The Homing Pigeons... (3 page)

Radhika

I
wake up from the deep slumber and my first thoughts are of freedom. In a strange way, I feel like a revolutionary who has fought so long for freedom, that when he obtains it, he doesn’t know what to do with it. I have hated this life, of being the trophy wife to a rich, old businessman. And now, that freedom is finally obtained, the elation is so starkly missing.

Even today, I wake up exhausted. The tiredness of the past few weeks refuses to leave me. The planning and execution of the big, fat Indian wedding has left me feeling like a sponge that’s been squeezed. I’m happy that the worst is behind me; I only need to send off the relatives.

Out of habit, I pick up the bottle of water that sits on my bedside table and drink until the bottle is empty. At one of those times when I had wanted to become size zero, a dietician had recommended drinking water to speed up my metabolism. Although I still remain a few sizes above zero, the habit clings on. I keep the bottle back, careful to not drop the unused crystal glass.

I get up from bed and stretch to loosen up my taut muscles. The clock on the wall reminds me that it is past nine. I remember my childhood when the scho
ol started at seven and I would make it in time. Today, it is unfathomable to even wake up that early. I promise myself that I will wake up early tomorrow and go for a walk. It is my daily ritual to swear that I will wake up in time. Yet, I sleep through the alarm the next morning.

I shower and come out of the bath to face the large dresser. I let the towel drop in the middle of the room. There is a naked, five-foot-six woman in the mirror who refuses to stop staring at me. She looks a few years older than me – maybe she’s had a bad marriage. She puts on the foundation to hide the few blemishes on her face – maybe she grew up in the hills where the sun is so harsh. She looks into my eyes – she’s got hazel brown eyes. They have a twinkle about them – maybe her bad marriage hasn’t left her dead. She brushes down her long, lustrous, brown hair. She can keep them because I am done being a rich socialite. I’m going to get my irritating tresses chopped. She adjusts her sari to hide the few ounces of fat that don’t let her look younger. Even then, I think she’s beautiful. She sighs, a long wishful sigh. I think she wants to be younger. How do I care? I am still only thirty-one.

I cross four doors on my way to the stairs that lead down to the dining room. Only a few close relatives remain. Vimal’s elder brother is sitting at the head of the table. He assumes the role of the head of the household. It’s funny how he has suddenly stepped up to that role when I never saw him when Vimal was alive. Breakfast is served – a lavish spread with at least twenty dishes to choose from. A five star hotel would’ve been proud of this spread. Yet, they find faults – “The Bhatura’s have too much oil”, “The Paranthas don’t have enough filling”.

Relatives are like that; they can never be happy. One part of me wants to kick them out of the house, but another part of me, the gentler and more patient part calms me down, “They are
going to go in any case, and this might be the last time you’ll ever see them.”

Meera and I haven’t had the conversation yet, but it is an unsaid understanding that I will need to move out of this house. I suspect that it won’t be long before she brings that conversation up.

The waiters bring in a fresh round of Bhatura’s and leave them on the massive dining table. The dining table can seat sixteen, and even then it doesn’t fill the room. The room was designed for the Nawabs to hold extravagant feasts and even with the nineteen men and women who sit in the room today, it looks bare. Till about a year ago, there were three people who would sit on this massive table, almost like mice in a grain store. Soon, there will be no one. The house will be locked up unless Meera chooses to rent it out or sell it.

Vimal bought it just after our marriage from a struggling Nawab. The Nawabs are infamous for maintaining a lavish lifestyle. His days of royalty were over when the palatial building had been sold at a pittance. Vimal was stingy but he never lost a bargain. Even after the makeover to remove the signs of decay, there is always a leak somewhere that reminds me of the neglect this mansion has seen.

The relatives make a beeline to their waiting cars. I am not fond of them but out of courtesy, I go down to the porch to see them off. I have to see them leave through the tall gates to believe that they will not come back. They’ve been around for nearly a week and I am at wit’s end in trying to keep them amused. Today, my nightmare will end.

It is bright, sunny and pleasant as the early days of winter are. I call out to Ghanshyam, the servant, who scurries over. He looks hassled and I can empathize with him. He has been as traumatized by the relatives as I have been.

“Ghanshyam Bhaiya, chai,” I say to him. He nods and rushes back to heed my command. They make me feel like a tyrant who will whiplash them if they don’t run away when I ask for something. I sit on the wrought iron chair on the lawns, trying to relax my frayed nerves in the warmth of the mid-day sun.

