The Homing Pigeons... (11 page)

Radhika

Y
es, I was in love with him. It was love the first time that I had let him walk away in school. It was love now that I was going to leave behind when I would make my way back to

Chandigarh. I had struggled to decode the gene that dealt with
emotions. Initially, I thought that this strange feeling could be called a crush. I rationalized and waited a few weeks until it didn’t feel like an infatuation. I thought it was a strong liking, a kind of adoration of meeting someone who is familiar. Now, when I looked back at the events of the last five weeks of the training, I knew that I was in love.

If I hadn’t looked at the watch, every day, five times between five and six, in anticipation of the day to end, I might have thought otherwise. Every day, I would eagerly wait for the training to end so that I could spend the evening with him. When places like Dilli Haat started to prove very expensive we found the Indian Coffee House in Connaught Place. The place we were at, ceased to make a difference. I realized that it was his company that made the evenings so likeable.

It was my conversations with him that made me realize why I loved him. He had the gift of the gab. His humour was dark and wicked and it would make me laugh. He could make me laugh until I cried. Sometimes, even when he wasn’t funny, I would laugh. He could even make the most mundane things sound funny – the gatekeeper at the Radisson was a walrus because of his indomitable moustache; the waiter was a catfish because he had a habit of opening his mouth and closing it while pouring the coffee. He said he was reminded of the fish in his aquarium every time he saw the waiter.

So often, we confuse humour with superficiality and make judgments. Initially, I thought he was too until one incident served to remind me that he wasn’t. We had just stepped out of the Indian Coffee House when I lost my step. The twisted ankle  didn’t  take  very  long  to  heal  because  he  had  been caring enough to rush me to a doctor. For the three days that I couldn’t walk, he would pick me up from the guesthouse and carry me down the flight of stairs.

When he carried me, I couldn’t help but notice the bulge of his biceps and the smell of him. It would drive my senses wild. The proximity to him during those moments wanted me to slip and twist my other ankle. I was brought up in a very conservative home that didn’t allow women to think this way but when I was with him, he would arouse me. It would make me fantasize about us making love. Often at night, alone in the confines of my room, I would imagine that we were on a private beach where he made love to me under the open skies. In the mornings, I would chide myself for being promiscuous.

Maybe, it was this confusion that didn’t let me express myself. Despite our free flowing conversations, we never broached the subject. I was sure that he did feel something for me, but he never expressed it, and that took away my courage to express myself. It was a relationship, maybe even a courtship but it didn’t have a name – just a little beyond friendship and a little short of love.

Today, in about two hours when my train left, it would be over. Like it had ended five years ago. He had promised to drop me to the train station but there was still no sign of him. I leaned over the balcony of the guest house, to see if there was any sign of him. There wasn’t; nor was there any sound of his motorcycle.

I went back inside from the balcony and looked at the suitcases that I had packed. I had a lot more luggage than what I had come to Delhi with. I questioned myself if I was right in not asking for the office cab. It would be quite a challenge to balance the large suitcase on the bike as it rode through the ruthless traffic.

A sharp honk from a white Maruti broke the silence of the otherwise still afternoon. When I saw him, he was half outside the car window trying to grab my attention. I had seen the car once before when a torrential squall had forced him to drive into the Radisson instead of riding the bike.

I struggled with the heavy suitcase and somehow managed to reach the car. He loaded the suitcase into the boot and looked at his watch. He had lost time on the way which meant that we would have to rush to catch the train. He wasn’t chivalrous enough to open the door for me so I did it myself. We women, tend to over expect.

I sat in the uncomfortable front seat and stole a look at him. I wished there was no rush to get to the railway station. Maybe, in these last moments, we could confess that we loved each other. In that instant, I wanted to kiss him – smack, on the lips. In a car with no air conditioning, the hot summer afternoon felt even warmer. A small bead of sweat rolled down his cheek. I was a little jealous of the sweat; at least it could touch him. I looked at him longingly until he turned his head towards me. I looked down, unsure, if I should listen to my heart. It had been forcing me to tell him that I loved him.

