Payback

Year 1984

Delhi,Paharganj

Sara looked at the spiraling smoke from her roof top. The flames seemed to leap up to the sky turning it almost beautiful, the gray mixing up with orange and yellow, like a sublime painting by a new age artiste. The white dome from which the flames were shooting was early sheen fast and receding into the same shade of gray as the sky.

On the adjoining terrace, her neighbor was whimpering, holding her dupatta to her mouth, tears streaming down her eyes. Her son was watching her wide-eyed and scared, too small to understand his mother’s anguish yet comprehending that something was amiss and was tormenting.

In the street below, the electronics shop was being shut down by its turbaned owners. But while they were doing that there was a loud shout from the end of the street. A number of boys holding sticks, swords, iron rods, cans and torches started running towards the electronics shop. The owners, petrified, ran towards their car standing near and made their getaway.

The shop was not spared. The hooligans smashed open the locks and shutters and soon TVs, VCRs, Two-in-ones started pouring out of the devastation. The boys were joined by some elderly men who watched all the looting with calm satisfaction for some time. Soon, they would rally some more young men, scavenging for free goodies, seeking to kill and rape to satisfy their dark nature, which would not have found a reprieve otherwise; all in the name of revenge.

Sara’s frail Granny kept on wringing her hands and muttering “It’s 1947 again, it’s 1947 again.”Meanwhile, her mother had sneaked in the neighbors and their precious belongings via the terrace. Sara could not understand why her mother was bringing in these people when the entire world was against them right now. Perhaps she felt bound ,because her maternal grandparents were of the turbaned variety, now in America, the land of Mars and Snickers. She looked down again, where the boys were taking out electronic games now. Maybe if she went down, she could also get some.

Her grown up proposal to do so, was met with a resounding slap across the cheek, by Mom, for thinking of cashing in on others’ misery. Humiliated and resentful of the hostile stares of the neighbors’ children, she skulked off to her room. God knows what good her mother would get by saving these people from the boys.

After a couple of days, the neighbors left, taken off to a colony inhabited by their kind, by some more friends. Sara heaved a sigh of relief. Although they were not allowed to play out anymore, her Mom had allowed her to go and visit her friends in their homes. She had been hearing stories of “those “people being hunted down by people like dogs and burnt alive, from her friends. The general consensus was that “they” deserved it. “They” had become far too rich for their own good and balance had to be brought in, somehow.

Year 2002

Mumbai – Surat Highway

An exhausted Sara and her husband slumbered in their air-conditioned SUV. The pre-paid taxi which had picked them up had been right on time, thankfully. The driver had already been waiting holding Zahir and Sara Sorathia’s placard. The drive from Mumbai to Surat would tire them out further. But, they would soon reach Zahir’s ancestral home in another hour and pay their respects to his dying grandmother. Zahir’s mother had insisted that they come down for her. Hence the long journey from New Jersey to Mumbai and then Surat.

This was almost like home where the cabbies were mainly Sikhs. So was their cabbie right now. As Sara mused to herself, Zahir snored softly. The cabbie met her eyes in the rearview mirror and she looked away hastily. Years of living in Delhi had taught her not to trust any men outside her family. They may take any kind gesture, even small conversation to be a sexual proposition of sorts.

While they waited at the petrol pump for the gas to be filled, Sara’s phone rang. It was her mother-in-law, spending an exorbitant sum of money to call her international roaming number. Frowning and slightly irritated, she cut off the connection and was about to step out looking for a PCO, when her cabbie stopped her from alighting. There were riots in the city and were spreading fast to the villages. Blood thirsty mobs were hunting for prey. People with obvious signs of faith were being burned alive, veiled women were being defiled and children smashed against walls.

Memories almost 20 years old gagged up against Sara’s throat. She looked fearfully at the cabbie. Maybe he was wrong and it was all a hoax to burgle them or something. Loads of NRIs travelled this way and were waylaid by robbers. Almost as if he could sense her hesitation and resentment, the cabbie drove out of the petrol pump and pulled over after 500 meters or so, down the road. Now scared out her wits, she shook her husband awake. As Zahir jerked out his sleep, she whispered what the driver had said and hastily added her own misgivings. Completely bewildered and barely awake, her husband could not fathom her fears at all.

And then the taxi-driver turned and held out his cell phone to her. Confused, she looked at him as he explained that she could use his phone to call their relatives. Trembling, she dialed Zahir’s residence number and then handed it to him. She needed to keep a watch on the cabbie while he deliberately engaged their attention with the phone ruse. Zahir’s grim profile told her that the cabbie was right. They had been warned not to approach Surat, which was already burning, like a pyromaniac’s dream.

But they did not look like conventional Muslims and in fact she was a Hindu so maybe they did not have anything to fear, she tried to allay Zahir’s worry and hers too. But then the cabbie revealed that the mobs were undressing the men at random and looking for circumcisions and the women were being raped at the slightest doubt.

Revulsion and dread slammed against her chest. And then he invited them to his home, which was in a majority religion area. He would tell anybody who asked that they were relatives from US and God knows that he had ample of them there. Sara’s innate suspicion now made her bristle – Why would a complete stranger save them from imminent death when he could easily take their possessions and leave them be? She said so aloud and then the look of pity in the driver’s eyes shamed her into silence.

Years ago, when he was a kid, in Paharganj, Delhi, his kind neighbor had saved him and his family during ‘84 riots and imminent death. He was just paying back kindness, in kind. Sara’s eyes misted over with gratitude for her mother. Maybe this person was the same, maybe he was not, but it was the fruits of her benevolence that she was reaping here. Zahir and she sat back in thankful silence, as the cabbie drove them to their haven.

