The Homing Pigeons... (9 page)

Radhika

My social life after my marriage with Vimal was non- existent. He wasn’t the sorts who would go out and meet a lot of people. When you don’t meet a lot of people, there is a very likely situation that friends are hard to come by.

The very few friends that I have are either out of touch or very far away. Despite the fact that Lucknow was a nightmare that I wish would end, Delhi is beginning to become a horror, sans company. It isn’t by accident that I find Shipra. It is the result of a careful search on Facebook that lasts many hours as I navigate through profiles of many similar named people until I find her profile. She now calls herself Shipra Ramachandran Sidhu. I think it’s funny that she has married a meat-eating Jat Sikh. She was a Tamil Brahmin who would frown on us meat eaters. Shipra looks ravishing in her profile picture.

She is wearing a kanjivaram sari that suits her wheatish complexion. I send her a friend request and wait for many days before she replies. I read the message that gives me her phone number and I feel like calling immediately but I hesitate. I can’t really say why I feel that hesitation. It takes me a week to get over my reluctance to call her. I had sent her my number too but she hasn’t called. Maybe, she’s as hesitant. My loneliness gives me the courage to call her.

There was so much in common between us in school, yet, we are now so far away, so distant. The void of the years leaves us as strangers. The conversation helps us bridge the divide of the years. I invite her over and she agrees to make a trip the following weekend.

As I learn, Shipra now lives in Delhi for about two years. She is married to a Colonel in the Indian Army – Karambir Singh Sidhu. The phone conversation ends with only an introduction to him and I wait eagerly to host someone at my dingy home. I haven’t yet been able to find a contractor who is willing to help me renovate.

The days pass by in preparing for company. I don’t sit on the porch so often. I have been shopping for cups and plates and saucers. I want to impress them because they are my only hope of finding company. It was my birthday two weeks ago and I was alone. There was no birthday party. Not even one that had four children come with plastic helicopters. There were no phone calls to wish me and that’s when I knew that it’s time to change. I am thirty-two now and maybe, a little wiser. I want people around me and Shipra and her husband are the only ones who can keep me away from the porch. Laxman shares my eagerness; he is as perplexed at seeing my forlorn face on the porch, as I am making it.

The weekend arrives and the couple does too; Colonel Singh is dressed in a tweed coat that is so becoming of an Army officer. Around his neck, he wears a silk scarf that has stripes running across it. He’s almost as tall as Aditya. It makes him look handsome and I’m happy that Shipra found him.

Shipra is dressed in another one of her south silk saris. It’s a red and black silk sari wh
ich has a golden border running the length of her pallu. I don’t know why I didn’t ask her and she never told me on the phone but she has kids. In fact, she has two of them – twins, a boy and a girl. They are so alike that it’s difficult to make out if they actually have a different gender. I wasn’t expecting the kids, so I panic a little. I am not sure how I can entertain them. Laxman is a saviour; he takes charge of the kids immediately. He’s converted a wooden plank into a bat and borrows a ball from the neighbours. He and the kids play cricket on the front lawn which leaves us alone to have a conversation.

Shipra is still the same. Her hair is still as short as she used to wear them in school. She’s matured like a good wine. The kajal that she wears in her eyes makes her look beautiful. I don’t know what it is about South Indians that they have the most beautiful eyes. I turn on the heater. As
November’s turned to December, it’s become wretchedly cold. I can’t help feeling jealous that Shipra doesn’t feel cold in her sari while I sit huddled in layers of cloth. I can’t help feeling fifty years old in the company of these young people. The last few days have made me age.

She introduces me to the Colonel and tells me how they met in college. Her father was posted in Chennai as was his. They fell in love and the affair lasted many years before they were married. They both came from an Army background and had travelled India, as most Army children do and that is where the similarities ended. They were from different religions, regions, cultures and traditions. Somehow, their magnetism and love kept them together. As they recounted, they had had a difficult time convincing each
other’s parents until they had eloped. It was ten years ago that they married. I can’t help thinking that some people are so lucky that they can marry the people they love.

Laxman hit the ball too hard and it’s lost in the bushes somewhere. They search for it but can’t find it and so, have to give up their game. It’s probably best because it is past one and I am hungry. He goes into the kitchen and serves us lunch. The conversation continues on the dining table. It isn’t until dessert is served that the conversation veers towards Aditya. It has to – he was such an important part of our trio in school.

“Are you in touch with him? I haven’t met him since school,” Shipra asks.

