The Homing Pigeons... (7 page)

Radhika

Shipra and I would take turns trying to get Aditya to understand the basic concepts of accounting but he refused to learn. I wondered if he was a little slow or dyslexic when it came to accounts; he had such a huge mental block. He didn’t seem dumb when you saw the scores on the other subjects.

“Debit what comes in, credit what goes out,” I tried one last time

“Comes in where?” Aditya said

“As an asset,” I replied

“Isn’t the bank account an asset?” he asked

“Yes, it appears on the asset side of the balance sheet.”

“Then don’t you credit an account?” he asked.

“Yes, in a non-accounting sense. In accounts, you will debit the bank account.”
I said

“This is fuck-all. I don’t want to understand this dumb shit,” he said faced with his familiar mental block.

“How will you pass?” I asked.

“Fuck knows. I’m going to play soccer. You coming?” he asked unilaterally ending the free class.

Aditya was a great friend, unlike most other boys in the class. He was loyal and always willing to help. So many times, he would be at fisticuffs with the other boys when they would tease me. I wanted to reciprocate his gesture by helping him in his studies but it seemed like a futile exercise.

We were about three months short of the board exams and he was still struggling with debit and credit entries. The entire class had moved ahead to cash flow statements and analysis of financial statements. I really did want to help him
not only because he was a friend, but because of a certain fondness that I had developed for him. A feeling, that girls my age would best describe as a crush. I wasn’t sure if he felt the same and I didn’t have the courage to ask lest he take offence. After all, he was precious; the only male amongst the thirty-five who would even speak to me.

On the face of it we were just two very different people
– he was hot blooded and aggressive while I was passive and calm; he was indifferent and unattached while I was emotional and grounded; he was strong and athletic and I couldn’t run a hundred metres. We were poles apart and yet, opposites attract. It looked like it was always going to be a one-sided affair.

I could be best described as a social misfit in school. I didn’t belong amongst the crowd of students who came from rich backgrounds. Maybe, that was that reason why Shipra, Aditya and I made a trio. I still wonder why I never spoke to him about it. It had to be the fear of rejection. I would have, probably, been broken if he had rejected me. Maybe, if my adopted parents hadn’t abandoned me, I’d have had the courage to tell him my feelings.
By now, I was convinced that I had been abandoned. I knew that I had been a commodity that was past its shelf life. It left me shattered and if it hadn’t been for Ms Kapoor, I might not have survived. When I had walked into the doors of YPS two years ago, I had been little more than a village girl. She had changed me. I wasn’t the same Radhika who wore her oiled hair in braids with red ribbons for company. I wasn’t the same Radhika who had worn a skirt two inches below the knees, leaving four inches of unwaxed legs on display. I wasn’t the same girl of fifteen who wore a men’s vest under her uniform blouse.

I didn’t even know when those two years passed. I didn’t even know when my friendship with Aditya changed to love. I walked away from school on the day of the farewell – happy for what I had become but sad that I would be separated from Aditya. A little melancholic because I had never been able to tell him what I had felt for him. I think first loves are always like that.

Aditya

O
n the train back from Delhi, I can’t stop thinking about my situation. I question myself to gain a few answers.

Yet, I am no closer to an answer. My upbringing doesn’t allow me to be what I am. At times, when I’m weak, I remember my grandfather. He had fought the odds and here I am succumbing to them.

My grandfather, Sardar Iqbal Singh, had moved away from a tiny village outside Lahore in Pakistani Punjab. At the time of the Partition, he left behind an ancestral home and large tracts of land. With my father, his only son and his wife in tow, he had braved the refugee camps and the perils until he had reached Delhi. When I was young, he would often sit me on his lap and talk to me of the times that he had seen. The times of distrust, looting and rioting, but the Punjabis are a tough race. They fall down and they rebuild. They lose and they reconstruct. And Sardar Iqbal Singh did too.

He reached Delhi and claimed five acres of land as compensation for all that he had left behind. The land allotted to him was in Uttar Pradesh. A piece that was fertile and well- irrigated. A part of him wanted to remain the farmer that he was
, but then sometimes life sends opportunities and one seizes them. He chose to remain in Delhi, sold off the land allotted to him and took a risk by investing every last penny that he owned into a garment-manufacturing business.

The hordes of refugees that had poured into Delhi needed clothes. A small shop in Karol Bagh which housed three tailors and one seamstress was able to fulfil that need. The risk had paid off until he was able to not only provide enough for the family but had enough surpluses to reinvest into the business. It took time, it took long sleepless nights, and it took trips to Surat and Ludhiana. The refugees couldn’t afford much and he was forced to procure raw material that was cheap enough to leave him with a margin. He expanded the business to have five shops in the new colonies that were coming up on the outskirts of Delhi and a workshop that could house over twenty tailors. As an outcome, my father, Surjeet Singh was able to receive his education at St. Lawrence School in Sanawar and St. Stephens College in Delhi.

