The Homing Pigeons... (5 page)

Radhika

N
atasha was over six months old when we made a visit to Chandigarh to meet my biological parents. My biological father Suresh was leaving. Out of sheer luck, he had found a job as a mechanic in the Gulf. His children were growing up and so were their needs. I wondered if he would’ve left earlier if I had still been a part of his family.

Back in Solan, my father got promoted. They said
, it was Natasha’s luck that brought them the paltry salary hike. I sometimes wonder if Natasha wasn’t born, would his boss have retired. In perfect hindsight, I think I was jealous of her. The undivided love that I was used to had diminished.

I was still in the government school where they refused to teach English. I grew up thinking that it wasn’t really a language. My father knew a little bit of it but we wouldn’t speak in that language. I was good in mathematics and grasped it well. I could add and subtract even before my teachers at school had a chance to teach it.

Even before I was seven, my mother was pregnant again. She was almost like a dam, holding the eggs behind a concrete wall for all these years, and suddenly, the ovulation had started with a vengeance. While it wasn’t abnormal to have three children in those cheap times, there would be a strain on the budget.

We were usually short on money; it always took a lot of thinking to spend. With my
mother’s frequent pregnancies, a lot of responsibility came my way. I would often go to shop for vegetables at the farmer’s market across town. Often, the green grocers would try and steal a bargain from a seven-year- old. I learnt from my father the art of bargaining. I would have a weekly budget. Often, I would save a few rupees from that budget to put into a piggy bank at home.

When my
mother’s labour started, we were so convinced that it would be a boy that we didn’t even think about girl names. We went back to the civil hospital for her delivery and waited while she was in the labour room with my father. After an endless wait, he emerged out of the labour room with mixed emotions; happy, yet a little subdued in expressing it. Elated, because there was another child; disappointed for it wasn’t a son.

‘You girls have a sister,’ he had said, walking away to get himself a cup of tea. The joy that had been him at Natasha’s time was missing. He was happy, but he still looked forty. He wasn’t that young kid that I had seen him become.

Studying in class 2 of the government school, my routine was still the same, but my father didn’t bring the gifts anymore. Maybe for him, it was a struggle to be fair. He would have to buy three gifts for each of his daughters and, therefore, avoidance was best for his budget. Even then, he loved me. It’s not always that gifts show how much you love someone. Sadly, I couldn’t say the same about my mother.

Often in the evenings, there would be the sound of the two adults at home grumbling. In the two-bedroom government quarter, where the contractors had pocketed the most part of the construction budget, the walls couldn’t hold the sounds.

My father would say, “I don’t make enough money to raise three children; my salary is quite inadequate.”

“I told you not to adopt her,” my mother would reply.

I would hear it, but didn’t quite understand what they really meant. My father didn’t shirk my responsibility that my mother was willing to and would always try and find a solution.

“I think I’ll start taking tuitions in the evening to earn some extra money,” he replied.

Time passed by and I was fourteen, grown up enough to understand that puberty had arrived. When I think back to myself at that time, I can best describe myself as ugly. I was taller than normal and thin as an eel. Sometimes, I felt like an earthworm. My hair was my only saving grace on an otherwise unkempt face. It had to be the hormones that covered my otherwise fair face with dark hair. I think it happens to everyone; it’s just that some people have a budget to go to the parlour and some don’t. I think if I had broken into my piggy bank, I might have had the money to do it. I think mothers teach you this stuff but mine was almost non-existent.

I had been able to break away from the pigeons because my board examinations were scheduled that year and my father would help me at homework after the other students he taught had gone home. I was doing well at school; my grades were amongst the best, except for English. It got introduced when I was eight, maybe nine. I didn’t speak it very well, even though I understood it and could write it. In a government school, most teachers can’t converse in English and so I had little exposure to the language.

Ashima was now six and Natasha, eight; the bout of fertility that my mother had had was probably seasonal. It was as if the desert had got a season of rain and then went back to being a desert. At a time when contraceptives were a rarely- used commodity, my mother had been successful in not being pregnant for over six years - until now.