It was such a long time ago. I think the year would’ve been 1999. Almost five years after my last meeting with him at  the  notice  board  of  the  school  when  the  board  results were announced. I had topped the school and he, thanks to accountancy, had barely scraped through. I wasn’t sure if I ought to be happy to see my result or grieve with him for his result. He seemed happy; he had run the risk of failing altogether and took consolation from the fact that he would see the face of a college, as against repeating the class. We went home, and lost touch, not seeing each other until then.

I didn’t know if it was an optical illusion or if it was really him. It could’ve been someone else with an uncanny resemblance to Aditya. It was his walk that gave him away; that same lazy, relaxed gait of a sportsman. We were at the Radisson in Delhi, attending the induction training organized by Citibank. Citibank, at the beginning of every year, would aggressively raid almost every business school worth its salt and recruit some of the best students available. I had been hired from the Punjab University Business School and given a posting at the Chandigarh Branch of the bank.

It was normal to have a week of orientation for fresh recruits at their place of posting before the rigorous, induction
program would start.  By design, it was a five week long program that would introduce the recruits to the policies of the bank and the conduct that was expected of them. Gradually, it would move to the technical know-how of the designated area of operations.

I had reached Delhi a night before the training on the Shatabdi Express. I was met by a waiting car at the train station that took me to the Citibank guest house in Vasant Vihar. I had never been to Delhi before. Most of my childhood and had been spent in Solan and then, Chandigarh. I was accustomed to seeing ghost towns at nine but Delhi was bustling.

I couldn’t stop staring out of the window at the bright lights and the fast cars. The car hurtled through the wide roads of Lutyens’ Delhi and I couldn’t help admiring the wide roads. Awestruck, I took in the sights and sounds, paying scant attention to the girl besides me. Roshni was another recruit who had made the journey with me. We checked in at the guest house and had barely caught some sleep before hustling to the training program that morning.

Aditya made his entry, amongst the last people to enter the hall. He made a cursory glance at the five tables and the five people at each table. His eyes met mine for a split second but didn’t show a hint of recognition or familiarity. Maybe, I was mistaken. Maybe, it wasn’t him. The morning session started with a round of introductions and he stood up boldly. In a loud booming voice he announced himself as Aditya Sharma, putting to rest any doubt that it was him.

The morning session was a disaster – The tiredness of the night before, the more than uncomfortable chair and the ranting of the head of Human Resources had my body craving for coffee. I wasn’t the only one in that situation; most people in the room looked tired and bored. If the HR head was anything to go by, the trainees weren’t sure if they had made the right career decision in joining the bank.

Twenty-five pairs of droopy eyes can have a profound effect on the speaker. Mr Kumar looked at the steward for help who nodded that the coffee was ready. We filed out of the hall into the lobby, longing for caffeine to add some colour to the drab start. It was in the coffee break that we met. It was a little awkward in meeting each other after so long.

“Hi,” I said, extending my hand out to him. I could’ve been warmer but in that formal setting, I wasn’t. I think it was the unfamiliarity that existed between us that stopped me. It had been five years and I wasn’t sure if we had changed.

“Hi, what a pleasant surprise,” he said, holding on to my
hand.

“I know. It’s a small world,” I said.

“So, where…” we both started, and stopped simultaneously. He smiled sheepishly.

“Where are you staying?” he asked me.

“At the Citi guest house in Vasant….” I said.

I couldn’t remember what the place was called. “Vihar?” he asked me.

“Yes,” I replied.

“It’s a short break; let’s meet for coffee after the training and we can catch up. I’m stepping out for a smoke. See ya,” he said and stepped away.

“You smoke?” I wish I could’ve seen my expression then. No one in my family smoked and it was just strange for me.

“Yes, bye,” he said, unperturbed with that expression. It must be the same whenever he told a woman he smoked.

The day stretched on – the HR head was unforgiving. Most policies and benefits that he outlined that day would come into force after ten years of continued service: the sabbatical and the superannuation. It was ironical that he would speak of the separation policy at the induction, but he did it with disdain. The day wore on until it was nearly six – a day completely wasted by Mr Kumar. The truth was that if it had taken a test of the entire group, most people would have failed miserably.

We stepped out of the Radisson to see that the rush hour traffic was jamming up the highway in front of the Radisson. Aditya went past the many rows of parked cars until he reached the inconspicuous parking lot for two-wheelers. The architect who had designed the building was wily – the parked motorcycles and scooters could hardly be seen, leaving the majesty of the five-star hotel intact.