I looked up to see him but his eyes were focused on the road ahead. I fought myself again – my heart longing to express myself and the brain continually reminding me that I might be rejected. The fears of the past that my foster parents had instilled in my psyche were too deep seated. I wasn’t sure if I could cope up with another bout of rejection. I chose to stay quiet.

In the brutal midsummer heat of that Delhi afternoon, not many dared to venture out. The streets were empty and moments later we were at Connaught Place. We took a turn off the outer circle to drive down the straight road that leads to the chaotic railway station. Despite our fears, we had made good time. There was still about half an hour for the train to leave when he dropped me on the porch of the New Delhi railway station.

“I’ll park the car and come; just wait here,” he said and drove away. He had barely travelled ten metres before being stuck in a traffic snarl.

I waited for over ten minutes but there was no sign of him. I looked anxiously at the watch. I still had twenty more minutes. I continued to brave the random men who would come by and ask “Taxi? Madam Taxi?”

Another ten minutes later there was still no sign of him. I made the decision to start walking inside. I gave another futile glance in the direction from where he was expected. He was nowhere to be seen. I continued to lug the large suitcase behind me.

The train was already stationed at the platform – the gates of the train thronged with activity. Unpunctual travellers like me struggled to board the train. I stole another look in the direction of the entrance but he still wasn’t there. Hesitatingly and unwillingly, I boarded the train and made the four hour journey back to reality.

Isn’t this also a reality that I continue to sit on the porch? It has been a while that Shipra and her family went back home. I look at the moth that is an exception. Even in the brutal cold, it continues to fly around the lamp. I ignore it and go inside to the warmth of a soup that Laxman has boiling in a pot. I sometimes wonder how life would have been if I had told Aditya about my feelings. I think when I stopped short of telling him the first time, I was foolish. When I stopped myself the second time, I was a blunderer.

Aditya

I
t is ten o’clock when I wake up to Divya’s phone call. I couldn’t sleep last night. I think it must be my lying that keeps me awake these days. I have heard about a clear conscience letting you sleep comfortably. When I couldn’t sleep until two last night, I went out for a run. I hadn’t done that for very long. To add to the adrenaline rush, two well-meaning stray dogs had started chasing me. I cut short my run and came back home. I slept at about three which naturally made me wake up so late.

‘There’s a bachelorette at a farmhouse in Chhatarpur and they need three or four people – do you have any references?” she asks me.

“References?” I ask her. I am still groggy. I am still trying to comprehend what she is trying to ask.

“Yes, any other gigolos that would be interested. Even if they are
freshers,” she replies.

“Let me see,” I say and hang up.

I don’t know what part of the conversation rings a bell. Maybe, it is the word fresher that lightens a lamp somewhere in my head. There was a time when I was a fresher. Way back in 1999 when I had just joined Citibank as a Management Trainee and had met Radhika at the induction. We went out to a lot of places those days because I didn’t know where else I could take her. The only other option was to take her home to the bachelor pad that I had in Sheikh Sarai that I shared with friends.  Two  of  them  were  still  searching  for  a  job; only Bhatoliya and I had been lucky enough to find jobs off campus. It was a relief because the allowance that I received from my parents would sometimes fail to cover my expenses. My father’s business, despite his hard work, refused to gain the glory of his father’s business. Towards the last few days of the training, I remember looking at the calendar. I guess it would have been the twentieth of May in 1999. I had heard that the salary got credited into the bank account on the twenty fifth which meant that there would be five more days of scavenging.

I looked forward to payday when my first real earnings would end the drought of living in debt. It was just natural that my thoughts would veer to what I would do when my first salary would come through. I owed a lot of people; the most to my parents.

I had decided that I would buy both of them a gift from my first salary as a small token of appreciation. They had made so many sacrifices for my education. Eventually, I didn’t. Instead, I bought a silver chain for Radhika.