Kitten Hopes

“Flashing eyes, no, feline eyes, no better still panther eyes”, I flashed a smile to the mirror to match up with my own description of my eyes which I hoped was at least feline if not panther. But the reflection in the mirror, let’s face it, was more like a raccoon, with the white pan caked face appearing whiter with the heavily mascaraed and kohled eyes .Grimacing at myself to see if I could at least pass for an exotic looking geisha. 

“No can do”. Instead, I stepped out of the bathroom, checking once more for hidden lines and wrinkles.”Maybe I ought to try that new product guaranteed to diminish wrinkles. Papa, do you think I have wrinkles?” “Yes, you are looking like an old hag with every passing day. Now hurry up or we’ll be late” Papa was of course lounged on the bed in front of the TV fully dressed and munching on a salami sandwich.”We are going for a party and you are eating right before that?” “Yeah, so what?” Hubby dear belches, farts and digging into his deep nasal tunnel for booger treasure.

I want to scream yet again at him. Not for the comment on my wrinkles or the belching and farting of course. I am not so low. But the incessant search for dried mucus droppings into the nose really gets my goat. What is it with men and the nose excavations? I mean it can’t be for health or hygiene reasons. If that were the case then all men would be taking baths everyday and not doing the “3 seconds under the shower and I’m out” thing. They would be not be killing all the mosquitoes, flies, germs, bacteria in every room by fumigating it with the most gagging toots from the bum. So why this obsessive cleaning of the nasal cavity? Anyways, I didn’t dare shout of course, lest my mask of foundation, blusher, concealer, eye shadow, highlighter and other 20 make up items shatters into pieces.

Of course all my plans to go fully made up were laid waste by the higher powers to be – or rather higher power. He decided to go poop at precisely the moment we are about to set out. The entire rigmarole of taking off a 3 year old's pants, switching on the fan,”blue light” (not comfortable pooping without that), waiting for him to finish (which took another 15 minutes as he decided to take breaks in between to wash his hands) and then cleaning him and then washing the bathroom, wiped away in 20 minutes flat, my toil of 2 hours.

No longer feline eyes or geisha or even vibrant, my car mirror told me I looked haggard and old. The makeup revealed rather than hide the tiredness that I felt in every pore of my body. Why am I not able to look gorgeous like the other women of my age, in my office or acquaintance? Most of them were reed thin, taller and had more powers than even Superwoman. They could bake cakes on weekends – from scratch, decorate with icing in 3 different colors, and treat the kids to meals from 3 different cuisines - on weekdays, help the kids do homework - every day, drive them to school, and attend all the parent teacher meetings. All this while working full time, travelling out of town as when required and power dressing in killer heels and knee length skirts with razor sharp pleats. And of course to round all that up, for peace of mind, adjusting in power yoga sessions in the wee hours of morning.

I couldn’t drag myself up off the bed sooner than 7 a.m. to save my life, shouted down the entire army of 3 part time servants, hubby dear and kid much in the fashion of Hitler. After all had been dispatched to their respective destinations at 9 a.m. I would rush for my precious 2 seconds under the shower and ready in 5 minutes routine. No wonder the only thing rounded about my life was my body, all around, like a football.

“Well this will all stop”.I resolved while the car jolted over yet another crater like Mumbai pot hole .”Today, I will not fall into the misery cesspool that I usually do at the one of the Supermoms party. I will not be jealous of their 26 inch spray on jeans and halter necks.” Better said than done. The moment I entered and air kissed perhaps 10 Gucci, 5 Escada perfumes; I was berated by each of them for looking “bigger than last time”.”You couldn’t be wearing designer _________’s creation of course he doesn’t do beyond size 6 and you must be around...er... 20 my dear?” “I have PCOD and insulin resistance and type 2 diabetes. I am not able to lose weight even if I try. So, I don’t try” If I gnashed my teeth further I would grind all my teeth to fine powder and that would mean a huge dentist’s bill. That abruptly rearranged my face. So suddenly in fact that I choked on my own spittle and started coughing like an asthmatic.

 Eyes streaming, nose running, clutching my throat with one hand and my fake Fendi bag (bought off Colaba causeway) and the kid who wanted to dig into the B’day cake already, my hostess decided to deliver the coup de grace. She undulated towards me with the videographer and photographer in tow.”Darling, you made it! Click a photo please”. The two guys looked at each other with dread in their eyes .I knew what they must be looking at. The clown from the “Batman - Dark knight” movie – female incarnation. With mascara streaking, mucus making rivulets down the nose, not a pretty picture.

On the way back, I pondered on what to do. Couldn’t change a thing about my life. My profession perhaps? But if not IT than what? I used to be good at teaching but had hated that. I loved writing and fancied myself a great author but an editor had already dashed those hopes.” It’s like an insipid and watery kheer with raisins and cashews just strewn in.”Maybe I was too hasty and shouldn’t have approached a “good recipes” magazine to publish my story on romantic mushy love. I was good at shouting, but only at family. No job needed that. I hated staying at home and my cakes only came from supermarket pre-mixes. I would go mad sitting at home trying out recipes which everybody refused to eat for fear of food poisoning. I would shout at the kid so much he would refuse to study. So stay-at-home was out.

What I needed was a fresh perspective, a day at a 5 star spa, free of cost, free of kid and husband, free of planning what to cook for mother-in-law, hubby dear and kid – for breakfast and lunch which they would all definitely eat, luxurious food miraculously fat-free and guaranteed not to increase body weight by even 100 gms. I needed a God, female God, sitting up above in the clouds and looking down below who would send an angel from His, sorry; Her Department-for-harassed- working- Moms-who just can’t be Supermoms and set it all right. The husbands would emerge from their workaholism /ennui whatever keeps them glued to either work or TV. The Mothers-in-law would suddenly become Moms. The kids would transmogrify in a bizarre way from shouting screaming banshees to personifications of sainthood, who would eat veggies and not demand French fries for breakfast.