From where I sit, I look at the house that is at least a hundred years old. The architecture is fabulous and looks even more beautiful by night when the light strings that adorn the house are lit. It is quite a sight but it took a fortune to cover the mansion and the lawns with lights. I hate this extravagance for it is so unnecessary. Yes, I can afford it, but somehow my middle class upbringing refuses to understand. At heart, I am still the poor three-year-old girl, who was happy to wear a new dress. I can’t forget those days, for they are too severely etched in my memory. It was one of those rare occasions that I had worn new clothes: A soft, pink frock that had small red flowers on it. Even though the heavy sweater was going to cover the flowers, I loved it. My mother had worked by night to have it ready for today. I was turning three and there were preparations for a birthday party. As it turned out, the party was really an overstatement. It was a small event that had four children if you didn’t count my brothers, who were five and seven. There were no adults invited, except my uncle and aunt. I wasn’t even sure if they had been invited or were in town by accident. They came to Chandigarh pretty often.

“Radhika, don’t dirty your clothes. The guests will be coming soon,” my mother cried out from the bedroom. She was packing a bag. I was too young to understand if the packing of a bag meant anything but I listened to her. I stepped back from the muddy yard and sat on the small wooden stool in the courtyard of our house, waiting eagerly for the guests to arrive.

I was still sitting on the stool when the children from the neighbourhood came. They were carrying boxes wrapped in brightly-coloured paper, you know, that shiny, cheap thing which shimmers in the light. I remembered when my brother had unwrapped one of those boxes to find a plastic helicopter. I almost wanted to tear the paper apart immediately but when my mother told me not to do it, I didn’t. I was still smarting from the spanking yesterday and so, I obeyed.

We went inside to see a cheap cake that had a wafer thin icing. The baker had controlled his costs but created something that hovered between ugly and obnoxious. A plate held samosas that slouched, when they really should’ve been sitting. The crystallized syrup on the
rasgullas
told a nostalgic tale of grubbiness.

It was a shame, but then, what more could you expect from a father who was a cab driver. He’d be up before four and leave for the Chandigarh railway station to pick up passengers arriving on the overnight train. It wasn’t short of a miracle that he was being able to provide for a family of five. Within his means, he could only afford a birthday party as extravagant. Even then, I had loved it.

I loved it even more when the guests had left, leaving me alone to open the gifts. My brothers were scavengers, the vultures that hover over the lions to get a morsel of flesh. They waited for something that may not be worth my while, but were disappointed.

In that small one bedroom house in the non-descript by- lanes of Chandigarh, it was nearly impossible to have guests. On the few occasions that we did, we would have to move the furniture to the courtyard. The folding cots were laid out in
the drawing room where we would sleep. My uncle and aunt were given the bedroom while we slept on the cots, huddled up together like sardines in a can. It was a difficult fit for two adults and three children to sleep on the two folding cots but we were so used to it.

I woke up to the sounds of my mother weeping. She never really cried. In all that was wrong in our lives, I never heard her cry. I didn’t even know why she was crying but I hugged her. She continued to weep while my aunt sat next to her, consoling her. She remained inconsolable.

My father walked into the room. Suddenly and without warning, my mother’s bawling died. It was as if my mother had been programmed to stop crying the moment he entered. For a while, there was complete silence until my father broke it.

“Have you spoken to her?” my father asked gruffly

“Not yet,” my mother replied, barely able to get the words out of her parched throat.

I thought it was the start of a vacation when my mother said through the tears that had been rolling down her cheeks, “Radhika, you’ll have to go with Uncle and Aunt. They will look after you.”

It was a December morning when we made the journey in the back of a cranky public transport bus that refused to stop vibrating. Worse still, the windows wouldn’t stop the cold mountain air coming in. I was cold and huddled up closer to my aunt. She wasn’t doing very well in keeping me warm. The bus reluctantly covered the short distance that existed between my home and my uncle’s home. I was blissfully unaware that I would stay here longer than the vacation that I thought it was. Maybe, because of that morning, I have always detested the winters.

Aditya

I wonder if Divya will order a steak for breakfast; she is such a carnivore, a flesh eater. The number of love bites that she has given me leaves me with a risk of being punctured. It is a good thing that my wife Jasleen and I never have sex anymore. Otherwise, my misdemeanour would be very apparent. I am not used to this amount of physical intimacy and even while the pleasures of the flesh are obvious, I feel like a cheap whore for having done the act.

Divya turns over and lies on her stomach.
She says, “You’re good. Probably one of the better ones that I’ve had.”

This is a shocker. All along, I have been led to believe that the entire episode is an outcome of circumstances. Just how one night stands happen – A lonely guy meets a lonely woman and they end up in bed having uninhibited sex.

“You do this often?” I ask

“About twice a week but lately, work’s kept me very busy,”
she replies nonchalantly.

She speaks so casually that anyone could believe that she is talking about going to the gym. She intrigues me. Even in my wildest dreams, I haven’
t met a woman like her. I am as curious as a kitten when I ask her, “Do you always pick up guys at bars?”

