The Fruit Wallah – Part 2

If you haven’t already, first read The Fruit Wallah – Part 1

In Mumbai, there are no quiet places and no quiet times. Night and day, there are people everywhere. But the sea at dawn is the closest you can get. I reached Marine Drive while it was still dark. A couple of joggers went up and down the promenade, a few stray cars rumbled on the road. The air was crisp, and I tugged the shawl tight to my chest. 

It was the sea that took my sister. After we came to Mumbai, she started to move past the trauma of her marriage. She wanted to be an accountant and was attending college. One day, she went boating with friends, and the boat capsized, leaving no survivors.

Despite that, the sea gives me comfort. I sat on a ledge and watched the frothy waves lap against the rocks, and recede back into the water, again and again, with a metronomic consistency. In a world where everything is always in flux, their ironclad repetition was somehow reassuring.

Light emerged from the darkness, as the first rays of the sun touched the night sky. What started as a dark orange hue, gradually transformed into a warm yellow. I cast aside my shawl and relished the warmth on my skin. I wanted to sit there and soak up the sun, but it was time to go to work. 

I wished I could undo what I had done. But the die had been cast. I would have to face whatever comes, and roll with the punches.

I reached my stall and laid out the fruits. I’d been sitting at that same spot for years, still my butt felt uncomfortable against the bumpy ground that day.

Jumani Saab, a frail man with backswept white hair and thick square spectacles, came towards me.

“Are the peaches ripe?” He asked. “Can I take a look?”

“This batch is very good,” I handed him a peach.

He ran his fingers over it and sniffed it. “I’ll take a dozen.”

I put them into a packet and handed them over.

“You should move under that awning,” Jumani Saab said, as he paid me. “It’ll protect your fruits from the rain.”

I looked up at him. “I’ve asked Pandey Saab but…”

“Pandey won’t listen. He only cares about himself.”

After Jumani Saab left, Jadhav arrived and sunk his teeth into a peach. The juice trickled down his chin.

“Jumani Saab is running for Chairman against Pandey Saab in the society elections,” Jadhav told me. “Everyone says Pandey will win. He has big plans. The garden will be replaced by a new parking garage…” He trailed off when he saw the look of total disinterest on my face.

My mind was preoccupied with more pressing matters. I kissed the knotted black thread around my neck. Our family pandit gave it to me as a child, a sacred thread to dispel the evil that constantly encircled me. Not that it worked.

Jadhav folded his arms across his chest, and gave a slow shake of his head. “What got into you yesterday??”

I had spent the night racking my brain to come up with an answer to that question. But I drew a blank.

Ten minutes later, Pandey Saab thundered into my fruit stall. His eyes bulged outward, and the veins on his neck were pulsing.

“YOU,” He thrust a finger into my face. “You hit my son.”

I opened my mouth, then shut it again. In chess, a zugzwang is a situation where any move you make will hurt you, but it’s your turn and you have to move. This felt the same. Anything I said would only make it worse, but I couldn’t stay silent either.

“I’m really, really sorry.”

“You think you can slap my boy and get away with it??” Spittle appeared at the edge of Pandey’s lips as he yelled. “I’ll show you, madarchod.”

“It won’t happen again, Saab. I swear on my life.”

“After I become Chairman again, I’ll have you kicked out from here,” Pandey hissed. “I promise you that.”

“Please Saab,” I begged. “All my customers are here…”

I looked into his eyes and couldn’t detect a trace of compassion. I inclined my head down, towards the ground.

The old family curse was back. Generations of my family had been doomed by their fate. Why should I be spared?

This is what the world does to you. Just when you’ve settled into a place, you get expelled. You get vomited out like a stale sandwich. Nothing lasts, not your job, not your family, not your health. Everything decays, everything ends.

I knew that, but I was just tired of running…

*****

“Wake up,” The wife prodded me. “How much will you sleep?”

My eyelids fluttered open, and inch by inch, I lumbered out of bed. I sat with a cup of chai and the newspaper.

There was a story about immigrants who had settled abroad, and how they missed their childhood homes. The ‘diaspora’ they were called. Such a lot of rot and nonsense.

What do they know about getting kicked out of your home? The sense of grief and loss, the bleak reality of having to restart everything from scratch, only to lose it all again.