High hopes, no make that sky-high, completely unachievable wishful thinking. But still, somehow this little kittenish hope in the corner of my heart yawns and uncurls, someday, maybe, there will be a Happily ever after for me too.

Just you wait...

Debts - Paid off

There was chaos all around; absolute mayhem. People were running around clutching bundles of colorful clothing, holding them as closely to their chests as mothers would their children. Some had makeshift weapons; some had taken their rusty swords of the walls, brandishing as weapons; not decorations. The entire mohalla was choc-a block with people trying to make a speedy getaway. Bullock carts were being harnessed; the odd mule was being loaded with ration supplies, clothes, bric-à-brac with sentimental attachments and children, all with hurried care. The women in veils were tying their jewelry in small bundles to the drawstrings of their voluminous salwars. Their long shirts could hide many such small bundles from view.

Meera Devi sat still in her huge courtyard looking out of the lattice window. Her expression was one of helplessness and terror. The pandemonium outside was now beating hard in her chest .She was regretting every moment of the loud and pompous refusal to her son and daughter-in-law, of joining them in Amritsar. It was a mere 3 hours journey in the Jeep that her son had been given by the Water Supplies department, where he was an officer. True; the roads were not in a very good shape now but once in Amritsar, in the government quarters, she would have been safe. Now she was stuck here in her haveli of 20 rooms and big vegetable garden with nobody to look after her except Naseebo. All the servants had fled a week ago, pilfering all items that they could, in their desperation. Even the chenille beddings and duvets had gone missing although it was scorching in this June heat.

She wrung her hands in despair. Her arthritis forbade her from walking or moving more than 10 paces without support. When Naseebo came back with the mule cart and driver, her cousin, she was shedding copious tears into her heavy dupatta. Naseebo had tied Meera’s gold and rubies necklaces in small velvet pouches to her salwar’s drawstrings, like the other evacuees. Naseebo had also acquired reliable information that Hindustani troops would join the Hindu cavalcade from their village after a mere 5 miles. Then they would be safe and Naseebo would leave Meera in safe hands and return to her own people, with her cousin, very reluctantly.

Her mother had served Meera ever since the latter had arrived as the zamindar’s bride. Naseebo had been born in the servant quarters at the back of the vegetable garden and Mira had taken and instant pity on the scrawny, dark girl who seemed to be breathing her last with every deep sigh like breath. Mira had forbidden Naseebo’s mother to kill her and bury her under the cot, like her other 5 sisters and had taken her under her wing. Her mother had been not sure of her surviving the first winter as it is. When she had refused to feed Naseebo her milk, Mira had asked the head servant to feed her the fat goat’s milk, which perhaps saved her from imminent death.

Now it was time for Naseebo to return the favor. She had served Mira with mindless devotion all through her 18 years of life. So much so that she had forgotten her own faith. She could recite the aarti perfectly, fasted during navratri and shravan with Mira but had trouble doing her own namaz and remembering the “aayats”. This was indulgently ignored till she was around 16-17. But then, with the scenario changing in Lahore and its adjoining areas, her mother had rediscovered her own faith and had Naseebo betrothed to her first cousin, Jamaal. And now Jamaal was accompanying them till they met the army and got safe passage till the Indian border.

So off they went - an assortment of people and animals, oddly quiet for all so terror-stricken, for wailing and weeping at their plight would have broken the reserve and let loose violent emotions bubbling right under its scabby surface. The Muslims of the village watched in equal calm, some eyes hungrily searching among the caravans for valuables which should have been left behind, some mistily for friends of long years departing in such bitter times, in such a manner. Meera could not even look up at her haveli for fear of breaking down in loud wails of grief. She kept her veiled head downcast and resorted to praying. Her son had left word with the village postmaster before the din this morning started .He would meet her at the border tomorrow morning and then take her to Amritsar. Thank God for Naseebo and her resourcefulness or she would have been stuck in her palatial house with nobody to escort her to safety.

But safety was a distant dream. Just 3 miles into the journey and they were ambushed by the waiting looters. The men were hacked in the first five minutes so was Jamaal, even before he could open his mouth to inform them of his Muslim status. Next they turned to the women. Here Naseebo finally managed to gasp out that she was not a Hindu, before they could proceed to tear off her clothes. She recounted her entire story of how she had accompanied Meera as a final act of protection for saving her own life, years back. Her attackers paused in their continuing ravage of the women. They looked at Meera, who was cowering behind Jamaal’s corpse and raised their hatchets to kill her, while Naseebo implored them to spare Meera, for she was old, frail and could not slake their lust.

And Meera too joined in, pleading with them, holding out her dear possessions in her hands, to take all of them but to spare her. The looters would have taken the baubles anyway, they jeered at her and then allowed her the chance to live if only she could give them something more precious than the jewels – a tasty morsel for them to enjoy perhaps, from the maid servants that they thought she had brought along. And so Meera pushed out Naseebo in front of her and asked them to take her. For she was a Hindu and not a Muslim as she had pretended to be. As evidence, she asked Naseebo to recite the aayats for the morning namaaz, which of course she faltered in. Now the looters, angered at being cheated, prodded Naseebo to declare her faith by correct incantations, but she failed. Enraged, the looters took Naseebo away to the nearby fields along with the other young girls and left Meera alone, as she was useless with her invalid status. She couldn’t raise an alarm anyways, she was so petrified.

Meera lay stunned yet relieved among the scatter of bodies, blood and displaced clothes, smashed china and glass. She was safe. Soon, the army or another refugee entourage would come by and she would rouse herself and join them in their safe haven. She would reach her son somehow. Naseebo had done well; she had paid off her debt. After all, hadn’t Meera saved her from sure death so many years back? Now the score was even.

Whose deceit is it anyway?