He kick started the bike into action and drove to the main porch where I stood with a couple of our colleagues. We bid our goodbyes and I sat on the back seat of his bike. Weaving dangerously through the rush hour traffic, we reached Basant Lok: A shopping complex in Vasant Vihar, where the newest store of Barista had just opened. We parked and strolled through the crowd of movie goers until we reached Barista.

He ordered a café latte for himself and I was content to sip on an iced tea. We recounted from the time when we had last seen each other at the notice board. He told me that it had taken a lot out of him to go back home and announce the results to his parents. He was afraid of their wrath. It was only when he got admission to St. Stephens in Delhi that they were a little happy. The soccer that had so contributed to his poor result had been his eventual saviour. He got through a reserved seat on the basis of his sporting abilities.

He moved to Delhi in ’94, living in a hostel that provided food, water and shelter and hardly anything besides that.

“Life was tough then. I used to work weekends as a waiter for the embassies,” he said.

“Why?” I asked.

“My father wouldn’t pay my alcohol bill,” he replied straight faced. He was funny.

It wasn’t a difficult choice for him to abandon accountancy. He had majored in Psychology.

He said, “The good part about the subject was that you can get away with a little ambiguity. It’s not like a balance sheet where the Assets and the Liabilities have to work in tandem.” I laughed remembering the disaster that he was when he would try and make sense of journal entries.

I always knew that he would do well. He was too smart to be bogged down by accountancy. He had excelled and had gone onto to do an MBA. In the final year, he had been selected off the campus by Citibank and offered a Management Trainee position out of the New Delhi branch. He had joined a week before me and had been thrust into the induction program that we were attending together.

We ordered another round of coffee and I told him my story of the hiatus. He dropped me back to the Citi guest house and rode back home. I was still standing at the gate when he left making me wonder if my meeting with Aditya could be called a date.

Aditya

Back in Chandigarh, I dwell on the possibilities in front of me. I can either move to Delhi and work as a gigolo or continue to be in Chandigarh. I can continue to live the low life which I have been used to living. The lure of money is stirring, especially coming off a lean period. I know that the more practical option is to move to Delhi but how can I ever explain this to my wife.

Despite my hardest tries, my conscience refuses to die. Often, it throws up strange words that I don’t want to listen. Guilty, cheat, immoral and illegal it says. Whenever these words sound in my ears, I turn on the music a little louder. It drowns out the sounds of the soul.

I came back from Delhi yesterday but haven’t had a chance to talk to Jasleen. I decide to approach her while she sits in the lobby, sipping on a huge mug of tea. I pull up a chair and try my best to appear confident.

“I got the job,” I lie.

“That’s great news, when do you start?” she asks me. Her words and her expression don’t match. She doesn’t seem excited about my employment. I guess she’s not used to seeing me as an equal. I will be an equal if I start earning again.

“In a week’s time, I’ll have to move to Delhi,” I say.

“I won’t be able to come; it’s not a great time to ask. My employers are letting people go,” she says. I haven’t asked her to move but she’s telling me that she won’t.

I think I know this already. I am happy that it will mean a break away from her. It will mean that I have the freedom of prolonging my
career
.

It takes me two days to pack everything that I will need for a
bachelor’s abode – a thin cotton mattress and a blanket that will help me fight the November chill. I put in more than a few clothes. I don’t know when I will next be in Chandigarh. I book my tickets on the train to Delhi. I have a little more money on me this time and I choose to travel by the Shatabadi express. I have things planned; I will initially go and stay with an old friend until I can find a place for myself.

Out of duty, I kiss Jasleen in a passionless way. She is equally cold in her response. I say my goodbyes and walk to the waiting auto rickshaw. She doesn’t bother walking out and quickly shuts the door on my back. I am not sure who amongst us is happier.

The auto rickshaw drops me at the train station. I enter the station and look up the leader board. The train is late by about half an hour which isn’t abnormal. I sit at the Chandigarh railway station thinking about what lies ahead of me. Not in my wildest dreams have I ever seen myself as a gigolo and even then it is my truth. It must have been destined that I be at the bar when Divya was there. It had to be fate that I am looking forward to moving back to Delhi.

The train arrives and despite the short stop and the swarming crowd that wants to enter simultaneously, I am able to enter. I arrange the luggage on the overhead racks. Before I sit, I take
another look at the train ticket to reconfirm that I am on the right seat. I take off the blazer that I have on and prepare for a nap on the way to Delhi. I sit down and recline my seat. The seat next to me is empty until a middle aged lady comes and sits on it. She is one of those eager souls who look for company on train journeys. The sorts, who see this as a chance to befriend their co-passengers.