His education helped an already flourishing business take bigger shape. His first contribution in expanding the footprint of the business was to procure an export license. Through some of the contacts that he had established at school, the father and son duo were now not only running eight shops in Delhi, but also exporting readymade garments to the United Kingdom and the United States. It was in 1974 that they had consolidated and bought land in Faridabad to set up a factory. A factory, sophisticated enough to house state of the art machinery and large enough to house enough tailors and seamstresses to be able to fulfil the huge bulk orders that were coming in.

My father got married to my mother Gurleen Kaur in 1976. She  was  the  daughter  of  an  old  acquaintance  of  my grandfather from Lahore. My maternal grandfather had chosen to remain a farmer tilling his fields in Bazpur. It didn’t take
long for my mother to conceive and before 1977 turned into 1978, I was born and named Gagandeep Singh – an heir to the family business of garment manufacturers and exporters. As a child, I was lanky and thin, which prompted my parents to see the doctor every fortnight. They thought I was suffering from a serious disorder that refused to make me gain weight.

My earliest memories were of my grandfather whom I called Darji. Actually, everyone called him that. We would sit for hours on the jute charpoy as he would recount stories of his ancestral home in Lahore. He would tell me about his fields, the sowing of the land and harvesting of the spoils. He had been successful at business but his heart lay in the joys of agriculture. Darji and I shared a special bond, stronger than I ever did with my mother or father.

My father was a busy man and would seldom be home. His business trips would take him abroad quite often. Like most children, I would look forward to his return when he would bring me back miniature cars, the sorts that were only a dream. We owned a Premier Padmini, a sad excuse for a car but then Maruti hadn’t made its foray into the Indian market and the only other option was an Ambassador, a steel behemoth that would need to be warmed up by lighting a fire under the engine. My mother was beginning to take on some of the responsibilities that my grandfather had relinquished at the factory by making short trips out to Faridabad in the Padmini.

I was nearly seven and sported a white handkerchief atop the bun on my head, fastened by many cross running rubber- bands. When I got off the school bus that belonged to the Modern School in Delhi, I was happy. It was the beginning of the Diwali vacation and my mother and I were going to go to Chandigarh to visit my maternal grandmother. My father
was in the United States meeting clients. I was a little sad to go away without Darji but my Nani was such a wonderful cook.

The next day was Diwali, the festival of lights. I looked forward to the evening when the entire city would be dressed in lights and the din of the firecrackers would drown all other sounds. My bag of firecrackers was inside Darji’s room. It held my fantasy and I would sneak in every so often to check on them. It was finally evening and under the close supervision of my grandfather, I lit a few crackers and then we went inside for the puja.

It was sad that Dad had to extend his trip in the States and couldn’t be there with us at the time of the puja. Although, the festival was Hindu and we were Sikhs, it was still celebrated with the same vigour and intensity as any other Hindu family would.

We were to leave the morning after Diwali and I was made to sleep early that evening. The next morning my grandfather was dressed up even before I woke up; I was dressed in a jiffy and took the front seat in the Padmini before my mother had a chance to object. Darji drove us to the bus terminus, which seemed an awful distance away, even though the traffic was light. My mother touched my grandfather’s feet and I hugged him. It was a tough choice between being with him and Nani’s kheer. He kissed me on the forehead and his parting words were, “Be good, always”.

We boarded the bus and were in Chandigarh in about six hours, travelling through a muddy, dusty and narrow highway. Jassi Mamoo, my
mother’s brother was there to receive us and while he didn’t even own a Padmini, he got us home safely on a motor cycle. My maternal grandfather had passed away and his sons had chosen to sell off the lands in Bazpur. They had moved to Chandigarh and ran a grain trade business. The business was struggling and they didn’t own a car but they were warm and hospitable people.

There wasn’t much to do in Chandigarh, with the exception of food. Jassi Mamoo’s son was two years elder than me and he would take me around the colony on his bicycle. He would ride on the seat while I sat on the rod between the handle and the seat. We would return home drenched in sweat and stinking. While our parents would shout at us, Nani would dish out my favourites. The black dal with a generous dollop of ghee would take away most of the pain of riding the bicycle on the rod.

The vacation was almost over; school would start the following Monday, ending two weeks of a well enjoyed break and Mamma was already busy packing our bags.

It was to be the eleven o’clock train that we were to take back to Delhi. I was awake and ready in time. We were just about to leave for the train station when a phone call changed my life. I didn’t understand it then, but our plan was cut short and so were my hair. Indira Gandhi had been assassinated by her bodyguards.