As the plane revved up and prepared to soar into the sky, Annie settled back into the seat. She hated to fly, and this flight happened to be a long one. But she had to be there for her. Although Lara had called her for celebrating Christmas, she knew that actually Lara needed her to be there for her. She had splurged her hard earned financial adviser money for the ticket to Cyprus and back, knowing it would be worth every penny.

Poor thing was all alone, her family had abandoned her, and her “friends” had abandoned her once they knew that she had no sugar daddy anymore. And of course the worst – the love of her life had kicked her out like a filthy parasite from his home and paid her money like he would pay a whore. Only Annie had stood by Lara in those hard times and promised to do so through thick and thin. “Just like soul mates “Annie sighed to herself. She had been attached to Lara for the past 5 years, waiting for her to come out of the closet, admit to her that she loved her. She suspected that was either too shy to admit them or was not aware of those emotions herself. At times she sensed that Lara wanted to respond to her silent pleas of love, but couldn't be too sure. A small gesture, simple touches had let her hope that Lara too felt the same that she did.

Ever since she and Lara had met during a computer course class five years back, they had been friends. Annie had started in a big international bank and Lara had joined a PR firm in Mumbai where she had risen high in a short time and had then settled in Singapore around 3 years back.

Hopefully, the events of the past 6 months would have brought things into sharper perspective for Lara, Annie hoped.

It had all started with Alex Lee, the handsome billionaire from Singapore, much younger than Lara. But Lara had been madly in love. She had recently joined as the main PR honcho in the rich man’s PR company. As the main person at the helm of affairs, it was inevitable that she meet the Boss himself, sooner or later. Once Lara set her eyes on Alex, her reason fled out of the window. She changed her outlook, her personality completely to become the woman Alex would like to be with. The fact that she was witty, intelligent and magna cum laude from Mumbai University also helped.

Annie had been consumed with jealousy. It seemed that all her work in the past would be laid to waste with Alex marrying her Lara. What had she not done to ensure that Lara stays out of trouble and other men’s and women’s clutches. Despite the distance ,Annie had ensured that she meet Lara at least once a year, if not more  and talk to her every day ,either on phone or Email or text message. The mode of communication had not mattered, as long as she was able to talk to her beloved. She listened to Lara’s boyfriend troubles and anytime she seemed to actually become serious about a man, quietly seeded doubts in her mind. She ensured Lara’s relations did not last long with any guy. Either, Lara broke up with her men or Annie would provoke them into doing so, gently encouraging most of them to find better partners than Lara.

To appease her guilt, Annie gave Lara sound advice on her money investments, so that Lara had a sound monthly income apart from her salary. She gave Lara extravagant gifts despite her protests. Annie was willing to bide her time and had planned to shift base to Singapore in a year’s time. That would have been her first step to coax Lara into recognizing her homosexuality and that only Annie could be her life partner.

And then Alex had arrived, throwing her plans into a tizzy. He had been easily lured by Lara’s beauty and wit into her apartment. Countless dinners, gifts of diamonds and nights spent together and Lara had actually started dreaming of a wedding and kids, although it had only been 3 months since they had been together. Maybe she would have fulfilled her dream, if Annie had not recognized the commitmentphobe in him and decided to make the most of it. All it had taken was a quite dinner with Lara’s “best friend” and Alex meeting each other and Annie had slipped in the poison in their relationship.

She had revealed to Alex that Lara was hoping for a white wedding in London, now that she was pregnant with his baby. Alex had stormed off to check the fact himself and when he had discovered the pregnancy kit in Lara’s closet and the accompanying blood report, all hell had broken loose.  Alex had accused Lara of cheating him and deliberately getting knocked up, when she had been responsible for the contraception. Lara had never been able to find out how Alex had discovered something she had told Annie in the strictest confidence. She kept on thinking that Alex had accidently discovered the kit and blood report. Arguments, counterarguments, shouting and screaming later, Alex had thrown Lara out of his penthouse. Mercifully he had given her all the jewellery that he had bought for her and had settled a huge amount for the baby in a trust and some for Lara. He had also agreed to by her a house, as long as it was not in South-East Asia where the scandal would affect his life and business.

Lara had taken herself off to Cyprus where she was now nursing a broken heart and a swollen belly, all alone .Well, not any longer. Annie would be there to hold her hand and more, she smiled to herself with wicked glee.

At the airport, she mentioned the address to the taxi driver whose expression changed from bored indifference to almost respect, as soon as he heard it. When she reached the house she understood why. It was fabulous, almost decadent in its beauty, with a vast stretch of sea behind it. Standing almost lonely on a hill, it would be the perfect setting for two lovers. Heart thumping in the chest, Annie climbed up to the top of the hill towards the house. And there she saw her, standing on the balcony, smiling, with a drink in hand, waiting to welcome her.

Her happiness seemed to make float in air, till she thumped to the ground rather harshly. Another female figure had joined Lara on the balcony and was now watching her come up to the door. Annie vaguely recalled the girl – Peony or Daffodil, some flowery name she had. She had accompanied Lara to couple of lunches in Singapore and Annie’s jealous disapproval had driven her away soon enough. Annoyed at this intrusion, Annie‘s mind whirred into action immediately. Once she knew what “flower-girl” was doing here, she would dispose of her. Maybe she was hanging on to Lara for money. God knew, she attracted the worst of the crowd.

Annie’s confidence melted into thin air when the “flower-girl” opened the door to Lara’s home. She was dressed in designer wear, with Dolce and Gabbana shades casually perched on her tinted hair. Her skin was smooth, zit free and hands manicured. She was no impoverished hanger-on. And when she welcomed Annie in, in a lilting mandarin accent, Annie‘s rage threatened to boil over. Moving into the hall, she saw a bare room with barely any furniture and a lone decanter sitting on the marble bar with matching glasses. Confused, she kissed Lara on the cheek, asking the identity of the mystery woman.

