of days?

The food is still as good as I remember it to be. The flavourful Thai curry is still as sumptuous as I had known it. After dinner is over, I walk back to the guesthouse.

The clerk wants a deposit and ID. I hadn’t bothered to check the rental for the room. At a thousand rupees a night, it could be considered cheap but my circumstances are different. The place is accessible and that I am only going to be around for the next couple of days doesn’t make me move out.

I wake up the next morning to Divya’s call. “Are you available in the afternoon for a couple of hours?”

I reply in the affirmative.

Divya tells me that she has spoken to a friend about me. “She’ll be there this afternoon. Where are you staying?”

I am still lying on the bed and look at the key that lies on the bedside table. It helps me remember the room number.

“The same place. Room 241,” I say.

“The going rate is about five thousand an hour but you can easily charge six. However, we will wait to hike the rates,” she says.

I want to ask her if that is really the rate, why she paid me only five thousand for the entire day yesterday. A commodity, selling by the hour shouldn’t ask questions that can harm its chances of selling. I am reminded about a wise saying, ‘If you’re warm and happy in a pile of shit, keep your mouth shut’. I follow the wisdom.

“And my commission will be ten per cent,” she continues.

I have found my pimp. I am really and truly on my way. In the thirty hours since I alighted the train, I have a rate, a pimp and a new client. What else can a gigolo ask for?

The dinner yesterday was a little extravagant and I choose to have cheaper
Aloo
paranthas at a Dhaba. I know these places. I lived long enough in Delhi during those salad days to know where and how to save money. When my job ended and Jasleen got a transfer to Chandigarh, I was unhappy to leave Delhi. There is so much character that this city possesses.

I am back in the hotel room and flipping through random channels on TV to fill my time. I stop at Bloomberg and find that Citibank has quoted another quarterly loss. Sometimes, I can’t stop feeling happy when I hear this about them. It tells me that the Karma theory is true.

I am still burping from the
Aloo paranthas
when my cell phone rings. The lady on the line introduces herself as Ratna.

“Just calling to confirm. I’ll be there by three,” she says.

I think it is wise to brush my teeth before she makes it over. I don’t usually brush after every meal but then, it’s not often that I have a meeting with a client after lunch.

At the stroke of three, Ratna knocks on the door. It is as if she was waiting outside for it to strike three.

“Hi, you must be Aditya,” she says in a funny drawl. Something about her reminds me of a school teacher that I once had.

“Yes ma’am, I am,” I say, exactly as I would’ve addressed the geography teacher.

“Ratna’s the name, darling,” she says. I am not sure how some people can inspire hate. She is such an impostor. Every word she says is shallow and superficial.

Ratna is in her early forties. She must have been a
looker in her heydays. The wrinkles and blemishes that her age has given her aren’t able to take the beauty away. Her body is plump. I am sure that beneath the blue sari, the thighs and calves have cellulite deposits. I am so used to pineapple jelly by now that it doesn’t make me cringe. The enormous cleavage that she is using to draw attention to herself, gives away tell- tale stretch marks.

“Divya tells me great things about you,” she winks at me as she says that. She is false as hell. I detest her from that moment
on. My conscience says something to me about not having to do this. I tell it to shut up.

“Really? And how do you know her?” I ask her. Two can play this game.

“She works in the same office as my husband,” she says. Interesting fact, but how can I make her get rid of this irritating drawl?

In a move that startles her, I pull her towards me and smother her lips with my mouth. It can be construed as a kiss. It is a tool to get rid of this nasal drawl that makes me nauseous. It is like kissing a sponge, so I withdraw. Maybe, the drawl is better.

“And what else did she tell you?” I ask.

“That you are quite charming both in bed and outside,” she wants another kiss, so she moves her face at an angle. I ignore her. I am not going to do this again. Even gigolos have preferences.

“And you’ve come here to verify that she isn’t wrong?” I carry on.

“Yes, so should we get started?” she says.

In paying for sex, time is money. She again cocks her face wanting me to kiss her. NO, I am not doing it.

“Sure,” I say. I stand here and wait for her to make the next
move.

She still has her face at that awkward angle that can give her a crick in the neck. To distract her, I reach out for her sari and let the
pallu
drop to the ground. I am a little more comfortable in being with a strange woman. I’ll be honest – there is pleasure in it for me too, but every gyration, every move is meant to give the client more pleasure than it gives me. I finally come and roll over, exhausted.

She looks up at the watch; it is only four. She sits up in bed and asks me, “How long have you been doing this?”

“Just about starting out,” I say

“I think you have a bright career ahead of you,” she says. For the first time in the past hour, I don’t smell pretence.

Even then, the enormity of the situation hits me. This is now my career. I am a professional.

“Thanks,” I say with great humility. “Are you from Delhi?” she asks. “No, from Chandigarh,” I reply.

“Do you have family there?” she probes on.

“Yes.”

I reply in monosyllables hoping this conversation ends.

“Your wife?” she asks.

She isn’t very bright. She doesn’t take the hint

“Yes,” I reply.

I feel like I am being interrogated

“Children?” she asks.

“No, don’t have any. What about you?” I ask her.

“Yes, they are both studying abroad,” she replies.

“Why are you here?” I ask.

“Don’t ask personal questions,” she says. She is offended. This is lesson number two in my short career. Do not ask
personal questions, just answer them.

Ratna takes great offence to my last question and starts getting dressed. I apologize to her and she softens a little.

“Please walk me down to my car,” she says.

Her pretentious nasal drawl is back with a vengeance.

“It was a pleasure having you over,” I say in my closing speech

“You are a darling, I’ll recommend you,” she says.

I am happy to see her drive out in her white Audi. I know the answer to my question: Loads of money, no family and utter boredom. I can’t care less if it is any other reason because before she left, she handed me some cash that makes her feel tolerable.

My sojourn in Delhi ends two days later.

I am no accountant but I know that net of expenses and commissions, I have made a good amount of money.

When Divya offers to drop me to the train station, I accept. I still have to pay my broker and pimp her commission. She counts the currency that I give her. She beams and says, “You’ll have to move to Delhi, Adi.”