She has no respect for my plans of sleeping and chatters away to glory. In the first five minutes of meeting her, I know that her husband is in Chandigarh. She is going to visit her son in Delhi who works as a software engineer in a multi- national company.

She asks me, “Where do you work, beta?”

My mother is estranged and I am not used to be called beta. Her question makes it apparent that I will have to lie again. It will be too scandalous to stay with the truth. On the other hand, the truth will also stop her from elongating the conversation. It will help me get a nap that I want. I choose to be truthful.

“I work as a freelance gigolo,” I say with a straight face. I almost make it sound like I am a copywriter.

“
What is that?”  She obviously hasn’t heard the word before.

“A male prostitute,” I tell her in earnest.

“You mail prostitutes? How?” she looks bewildered.

“Just like you have female prostitutes, I am a male prostitute,” I reply, still looking her in the eyes.

This time she understands. I see her expressions change –shock, that turns to bewilderment and then to disgust.

The train has started moving and there are still a few empty seats in the compartment. She makes a beeline for the one seat farthest from where I am sitting. Often, she turns back to see me, as if I am a Martian that has attacked Earth.
Notwithstanding her stares, I now have more space to stretch my long legs and sleep on the way to New Delhi.

I reach New Delhi station and promptly make my way to the address that my friend Birendra Singh Bhatoliya had given me. The address in West Delhi is a small apartment on the second floor of an independent house. The way to the apartment is almost like an obstacles race. First, the gates – there is a small gate nestled within a locked ugly iron gate. It is about four feet high and I have to double over to get my six feet something frame through it. With the luggage in hand, it is an even more arduous task. Then, the stairs – a steep flight of stairs stand ahead of me. I can either take my luggage or myself upstairs. I almost feel like my
father’s old scooter. A few years after the farewell in school, it would stop running if anyone sat on it.

I make two trips upstairs, taking a bag each time I go up the stairs. I ring the bell. A man in boxer shorts and a vest, quite underdressed for this November morning, stands in front of me. He opens the door and hugs me. I am a little taken aback by his sudden show of emotion. Yes, we were close in college and a few years after, but that was a while ago. I was very hesitant in asking him for a favour. Given my circumstances, I had unashamedly asked him if I could stay with him.

Birendra Singh Bhatoliya was a subject of ridicule from the moment he had stated his name on the campus. In a college filled with urban, common names, Bhatoliya was unique because the weighty, royal name belonged to a meek, thin and tall human being. His parents were thinking wishfully when they had given him the name. In the twelve years that had passed by since college, the name still tickles my funny bone. Especially, when I associate the name with the man standing in front of me, clad in boxer shorts and a thin, worn-out vest.

“How’ve you been?” he asks me.

“Very well. You?” I ask in return.

“Hanging in there buddy. Each day I walk out of this house and make my way to the office. I know that it could be the last day I’m going there,” he says.

His story is the same as mine; just that what had happened to me isn’t somebody’s reality yet.

“I know what you’re saying, it’s a tough economic situation we’re in,” I make a feeble attempt at consolation.

“Where is this company that you’ve found a job? I am really interested in knowing which company is still hiring,” he asks me.

I want to tell him the truth that there isn’t such a company. There isn’t a whiff of a chance that any offer letters are being printed. There isn’t a tree being felled to make the paper that the potential offer letter will get printed on. I don’t.

“It’s a company in Gurgaon, Aztec software. They are just venturing out into the BPO space and think that the recession will be over by the time that they have the project off the ground. I sure hope that they are right.” I have prepared this part well. Over the past couple of days, I have practiced it to make it sound more authentic than it actually is.

“Yes, I hope so too. My job is at risk; maybe you can send them my resume,” he says.

This is unexpected, so, I just nod. He shows me around the house, not that there is too much to show around. It is a small one bedroom apartment. It has a single couch in the drawing room and a rickety bed in the bedroom; there is hardly any other furniture except the two plastic chairs and a table that rocks.

Birendra has wisely, never married. While most friends have put it down to his inability to woo a girl, the truth is that
he is still independent. He can still make his own decisions and he can still, at a moment’s notice, move a city or a job. Unlike the rest of us, who are weighed down by our marriages and the baggage that comes with it, he is a free man.

“What’ll you have for lunch?” he asks me as if he is a culinary genius

“Beef Stroganoff,” I reply.

He doesn’t know how to make it and we settle for yellow dal and rice. I cut a raw onion into pieces and serve it with green chillies to mask the ostensibly bad taste.