“She’s my life partner – Peony” Lara slipped her hand into the other woman’s hand. Annie all but fainted.”But...but... How...When?” She could only splutter. Her BP seemed to shoot up as she had a splitting headache all of a sudden. When had Lara become a lesbian? And when had she found a “Life Partner?” It had only been 6 months. Her carefully laid out plans seemed to crash down on her, with as little sound as possible.

“Oh, Peony and I have been together for over 3 years now. In fact, ever since I moved to Singapore. Would you like a drink? A mocktail or something stronger? You look like you could use a brandy.” Lara looked at her companion who nodded and poured a stiff brandy shot from the decanter at the bar.

“But, you’ve just been with a man; you are carrying his child, for God’s sake! “ Annie was still gasping and the brandy had just burned her throat and none of the cobwebs in her mind had cleared.

“Yes, how the heck was I supposed to get a child otherwise? And loving a woman does not mean I can’t bear a man’s seed. It was not enjoyable, had to imagine Peony all the time. And I had to be careful not to meet Peony too often as to raise suspicion. We had been very discreet in the past. So if Alex or you had decided to get me investigated I doubt he would have found anything. But what’s a girl supposed to do? We both wanted a baby so badly.” Annie looked transfixed as Lara and Peony looked lovingly at each other and then at Lara’s protruding belly.

“But you never told me. You never gave me any inkling. I never even knew. I could have got you a baby. I was there for you all the time. Dammit, you don’t know how much I love you.” Annie was gulping tears.

“But I don’t love you. And I knew about your obsession for me. I had to keep Peony away from you or you would have taken her away from me. I needed to keep you close to me though. ‘Keep your friends close and enemies closer’. I needed the money you gave me and the gifts too. I could pawn them off for more money. What we really needed was a child to make us into a family. Peony can’t have kids as she has had her tubes tied because of a gynaec problem. We had been searching for a perfect donor for a baby for the past 2 years. We didn’t want an anonymous hick for our child but somebody whom we knew as smart and good-looking and who would have no compunctions in letting the baby go. Good genes were important to us. We searched and searched and then zeroed in on Alex.” Lara’s voice was as cold as the ice she put in her iced tea.

“Seducing him was not a problem although catching him at the right moment to conceive the baby was. But thanks to ovulation charts, we got what we wanted in 3 months flat. Now the only step was to let Alex go, without any hard feelings or suspicions and preferably with a lot of moolah. So, I called you to Singapore. I knew you would work on Alex’s phobia to commitment. Although he was in love with me, the way you made it sound to him that I had become pregnant to get married, was priceless. Of course I had to work on his guilt to get money for the baby and myself.”

“Anyway, I got what I wanted. I got a baby, money to bring him up, a house in a beautiful place and most of all, the love of my life, right beside me”.

Annie was devastated.”Why did you string me along then, for five years? Letting me hope, letting me think we could be together? How could you deceive me?”

“Deceive you! You who tried to sweeten your selfish obsession with gifts for five years .You, who ruined your friend’s chance at love at every turn? Oh yes, I knew what you did with every relationship of mine. No, Annie, it’s just Tit for Tat.” Lara smiled while Peony patted her hand.

“Why did you disclose it all now? “ Annie slumped to the floor, too miserable to even find the chair right behind her.

“We wanted to say Thank you and bid good bye.” Peony spoke for the first time.”If it hadn’t been for you we wouldn’t have been able to sustain ourselves for the 3 years in Singapore and then come here. We are flying to California to get married. After that we’ll settle down there. We have sold off this property. Our child is taken care of. Lara has enough money and jewels from Alex to allow her a regular income, which comes from a fund which you advised for, apart from our funds in Singapore. Oh and don’t bother to come after us. We may not be this kind if you do so. I am an artist. I can thrive on controversy. But you, in your stiff colored world of finance will be doomed if it slips out that you are an obsessive lesbian. There’s our taxi for the airport. Good bye.”

As Annie watched, Peony and Lara walked out of her life, literally, leaving her with nothing. She who always had a card up her sleeve, had been swindled by another swindler. The trickster had been tricked and there were no more tricks left in her bag now.

Mumbai local - Fast

Morning: 7:48 Fast Local from Ghatkopar to Victoria Terminus 

“This is how the story begins. Young finance professional, straight out of Masters of Finance Control, from Delhi’s prestigious Faculty of Management Studies gets a job in Mergers and Acquisitions department of Morgan Stanley in Mumbai’s Fort area. But is travelling in Mumbai’s local trains along with fisher-women and beggars”, Riya grimaced to herself.

Gone were the days when she could zip her small Alto from her west Delhi home to South Campus in 25 minutes flat. Now it was grimy train rides to her office and even the “first class” of her ladies compartment seemed dirty. But either it was this or the endless traffic while driving to “Town” as South Mumbai was called.

Her eyes wandered outside the coach, taking in the sights and stench of early morning Mumbai. People defecating on the railway lines, without any pretensions of modesty, people thronging vada-pav stalls for a quick breakfast on the go, crowding newspaper stalls for buying newspapers to read and to fan themselves in the sticky Mumbai local.

She turned her eyes inside the coach, taking in the “paani-puri brigade”, the ladies who would throw a party at any occasion – a new sari , new pair of shoes , kids passing in school, the reasons were endless and the parties were almost thrice a week. Most commuters were old faithful of the 7:48 local, reaching their offices on time, week after week, year after year. Quite different from Delhi’s laid back lifestyle. Nobody rushed there as if on fire. The roads were wide and one could commute in their car, reaching their destination by one route or another. Here in Mumbai, there was almost always only one route by road to follow and that was always clogged with cars, taxis and the ultimate bane of Mumbai’s life – Autos.