They know nothing. But I do. I know what it’s like to leave my home in the blink of an eye. No prior notice, no chance to say goodbye.

After leaving the village, our family went to Lucknow. We lasted a decade there. In that time, both my parents passed away. I also got married. But then the curse struck again. 

I was working as a salesman, when one irate customer falsely accused me of stealing from him. The truth was I had said something that offended him, I can’t remember exactly what. The price I paid was much too high. I was fired. I was arrested. Somehow, I managed to bribe my way out of that mess. But it meant I had to leave the city. From the village to Lucknow to Mumbai, the running never stops…

“You’re late for work,” The wife said.

I grunted in response.

“What is it?” She came and sat next to me. She must have seen the knotting of my brow and the tightness in my face.

I felt an urge to tell her everything. The football, the brat kid, the slap, Pandey Saab, all of it. When I stopped talking, the wife stood and rubbed her lower back, which was still paining. She went to the kitchen area. I heard steel bartans clanging as she moved them around in the cupboard.

Then she reappeared before me. “You’ll need a new place to do business. You’ll have to find new customers. Will we move again? Will Roshni have to change her college?”

“Good,” Roshni said from her hunched position on the sofa. “I’m done with this place.”

“I thought you were enjoying the college play?” I said.

She turned her face away.

“She’s out of the college play,” The wife answered for her.

“Why?”

“I gave one suggestion about body language to the actor cast opposite me, and he gets so upset. The ego these boys have,” Roshni balled her hand into a fist and punched the sofa cushion. “He told the teacher he doesn’t feel any chemistry with me. The teacher, saala, agreed with him.”

“Did he talk to you first?”

“No. This boy’s father is a government clerk who helped the teacher with his passport. So I was replaced by a pretty girl who the boy has a crush on. Such haraamis they all are.”

Tears trickled from her eyes and glistened on her cheeks.

“This is not the end for you,” I gently caressed her hair. “You’ll get other chances.”

“You were right, Papa. The game is rigged against us.”

The way she said it made my shoulders slump and the air fizzed out of me. “Our whole family is cursed…”

“Again with the family curse,” The wife said. “How many times will you go on about that?”

“The curse is real,” I insisted. “My parents…”

“Yes, yes, I know what happened to your parents, and your grandparents before that, and your sister,” The wife sucked in a breath. “But I don’t get why you have to create this story about a tragic family curse, and how only an act of God can save us. When will you ever get past that??”

I was taken aback by the ferocity of her words. But when I looked at her, I saw a raw tenderness.

“Raghu, I know you’re doing your best,” She said softly. “But you have to understand that the Gods are up there, and we are down here, in the dirt. No one is coming to save us.”

For the rest of the morning, no one said a word. The ceiling fan croaked and wobbled. Flies buzzed about on the wall. The wife brought out a plastic fly-swatter from behind the sofa. In a blur of motion, she smashed it into the wall, killing two of the creatures with a single stroke.

Then she left to buy groceries. Roshni fell asleep on the sofa. And I was left to stew in silence.

I closed my eyes and steadied my breathing. In, out, in, out, in, out. I established an even cadence that quietened my thoughts. I felt a sudden clarity.

The wife was right, no doubt. I was the author of my own life. I would do what I had to do to survive. Simple as that.

*****

I sat cross-legged on the concrete ground and waited. In front of me was a large wicker basket, brimming with fruits. Fresh mangoes, juicy oranges, succulent peaches. A medley of my finest wares. On the basket handle was a red ribbon tied into a bow. That was Roshni’s idea, she said it would add a touch of class.

When I saw Pandey emerge from the building, I hopped to my feet and bounded towards him.

“Pandey Saab,” I called out.

He swiveled around. “What do you want?”

“I brought this for you,” I extended the basket forward.

He stood stiffly and remained unmoved.

“All my best fruits, Saab. They’re of the highest quality…”

“You think some crappy fruits will get you out of this??”

“No Saab, I don’t think that. I’m ashamed of myself. I raised my hand on a child,” I shook my head. “I’ve been unable to sleep since that incident. What I did was wrong.”

Pandey’s eyes flicked between me and the fruit basket.

“You can kick me out, Pandey Saab,” I said. “That is your right. But please accept this as a token of my repentance.”

I lifted the basket to chest height, hoping the heady scent of ripe alphonso mangoes would entice him.