I wished I could buy diamonds, but they were too expensive; my heart settled for gold but even at the turn of the last century, gold was difficult to buy. Silver was affordable (read cheap). I settled for a silver chain, waiting for the perfect time to present it to her. Yet, that afternoon when she was leaving for Chandigarh, destiny stepped in to kill my dream.

I reached home, a little flustered and very upset with myself for waiting until the last minute. I wished the jeep in front of me hadn’t caused the traffic jam. I wished that the parking attendant hadn’t taken an eternity to write the car number. I wished that I had run towards the departing train and had been able to give her the present that I had chosen for her. I wished that I could have told her that I loved her.

It  was  an  expensive  gift, especially  in  the  light of  the disappointing  first salary  that  Citibank  had  paid  me.  The salary offer that had seemed so good on paper had disappeared faster than a bolt of lightning from my newly opened bank account.

I pulled my weary self out of the car and crashed out on the mattress that lay on the floor of the apartment. I was in remorse of not seeing the smile on her face or the sparkle of surprise in her eyes.

I was in love. I had discovered that. It wasn’t an emotion that had come naturally. I didn’t wake up one day and say to myself “You’re in love, boy” but it was gradual, subtle and steady. When I woke up each morning, the first picture that crossed my mind was hers. The first signs of love manifested themselves in a pasted smile on my face. It, stubbornly, refused to go away. In the training, I was suspected of being cheeky because of that smile. The trainers paid special attention to me; they thought that I was mocking them. They would throw questions at me just when I was lost in her thoughts.

I would dream that we were on the summit of an isolated mountain. I would be standing behind her, looking down into the valley, when her hair brushed my nose. That citrusy smell of her hair would arouse me. I would run my hand up her arm, feeling the softness of her when the damn trainer would break my thoughts.

It was in the evenings, on our dates that I wasn’t able to stop myself. When she laughed at some of my poorest jokes, I felt humorous. When she laughed, she looked even more beautiful.

Laughing boisterously, we would often be stared at by the middle-aged people that thronged the Indian Coffee House. They would come and go but we continued to sit there for hours. It was just that hours of her company weren’t enough. I would often wonder how I could have really long conversations with her when I wouldn’t be able to talk to my friends for more than a short while. I had known Bhatoliya for years now, but even he couldn’t hold my attention as much as her. If that wasn’t love, then maybe love didn’t exist. In the numerous meetings that we had, I was sure that she loved me too. Her eyes gave her away. Yet, she wouldn’t say anything. I waited until I was convinced that I would have to make the first move in expressing what I felt for her.

Even then, there was apprehension – I had just started out my career, my salary was inadequate, and I wanted to build my career. I was only a Management Trainee. The brain gave me a million reasons why I shouldn’t express what I felt for her and many more why this wasn’t the most opportune time to fall in love.

I fixed myself a stiff drink, unhappy at what I wasn’t able to do, but happy that I could savour the delight of being in love, without the responsibilities or the commitments of being in a relationship.

My work at Citibank had started in earnest; the reforms made  to  the  Indian  economy  were  less  than  a  decade old. Banking in India was beginning to look beyond the nationalized, state-run banks. ICICI, HDFC and some other private banks were only beginning to find their bearings in the urban landscape. In this setting, Citibank stood tall – an icon of how banking should be done. I joined in as a
relationship manager,  interacting  with  some  of  the  wealthiest  people in  Delhi,  who  were  clients.  I would meet them regularly, presenting new products and being responsible for sales of these products. After all, the branch manager would regularly pull up people who didn’t have sales figures against their names. Most appointments were scheduled over the weekends; my learning was that wealthy people worked for the money on the weekdays and made important choices about making the money work for them over the weekend.

The fallout of these meetings was that I could not make a trip back home to meet Radhika. Occasionally, we would speak over the phone. In those times, we didn’t have a phone at home; so, long distance telephone calls were made from a public call office. There was little privacy, notwithstanding the high expense that it would rake up. Meanwhile, the silver chain continued to tarnish in my cupboard, waiting for its rightful owner to wear it around her neck.