The frown lines that my father had lost for some time were beginning to show again. The mere thought of providing for another child was giving him sleepless nights. He wasn’t getting younger and the small side income that he had coming from the tuitions was already dwindling. The last decade of the century had started and India was increasingly getting obsessed with coaching centres. In these changing times, a part time tutor who specialized in mathematics was having a difficult time making ends meet. Almost forty-eight, and less than ten years away from his retirement, his wife was pregnant. The situation implied that he would have a nine-year-old child and three daughters to marry off after he had retired from his day job. Although there would be a small pension that the government would provide, it would be inadequate. He was ageing faster than his years; the grey
tuft of hair was almost white. His financial future was bleak and he still didn’t have a plan on how he would be able to manage post-retirement.

The thought of an abortion had crossed his mind, but there was also the matter of progeny, of having a son who could look after him and provide for him when the daughters were married off. It was a gamble –a son would be an insurance policy; but if the child turned out to be a daughter, it would then thrust him into even deeper dungeons of financial instability. Soon, when my board exams would finish, I would study at the Inter College, a higher secondary school that charged fees higher than the school that I was studying in. A fee that he could ill-afford.

In sharp contrast,
was his brother and my biological father Suresh in Chandigarh. He had gone to the Gulf and worked as a mechanic. He had been able to buy a house in Chandigarh and was on the verge of repatriating to lead a life of retirement. As kids, his brother had been the one who wouldn’t study, the one whose only career option had been to be a taxi driver and yet, he had been able to accumulate enough to retire. On the other hand, he, who had been brilliant as a student was still unstable, and unsure of his future.

I wasn’t the nervous wreck that I used to be as a child. I overcame my fear of ghosts when I didn’t see one for fourteen years. Even then, my habit of fiddling with my hair refused to leave me. I detested exams, not because I didn’t study well, but because of the pain of unknotting my tangled hair.

My love affair with the pigeons was dwindling because of my exams. They were loyal, still thronging the building in front of our house. When my father got promoted, he was given a larger flat in the same complex. It only meant that I had to go and sit in the courtyard to see them. Leechi was dead and I had new favourite – Ehsaan, the grey male.

Aditya

I am accustomed to long walks; I was once a soccer player and that gives me a nervous energy that refuses to let me be home. The walks provide me a release of that energy and are also a refuge from Jasleen. It has been a few days since the events at the Piccadilly Sipper when I take a walk down the cycle track that runs alongside the Rose Garden in Chandigarh. Alone and secluded, the setting is ideal for my thoughts to wander. The ghosts of the events have refused to leave me, although they could’ve been forgotten. I haven’t heard from Divya after that, neither has she given my number to any of her friends. I am almost disappointed in that. I often look down at my phone, expectantly, to see an unfamiliar number flash. I hope that someone, anyone, will call and use my services. The banks don’t need me anymore.

In times of adversity, there is a willingness to believe in God. Even an atheist like me wants to believe in a God that I thought had never existed. The time and situation is such that belief is your only saviour. The economic downturn is even worse than was earlier forecast; there isn’t a company that is hiring. Most enterprises have lain off people by the thousands. The financial analysts are predicting more doom.

I am more than willing to compromise, in rank and in money, yet that one job is elusive. Anything will do; anything that gives me some money to tide over this period. Like all things that go down and come up, I believe that the economy will be back in shape. I am convinced that I will have a job that will fit my stature, again.

I wonder where I have gone wrong. I have practically tried everything in search for that one job - from the mother-in- law’s astrologer to the latest networking website. Nothing is working out.

I quicken my pace; these thoughts always give me an involuntary push. Maybe, it is the frustration of being rejected that’s not yielding results. Maybe, it is Karma – a penance of my past sins that is having me endure these times.

Simple luxuries that I had assumed to be needs are luxuries again. I wish I can pull out a cigarette and light it but I don’t carry them anymore. I have realized that smoking, apart from what the
doctor’s claim, is an expensive habit for the jobless. I console myself and walk on. I normally turn back from the roundabout that has an ugly igloo sitting on it, but today I cross the main road into Sector 10.

It is past nine, dark and uninviting, yet I walk into the darkness. I am in an unhappy marriage but can’t break away from
it. I am dependent on Jasleen even to have a house to stay in. I often wish that I can break away from her as I had done from my parents. I know it will leave me a destitute; one of those homeless beggars who make the subway their home. I shudder at the thought of things being worse than they are today. I am painfully aware that money can buy you happiness or at least enable you to live independently.

I have none and so, this degraded life is now an eternal part of my entity. The five thousand rupees that Divya had
given me is all that I have earned in the last one year. Hell, in another world, I used to pay accountants more than that to file my tax returns. I am no accountant. I don’t know how to hide incomes and increase expenses. I am a gigolo, a cheap whore that ought to be happy with that sort of money.