Radhika

“Didi! Meera Didi and Bhaiya are here,” Ghanshyam, my late husband’s servant brings me back to reality, to the present. I still sit on the wrought iron chair in the lawns in front of the house. I have absolutely no recollection of the time and I look at the pot of tea that has gone cold while I have been reminiscing. I get up and walk in the general direction of the house, still in a trance, remembering what I had once been.

Meera is dressed in a sari, a rich sequined and gaudy piece of cloth that reminds me that money can never buy class. She could almost be one of those cheap, shimmery statues that you get at the Diwali Mela. I may have been one of them if not for my association with Ms Kapoor. Meera’s husband tows along, almost lamb-like, behind the proverbial Mary.

I look Meera in the eye; there is a gleam in her eyes today, the twinkle that screams of victory and success. Her eyes say, “I have you out of my life,” yet, outwardly she says, “Good function yesterday”. I hope she doesn’t see the same in my eyes.

I am not sure if she is asking me a question or if it is a statement. I choose to answer it with a simple “Yes” that will fit both bills.

“What’s your plan now?” she asks me.

She is obviously not going to beat about the bush. There are no pleasantries or feigned attempts at being polite.

“Well, I still haven’t figured it out,” I reply truthfully. While I have known all along that I will have to move
away, the details are still hazy.

“Well, I am planning on moving here myself once I’m back from our honeymoon,” she says without a trace of emotion.

“I understand,” I say, without letting her man feel embarrassed that he will be moving in with his wife, rather than the other way around.

“Well, Vishal wanted me to stay at his house, but it’s only got two bedrooms and his parents stay there too. So,
it’s better that we just move in here,” she obviously has no qualms about making her husband feel worthless.

It is a knack that she possesses and loves to display. I have been at the receiving end of this quite often and I know exactly how it feels. I steal a glance in Vishal’s direction – he stands there without cringing at the insults that Meera is heaping on him.

“When do you leave for your honeymoon?” I ask.

“
Day after tomorrow and we’ll be gone for about ten days,” she says.

That leaves about twelve days to put down on paper and execute a move of residence. I fiddle with my hair. I always do that when I am unsure or nervous.

Lunch is served – Ghanshyam has put together a vegetarian meal, considering that Vishal is a vegetarian.

“Why’ve   you   made   vegetarian   food?”   Meera   asks
Ghanshyam.

“I thought Bhaiya is vegetarian so….” Ghanshyam begins to explain himself but is cut short when Meera says, “He’ll start eating meat”.

Vishal doesn’t look upset that the woman he has married is going to change so much around him.

They leave shortly after lunch, leaving me a nervous wreck. I am not sure how I will be able to get everything done in such a hurry. I don’t even know where to start.

It has been three days since the lunch and I now have a semblance of a to-do list. The list is a mile long and I wonder how I’ll be able to complete everything over the next nine days. I delegate more than half of the list to Ghanshyam and the other servants. Gulmohar Park, in south Delhi is going to be my destination.

Secretly, I am happy to break away from Lucknow; the city has never held my fancy. Like Chandigarh, Lucknow is a gossip
monger’s delight. It is a nightmare to survive the virtual dissection of every move, especially when you are the wife of a leading businessman of the city. The place grants no anonymity and it will be relieving to walk into a store where the store manager doesn’t recognize you.

The most important item on my to-do list is something that I will be unable to delegate – a visit to the safety locker of the State Bank of India in Hazratganj. Under the hordes of  rich  gold  and  diamond  jewellery  that  are  stacked  up inside the locker, is a thin silver chain that has tarnished, but still remains more valuable than the millions that the other jewellery is worth.

I leave the house calling the chauffer Ramesh to bring out the shiny BMW onto the porch. It is ironical; my late husband lived the life of a miser for the most part of his life, riding an age old Fiat. It took a lot of coaxing to convince him to upgrade his car, a rare occasion when Meera and I were on the same side of the fence. He had upgraded, going from the Fiat, straight onto a BMW, but died within three months of ordering it. The car pulls over and Ramesh holds the door ajar as I slip into the plush leather upholstery of the back seat.

The locker is only a short distance away from my residence and we cross St. Francis College until I reach the State Bank of India. The manager ushers me in as if I have done him a favour by visiting the branch.

This is another thing that I hate about Lucknow. Everyone is over sweet and unnaturally polite. They almost give me diabetes. I reach into the largest safety locker located within the vault and draw out a small pink coloured box that contains a tarnished silver chain – a gift that Aditya had given me a long time ago. I retrieve the pink box and close the locker. The jewellery is mine to take with me, but it isn’t needed. It can stay in the fireproof safe for there are no emotions attached to them. The jewellery is valuable, yet so worthless when compared to a thin, simple, silver chain.