She idly looked across the compartment to the men’s first class adjacent to hers; separated by a netted partition and her heart skipped a beat. She hastily looked away, outside the window. She could feel his eyes on her still, but refused to look his way. True, he was handsome and seemed very sophisticated but then her Delhi upbringing told her not to trust strangers easily, even if they had been getting on the same train for more than 2 months now. She stole a very cautious glance towards the men’s side. He was talking on his mobile now, casually resting against the small window between the two coaches. The train rolled to a stop at Sion and she could hear him now, discussing IBM and its pay structure, apparently to somebody who wanted to join the company.

While her eyes took in the scene outside the window, her ears were glued to his conversation. He was loud enough for the entire compartment to hear. So he was happy in IBM, his pay was great; he had a good chance of promotion and what more could he want at the age of 27. Soon, he switched from English to Marathi and that’s when Riya also switched off, not understanding the language at all. Another glance while getting off at VT confirmed he was from IBM, when he slipped his ID card on.

So, he was good-looking, doing good career wise but was he single? And what was he doing so far off from his corporate office in Bandra? The day passed with Riya musing over these questions.

Next day , and “Handsome” wore his I-Card all the way from his station to the destination and she could finally read his name – Mayur Khedkar. And when he met a friend of his in the train, she came to know he was managing a project in Fort for IBM and  he had a woman in his life. Although he spoke in rapid Marathi, she could hear him mentioning somebody called “Anutai” repeatedly. And seemed she was in US. “Long distance relationships are hard to maintain. Doesn’t he know? ” muttered Riya. At office, she asked her friend what kind of a Marathi name was Anutai and her friend roared with laughter at her ignorance. Tai was didi in Marathi, meaning elder sister. Riya grinned from ear to ear, with relief she couldn’t understand herself.

Next day, she too wore her Morgan Stanley I-Card all the way to her destination. She could feel him stealing glances to read her name. Feeling quite smug, she fished out her cell phone and dialed her Mom. She could see him strolling near the window to hear her better. She too played her part well. Anybody listening to her could make out she was from Delhi, living as PG in Vikhroli and was relatively new to Mumbai and unattached. As she snapped her phone shut, she saw him look away casually, but not before she saw his smile.

This continued for another 3 months. Both were shy and didn’t want to break the silent romantic bond which they both preferred over a quick and short lived romantic tryst.  He would call up people on his phone and speak in English or Hindi for her benefit so that she would come to know more about his life and daily activities. She would have all conversations with her Mom and family members in the train, standing near the window. She hated pubs and lounges, enjoyed English movies. He loved going to Prithvi for plays and chilling out with his guy friends in sports bars. She was a tandoori chicken fan, he loved bombil fry. Both had looked each other up on all social networking sites and knew almost everything about each other, from a distance.

And then, Riya had to shift back to Delhi. Morgan Stanley was overseeing the acquisition of a major IT Indian giant by another and an entire team had to camp themselves in the headquarters for the same. They would get semi-permanent access to all the company facilities in Gurgaon, to make the takeover smooth. She told herself, she should be happy for the opportunity to go back home but the thought of not being able to see “Handsome” for long term was unbearable. She conveyed the news to him through another one of her calls to Mom and was slightly comforted to see dismay on his face. On the last day, she finally dared to look straight at him, while alighting down at VT and whispering “goodbye”.

Morning: 7:30 Metro from Rajouri Garden to Dwarka

Riya stepped despondently onto the platform and into the milling crowd in the Metro. No stickiness of the Mumbai local here, no naked butts on display and stench to gag to. And one could get a seat at this hour. But it was not the same. It had been a fortnight since she had shifted back and every morning when she stepped on the Metro, she was reminded of her “Handsome”. Today, she was more miserable than usual and she felt her eyes mist over; she fumbled in her bag for her sunglasses to hide her tears. And her I-card fell on the floor. Cursing and bumping she stooped down to pick it up, but it had miraculously disappeared.

She peered around to see if her I-card had been kicked out of sight, when she saw it dangling from a male hand. Sighing in relief, she raised her eyes to see her savior and her and they remained stuck to the familiar I-Card of Mayur Khedkar. She finally looked at him and found him beaming at her and realized she too was doing the same. Questions like “How did you manage to find me? When did you come here? For how long? “; nothing seemed to matter, now that they were together. And that’s how this love story started. 

Like an Angel

Kamala Rani shifted her body with great care on the diwan in the courtyard. Around 100 kilos of overflowing flesh was difficult to manage. The September night was cool, considering the overbearing humidity of the day. As the huge farm house was surrounded by green crops and orchards, it became much better by nightfall.

Her grandson shifted restlessly on the footstool near the diwan. He was waiting for the ritual story telling session and today grandmother was making him wait unnecessarily. “Daadi, are you going to tell me the story or should I go and watch Cartoon network?” he pouted. Sighing and clucking indulgently at the tiny chit of a boy, she asked, “So what do you want to hear about? Dragons or monsters?  Or Princes or warriors? ”. “No. Those are made up stories. I want to hear a true story about heroes like Fauji Chacha who saved Nonu from the bore well. “Her grandson beamed.

Bemused Kamala looked at him. Now where would she find real life heroes? And then a thought struck her and she started to narrate, “Long time ago...”. “How long ago”?  Piped in the little brat. “Around 25 years ago”, she patiently gathered her grandson on her lap and started again. “In a village similar to this one, there lived a big zamindaar. A zamindaar is a man with lots of land, before you ask me. He had lands extending right from the railway tracks to the river Beas on the other side of the village.” As she spoke her eyes brightened and her grandson drew closer in wonder to see his grandmother so animated. And so Kamala continued.