I cross the intersection that leads to the Sector 10 market. I am tempted to take the left turn and walk the short distance to the coffee shop at Hotel Mountview. It has been so long that I have had coffee served by a waiter. It has been so long. There had once been a time that I wouldn’t have thought twice about doing this. Eating out perhaps is my biggest sacrifice in this ordeal. If I say I love food, it is an understatement. My life revolves around food. I am a voracious, insatiable, experimental devourer of food but that kind must be willing to spend money. And money, I don’t have. I am dead broke, living off my wife, without a hope of things being different in times to come.

The five thousand rupees that I had earned are nearly spent. I contemplate making a visit to the bar again. Maybe, I will meet another fairy. Or easier still – I can talk to Divya. It is past nine thirty, a trifle late to be making a call to a relative stranger. Yet, I hit the green button on my cell phone after I bring up her number from the address book. It takes some courage to make a long distance call. I remember the row that had been created when I had spoken to my friend in Delhi. Jasleen  hates  high  mobile  bills  and  I  can’t  afford to  upset Madam. To be fair, she has been extremely patient with me but the continued unemployment is stretching her patience. I do not blame her; this is my fate.

Divya answers the phone.

“Hi, this is Adi,” I say.

“Adi who?” she says.

What am I playing with her? Knock-Knock? Adi, the steak in the hotel room.

“Aditya Sharma,” I say.

“Do I know you?” her voice betrays no sign of recognition. My hopes are sinking. It must have been a one night stand that I have read too much into. She doesn’t even remember me.

“Aditya Sharma from Chandigarh,” I say in a desperate attempt to resuscitate her almost dead memory cells.

“Who?” she asks again.

This is futile. I make one last ditch effort.

“You remember that night at the Sipper? When you were here,” I say.

“Oh, I’ll call you back,” she says with a hint of recognition. I continue to walk down the road that will lead me to Sukhna Lake. I cross another small roundabout. This part of Chandigarh is so unfamiliar. Only bureaucrats and ministers know which sector lies beyond this roundabout. The phone
rings breaking the silence of the night.

“Yes, what can I do for you?” she asks.

It is awkward but I try to make it as inoffensive as possible, “I was wondering if you need my services”.

“I am not travelling. But, can you come over to Delhi?” she asks me.

“Yes, I’ll be there tomorrow,” I instinctively say.

How? I do not know. Nevertheless, I jog the four kilometres
back home. It is past ten and I stealthily open the door to the house. Jasleen isn’t home, so I leave her a note that I have an interview to attend in Delhi and leave the house to take the last train out.

The train rolls into New Delhi station in the wee hours of
the morning. It is an unearthly hour to call anyone up, let alone Divya. I spend two hours waiting for the first rays of the sun on the only available bench, right next to the public lavatory. I try to sleep but the unmistakable stench of urine doesn’t let me. I just sit there waiting for the Sun God to arrive.

As dawn breaks out, I make my way to the waiting room. It is grubby, dirty and horrible but even then I shave, shower and change into my business suit. I spray a little bit of the Armani perfume that I have saved for days like today. To a stranger, I will appear as one of those hardworking executives that make their way to their jobs. It is just that my job is not in an office.

Overnight and on the bench, I have reconciled myself that this is the only way forward for me. This is the only way left for me to earn a living. I wait another hour before I think it is prudent to call Divya. She answers the phone in a jiffy, almost as if she is expecting my call. I ask her when it will be convenient for her to meet me. With the timing and venue of our rendezvous decided, I leave the confines of the station on the back of a rickshaw.

I used to live in Delhi. I know this city enough to know my way around. It is best to reach Connaught place on the rickshaw and then take the connecting bus to Greater Kailash.

I look at the piece of paper on which I had hurriedly scribbled down the address. I look up at the board that displays the name of the guest house. The exterior of the guest house looks run down; its walls haven’t seen paint in over a decade. I have reached the right place. The guest house, in Greater Kailash, is one of the many nondescript establishments that thrive on lust.

I enter the gate to see Divya waiting for me at the reception. Even before we’ve had a chance to greet each other, she looks at me from head to toe. “You look very different,” she says.