“No, usually I just pay them in Delhi. I don’t know any gigolos in this city. Good thing I found you,” she says

I am pretty sure this isn’t a good thing, but Jesus, she is interesting. I probe on for the learning. I already know what they call male prostitutes.

“Do you have family?” I ask

“Yes. Parents live in Mangalore. I divorced my husband about four years ago,” she replies.

I wonder if she is the stereotype: A single woman whose physical needs compel her to buy satisfaction.

Like a lawyer who has finished examining a witness, I don’t have any other questions to ask her. She turns over in her search for the clock, “What’s the time?” she asks

I continue to sit in bed, a little dazed and very vulnerable. My hangover refuses to leave me and there’s a novice carpenter inside my head. He keeps banging a hammer even though the nail’s been driven home. Despite him, I am trying to comprehend what has just occurred.

“It’s 8 o’clock,” I say. It brings in a realization that I will not be able to run today. I hate it every time I miss my routine. It is an addiction, just as smoking had once been.

“I have a flight to catch; I am going to rush. Just call up housekeeping and ask for your clothes,” she says and walks into the bath, naked. I see her jiggling bottom which reminds me of my
mother’s pineapple jelly. She was such a disaster in the kitchen.

I ask myself – If calling for clothes was this simple, why didn’t I just do it before she conned me into sleeping with her?

I am still wrapped in a sheet when the laundry boy knocks on the door. I just open the door an inch to get my clothes back.

I have never liked clothes better than now. I put my clothes on and wait. She is still in the bathroom. One part of me wants to just slip out and melt into the crowd of office goers. Another part remembers that there has been some mention of money. I wait.

She comes out dressed in a white bathrobe and looks at me strangely. She probably expects me to have left, but I am still here. I want to know if I have excelled. I want to know if I am eligible for the ‘performance incentive’. I almost feel like I’m back at the bank that I got fired from. They would always hang out a carrot and I was always the donkey.

I think it is my imploring eyes that make her walk to the luggage rack. She picks up her purse that is large enough to house a pygmy colony. For an inordinately long time, she fiddles with the bag. I fear that she will con me again by not paying me.

Half her arm is inside the purse and it finally emerges with a fat wad of currency notes. She counts out ten five hundred rupee bills and hands them to me.  Despite my atheism, I can’t help believing that there is a God. Just last night I was penniless and broke, and now I am earning again, albeit a little dubiously.

“Thank you. It was a pleasure meeting you, and I’m sorry I
had to blackmail you into doing this,” she says.

It’s almost business-like; it’s almost like shopping for grocery. I don’t know what to say. The events of the last hour have left me speechless. I say to myself that you have to say something. Maybe, a parting speech but the novice in the head won’t let me think. Somehow, I say, “Thanks”. It’s as eloquent as I can be.

I turn around to walk out the door and have almost reached it when she says from behind me,

“Give me your number. Will it be alright if I called you the next time I am visiting?”

I nod my head to jolt the carpenter and we exchange our phone numbers.

“Is it okay if I give your number to some of my friends?”
she asks.

I am horrified with myself. I still don’t know what I am getting into. I don’t quite understand when my morals have faded to this shade of black. Not only have I been unfaithful to my wife, but am consciously degrading myself too. I question myself if it’s for the money or is it the sex. I lead a celibate life. Divya thinks I’m good, but I can’t have sex with Jasleen. Something inside me stops me
from making love to her. In any case, I am sure that I will not have some strange women call me up asking me to have sex with them. I will just have to refuse her.

Instead, I hear myself saying, “Yes”.

With that involuntary word, I know that my life will never be the same again.

I exit the hotel and try to find my bearings. I am in Sector
35, where an entire row of hotels stand in line. I wonder why they even have different names when you can’t differentiate one from the other. I think about taking a rickshaw, but I prefer to walk. One, it will give me the exercise that I have foregone this morning; and secondly, it will give me a chance to introspect. In the small city of Chandigarh, nothing is too far away. Nor is my wife’s home.

I  start  walking  in  the  general  direction  of  my  wife’s home, stumbling over the stones that the municipality has so carelessly strewn. My mind fills with questions. I seek answers from myself for what I have just done. My first thoughts are of regret. I know what I hav
e done is incorrect, immoral and maybe even unethical. It isn’t right in every way that I look at it. I just know that I’ve degraded myself. It isn’t long before I’m justifying myself. I needed the money and it is definitely better than suicide.

I’m just an average middle class guy. My upbringing doesn’t allow me to do what I have done. A thought goes out to my estranged parents. They stay in the same city, less than two kilometres away from my wife’s house, but I still don’t meet them. I have let them down, I have let my unlovable wife down, and I have let myself down. The cool of the currency notes in my pocket provide a consolation, but even they aren’t cold enough to douse the fire that rages inside me. The streets are busy at this hour. Lost in my thoughts, I almost bump into a car as I cross the final street to reach my wife’s house.