The zamindaar had a beautiful wife, who came from a poor but educated family. What she lacked in her dowry, she made up in helping the zamindaar in making excellent business decisions and managing his labor. She maintained his accounts, hired impoverished Bihari migrants at cheap rates, for the farms the moment they landed on the platform near Beas. Grateful to find shelter and earnings the moment they landed in Punjab, the migrants toiled quietly on the fields. Over the years, the zamindaar’s lands and riches grew. His wife was beautiful even after long years of marriage and helped his business grow, even while his household ran like a well-oiled thresher. His children were taken care of by a devoted nanny and went to a good English school in the city.

The only thorn on his side was that he did not have a son. He loved his two beautiful daughters but felt all the time that a son would have made his happiness complete. His daughters would marry and leave his huge property and one day he would have to leave it to his sons-in-law. Still, he was content with his lot. He was past 40 now and his goal in life was to marry his daughters abroad – US or Canada preferably. He had seen how his daughters looked greedily at their friends from abroad and lapped up their anecdotes on how their husbands drove huge trucks called trawlers, the culture where you could wear anything and nobody would care, supermarkets filled with packed fruits, Toyota cars in every household, snow almost all year round.

As his daughters were aged only a year apart, he started looking for prospective grooms for both. Preparations were done accordingly. The Farm house was expanded and remodeled to match the opulent city houses. Interior decorators from Mumbai were called in to do the interiors. The girls were given English elocution classes and even their nanny, who was more like their friend, was also forced to attend so that she could also speak with the girls in English only. They would troop to Amritsar on weekends to see latest fashions in western wear and how the city girls wore them.

Soon, prospective families started coming in from abroad. Affluent families from Amritsar and Delhi were not discouraged if they seemed to have any connections in “foreign” countries. As the excitement mounted, the girls’ keenness to live in a foreign country changed to obsession. The elder one was more beautiful and outgoing and had high hopes of landing a groom in US or Canada. The younger one was shy and pretty in an unassuming manner but was better in her grades and would have been happy to land a groom in Middle East also.

The mother and nanny, would often sit together over household accounts and the mother would open her heart to her confidante of over fifteen years,”Kammo, Heaven forbid, if these girls do not find the grooms that they dream about. Their hearts would break. They are so delicate.” And Kammo would smile indulgently as she knew that the girls were anything but. They were strong individuals, each capable of getting what they desired. The elder one was having an affair with the village Casanova on the side, while looking for a groom. The younger one was secretly applying for a long distance university course in US, to secure her future.

Of course, Kammo did not open her mouth. She was a servant, after all even if loved by all. And then one day, all hell broke loose. A handsome NRI from Canada, came to see the younger one for marriage, but literally bumped into the elder one on his way in, while she was on her way out to meet her paramour. Immediately smitten by her charms, he refused to even see the younger daughter and offered for the elder daughter.

The younger one was humiliated beyond words but soon resigned herself to her fate. The elder one was ecstatic. The groom was handsome, had a supermarket in Canada and apparently rolled in money. But she did not reveal anything to her lover and kept on meeting him secretly. One misty December morning, she stole out of the house to meet him at the sheds near the railway platform and decided to end her relation with him. After all only a fortnight was left before she got married and flew off to Canada. She told Kammo she would be back in a couple of hours. 

Hours passed and she did not return. Kammo got very worried and set out to check the railway sheds where she knew the lovers used to meet. She was not there. Kammo then informed the mother about the elder daughter’s absence. Soon the entire household was searching discreetly for the elder daughter. Had the news of her absence slipped out, it would have been a major scandal in the village and the family’s “honor” would have been seriously compromised.

They found her decapitated body on the railway tracks, which ran parallel to the mustard fields. She may have been walking on the periphery of the fields which was built of mud, separating the tracks from the crops, when she would have slipped and fallen. But the younger daughter soon divulged the secret as she feared that her sister’s lover had murdered her out of spite or anger.

The predictable happened - the Casanova disappeared without a trace the next day from the village and was found days later in a ditch. The groom and his family were told a very convenient lie of the bride-to-be dying of a bout of dengue. The younger daughter was offered in marriage and the groom, relented although he was still not very keen on the younger daughter.

After a simple no-frills wedding, the bride and groom flew to Canada. The zamindar’s wife pined away for her daughters – the elder one had been the apple of her eye. The nature of her death and the blow to their family honor had wounded her deeply. With the younger one also gone far away, she sank into depression. She had no interest in the household or the fields any more. Kammo tried to talk her out of her gloom but to no avail. Finally, she approached the zamindar and pleaded with him to take her mistress to a good doctor in the city before she died.

The zamindar pulled himself out of his own grief and started consultations with various doctors in the city. Kammo supported him by efficiently running the household in her mistress’s absence. But all the efforts failed and Kammo’s mistress slowly inched towards her end. The zamindar was overcome by misery. First his daughter and then wife had been so cruelly taken away by Fate. He took to drinking heavily. Kammo’s pleas to pay attention to the lands and business fell on deaf ears. He left practically all such matters to Kammo, who thanks to her years of training with her mistress could handle everything.

The younger daughter arrived from Canada to attend her mother’s funeral. She was heavily pregnant with her first child and despite all warnings by the doctors had come to pay her last respects to her mother. Kammo persuaded her to stay on and deliver her first child in her parents’ home. After all this is what her mother also would have wanted. The city hospital was booked for the delivery and the zamindar prepared for big celebrations, having stayed away from his drinking to welcome his grandson.

The grandson decided to arrive unexpectedly in the middle of the night. Bumping on the village roads, the zamindar drove his daughter and Kammo to the city hospital. But the uneven roads had taken their toll. The daughter delivered a still born boy and hemorrhaged copiously. The doctors were in a tizzy trying to save the only child of such a rich man. Soon delirium set in and the daughter was repeatedly heard saying, “pariyaan waang” – Like an Angel. Nobody could understand what she meant. She died on the hospital bed with these words on her lips.