Her revelations don’t surprise me. When she last met me, she would’ve thought twice about picking me up. Today, I am clean-shaven, wearing my best business suit and I also have on a fancy perfume.

To confirm, I ask her, “For better or for worse?”

“Better,” she says. When she smiles, she doesn’t look so bad. I remember the picture of her when she was luring me into immorality and I only see a monster.

It is apparent that she is a regular at the guest house. The receptionist hands over the keys to a room without bothering to take down her details. I wonder if the fat register that sits on the desk ever gets used at this place.

“My friend owns this place,” she says. Does she read minds too?

Contrary to my expectations, the room isn’t half as sleazy as I expected it to be. Despite the exterior, the interior seems to be perfect. I look around and see a painting on the wall. It is a print of an M.F. Husain. While I am admiring it, Divya goes into the bathroom.

Is this my cue? Is it time to strip and lay naked on the bed? Is it time to act like a sultry siren? I am not sure what a novice gigolo is supposed to do. I think back to my days in the Philippines. Those go-go girls from the bar – when they came back home with me, did they undress the moment they walked in?

I am still dwelling on Karma and how life has come full circle for me when Divya walks in. I am relieved to see her still wearing clothes. I thank myself for my indecision although it robbed me of her reaction. I would have loved to see her expressions at seeing my entire six foot one frame, naked in the middle of the room.

For the first time, I really look at her objectively. My recollection of that morning is extremely hazy. The hangover and the events of that morning had numbed me. Divya is in her early thirties. Without the heavy makeup, dressed in jeans and a blue polo T, she looks different from what I remember of her. Despite her average looks, she has done well to maintain her body. Even then, I remember the pineapple jelly. The softly accentuated curves of her body give me an unfamiliar feeling of arousal. I don’t even remember when I had last heard the call of lust.

“You okay?” she asks. It must be my stare that prompted her question.

“Yes,” I make it a point to look away from her breasts when I say that.

“Any luck with the jobs?” she asks.

“No, I don’t think I’m going to find one,” I reply honestly.

“I know it’s difficult. I’m barely hanging on to my own.
This recession is such a catastrophe,” she says

We sit on the only chairs in the bedroom. She offers me a cup of tea but I decline. We make small talk on the economy and the city. Casually, she reaches out for my tie. She loosens up the knot while continuing to talk. She yanks off my tie and moves to the coat. I am passive. I am not sure what I should be doing. I just stand up from my chair.

She is still sitting and thinks I’ve stood up because I want my trousers off. She deftly opens my belt and the button of my trousers. She motions me to move towards the bed. I lie on the bed wearing my boxers and a vest that has a fast growing hole. I can’t afford to buy a new one. She undresses and joins me.

Not much changes between the last time and this. She is still the same flesh eating animal. The bruises that she had given me last time had taken a week to subside. I wonder what is it about her aggression – why does she have to bite to make her presence felt. Lovemaking can be so much more pleasurable.

She does it again – bites my nipples harder than I had anticipated. Disgusted, I push her to stop my nipples from being severed. She isn’t impressed; a resounding slap is her response. A large part of me wants to smack her but an unsaid realization stops me. Knowing that I am the prey and not the predator makes me remain passive.

I am spent, physically and emotionally. I feel humiliated and cheap. She is indifferent when she lights up a cigarette. My last cigarette was over a year ago but I still feel the urge. She offers me one and I can’t resist. We continue to lie on the bed, smoking when she says, “I don’t know if I told you, but you are really good in bed”.

I am not sure if I should be happy about the compliment or be sad about the degradation. I choose graciousness, “Thanks, I am sorry about pushing you off.”

“Never do that. Not to me, not to anyone. When you are being paid for it, you do as you are told,” Divya says.

This is my first lesson in being a gigolo.

It hasn’t been that long but she wants to make love again. She is just insatiable; I find out that day. By the evening, I am limp, dehydrated and hungry.

Just before she is about to leave, she says into my ear, “Have you ever considered doing this in Delhi?”

“Not really. I mean, this is not the ideal career people dream of and plan to execute,” I say.

She nods, as if she knows what I am talking about. “Yeah…  but  I  could  get  you  some  clients  if  you  are interested,” she says.

Clients
; I don’t know when that word meant horny women.

“You could be really successful. You have an advantage over the other escorts that wo
men hire. You are good looking, cultured and can keep a conversation.  “You’re not a sex- machine,” she says.

I don’t know what to say. I
remain silent.