The zamindar sunk into depression. His happiness had been stolen away forever from him by the jealous Gods and he had nothing to live for. His life became one big drinking binge where Kammo was the only link to sanity. As his condition deteriorated, he leaned emotionally and later physically into Kammo. She was for all matters like his wife. And when Kammo announced one day that she was pregnant with his child, he solemnized his relation with her legally. Sadly, he did not survive to see his son being born. He passed way when Kammo was seven months pregnant.

Kammo continued to be the sole owner of the properties and the business grew further under her guidance. And she had her family then lived happily ever after.

When Kamala finished the story with this line, her grandson stayed quiet for a few minutes and then asked her, “But who is the hero in this story, Grandma?” “Why, it is Kammo, of course, my child “. “How is that, Grandma?” “She kept her mouth shut all the time and kept out of trouble. She knew that the elder daughter was “dishonoring” her family with her affair with the village Romeo, but did not say anything. Had she told anybody, the daughter would have been killed and she would have been thrown out anyways. She had seen the younger daughter follow her sister, on that fateful winter morning, and had followed them both, anticipating trouble. She saw the two sisters skip delightedly along the periphery, swaying the ends of their dupatta like the wings of an angel and thought the sisters were enjoying themselves. She was shocked when she saw the younger daughter push her sister on the path of an incoming train and laugh when her beheaded body lay on the tracks. Still, she did not utter a word and ran back to the house.

The image of the two sisters skipping along the edge of the mustard fields, pretending to be angels, kept on recurring in her dreams but she kept her secrets to herself, even when the poor boy, supposed to be the elder daughter’s lover was murdered for no reason. She knew that the younger daughter was tormented by the same image of angels, when she thrashed in her delirium but did not say anything at all even then.”

“But Grandma, was this the right thing to do? Had she told her mistress how her younger daughter had killed her elder sister, the family would have been saved from ruin.” The young lad asked indignantly. She smiled, “Yes, but if Fate has decided that the family should be ruined, it would happen anyways. And a servant’s place is not to get into the matters of her master’s family. And most important, my darling, if she had told everybody everything, how would have Kammo become Kamala Rani, the richest land owner among the surrounding five villages?”

The confidante

The confidante

She sat lazing in the warmth of the Delhi's wintry sunlight. Utterly contented in the coziness of the light shawl that she had draped hurriedly, as soon as the sun yawned tiredly through the gloomy clouds in the February morning."Ah...this is bliss...this is what contentment is". Her husband joined her on the terrace, strapping gait and looks easily belying his 50 years of age. While she sat idly scrutinizing her mate, he went pottering around the bonsai jungle that he had planted. His pride and joy; the plants were always in display and the subject of many a discussion whenever they had hosted a cocktail. A huge bevy of female friends her husband had, all owing to the blasted dwarf plants with their vulgar looking fruits. And she did nothing to hide her displeasure at both - the gaggle of friends and the plants both.

Her husband of course thought she was jealous for the wrong reason."You can never be like them so all you can do is show your anger. Even that you don't do with any passion. You just sulk in corners and vent it out on the food, which is getting to be worse with every party. Next time I'll have to call in the caterers" The caterers were supposed to be her death knell. She was supposed to be good at only one thing - the one thing which endeared her to her family and children – her gourmet cooking . But she didn't care now. Not anymore.

Her children were grown up, studying abroad. She had devoted 20 years of her life to her husband already, ensured that he had in her a dutiful wife, who fulfilled all her duties. Now; it was her time. She no longer wanted to do things for him or her or them just so they could praise her or find her indispensable, but be herself. If that meant sitting looking shabby, wearing mismatched salwar and shirt so be it. She was comfortable and content this way.

Her husband irked "How can you sit like this? Look at you! Yellow shirt, red salwar, black shawl. You are looking like a freak. You don't go to any friends nor invite them over. You don't like to visit relatives nor invite them for any Diwali or Holi parties. You are an anti-social animal. Human beings should link with each other, socialize. Really now!”He harrumphed and would have persisted if she hadn't pretended to fall asleep and snore loudly. Completely disgusted at his wife, he left with his sermon on “No man is an island “unfinished.

She smiled to herself after he left and opening her eyes, returned back to her musings. He didn't know, wouldn’t ever know. She was not some anti-social pathetic creature. Her friendships did not depend upon bonsai jungles or make-up or latest accessories or Fendi bags or Gucci shoes. She could be cloaked head to toe or be stark naked. The appearance did not matter. Wherever she went, she could befriend people and they gave them the ultimate gift one can give only to a true friend - their darkest, deepest secrets. She had that power - perhaps the look of complete trust in her face, the look of intelligence that she KNEW – what was hidden inside a person’s mind or soul. The invisible hand that seemed to reach from her to the next person. They all confided in her - From the sweeper in the street, to the maids, to her husband’s friends, their wives, even the flock of preening "friends" of her husband's.

She knew exactly who had made indecent propositions to whom and where, who had stolen from her husband, who had married for money and not love, who had passed off the Gardener's son as her husband’s , who had lied about her age to get married and not die an old spinster. She knew which of her husband’s friends was visiting her husband’s best friend’s daughter at her hostel ,pretending to be an “Uncle” , while indulging in sweaty nights at the nearest available hotel room with her. Oh yes, she knew it all. Dark stories of lust, greed, the veritable platter of sins on Satan's plate. If she wished she could use this power anytime.

For her hapless victims could never lie to her, she sympathized and empathized so nicely. She even knew who had tried to grope for her husband's hand and more during the last blackout during one of their cocktails and whom had her husband tried to fondle back. She was the ultimate confidante. But need her husband know about it? No, never- this was her little secret. Any day, anybody tried to ruin her paradise, she could let a small snake of her own into that person's Eden. For now, she had nothing to fear. She smiled to herself."Ah...this is bliss...this is what contentment is".