“This doesn’t change anything,” Pandey said gruffly, as he took the basket. “After elections, I’ll have you removed.”

“I understand.”

Pandey walked ahead, but I stepped after him.

“Pandey Saab, I know the society is meeting this Saturday to elect a chairman,” I said. “What if I bring fruit baskets for all the residents, on your behalf? Will it help you, Saab?”

He stopped and stared. “You want to give away fruits?”

“Consider it my contribution to your election campaign.”

Pandey peered at me, trying to decipher my intentions. Then he frowned and nodded. “Fine.”

“Thank you, Pandey Saab.” I raised my fingers to the center of my forehead in an emphatic salute.

When I played chess, I was a lousy starter. My opponents would be swarming on my side of the board and my pieces would get cornered. Yet I always managed to recover. One thing I learned from those games was that if you want to win, then let your opponents think that you’re losing…

*****

The Asha Bhavan society elections were held in a large hall illuminated by bright tubelights. Rows of white plastic chairs were occupied by the building residents. An air-conditioner sputtered on the wall. At the front, there was a podium with a microphone.

Jadhav stood at the side of the room, helping out with the logistics of the meeting. I walked down the rows, giving out fruit baskets with red ribbons on the handle.

“Compliments of Pandey Saab,” I told each resident, as I gave them a basket.

When I retreated to the side, Jadhav was stuffing his face with a samosa from the snack table that had been laid out.

“Sitaramji,” He said. “What exactly are you doing?”

“Giving out fruits…”

“I can see that, but why? I thought you would be rooting for Pandey to lose. But here you are, giving free fruits on his behalf,” He scratched his belly. “I don’t understand you.”

I didn’t volunteer any explanation.

A distinct knocking sounded on the side door. Jadhav opened it. A stout man with heavily-oiled hair stood outside, holding a large bag. He glanced from me to Jadhav. There was no flicker of recognition, nothing to indicate that he was my longtime neighbor and friend.

“Is this the Asha Bhavan society meeting?” He asked.

“Who are you?” Jadhav countered.

“I come from Dayal Sweets,” He lifted the bag in his hand. “Gifts for the people, from Pandey Saab.”

Jadhav nodded and let him in. He made his way down the aisle, giving each person a square box with four pieces of mithai, and a leaflet with discount coupons.

“Ajit Pandey sends his regards,” He said to an old lady.

“Pandey has gone overboard this time,” The elderly man next to her commented. He adjusted his round, Gandhian glasses. “Fruits first, then mithai?”

“The sweets are on behalf of Pandey Saab, but the cost is covered by us,” The Mithai Wallah flashed a broad smile. “We wanted to repay Pandey Saab for his generosity.”

The bespectacled man arched an eyebrow. “Generosity?”

“Pandey Saab has made arrangements for us to get a prime spot at the new retail center.”

A few heads turned from nearby rows.

“What retail center?” Someone demanded.

“We want to make our future customers happy,” The Mithai Wallah said. “Ours is a small family business, and we need support from societies like yours.”

“Your shop is in Chembur, at the other end of the city,” The bespectacled man said. “It’s too far for us.”

The Mithai Wallah stood straight and announced. “Our new store will be opening at Asha Bhavan building itself, as soon as the parking lot is constructed. The ground floor is for shops, and ours will be the first one.”

More residents turned towards him and listened in.

“You’ll pass us every day,” The Mithai Wallah grinned. “We can also deliver to your homes anytime.”

A murmur passed through the building residents in a rising wave. Then it gradually subsided.

The Mithai Wallah finished his rounds, and came towards Jadhav and me. “Is Pandey Saab not here?”

“He’s running late,” Jadhav said. “His car had a flat tire.”

A feat that had been accomplished by a few sharp nails inserted at certain pressure points. When the wheel turned, the nails would get jammed into the rubber. After few kilometers on the road, the tyre would get properly ruptured. This ensured he got stranded midway.

It was a trick I had learned in the village, where me and my friends would puncture the school headmaster’s motorbike. Village boys can be real rascals, no doubt.

It should’ve been harder to do in a city housing society. Luckily, the watchmen here are easily distracted by the lure of fresh fruits.

The building residents chattered amongst themselves. The Mithai Wallah paced about and glanced at his watch.

“When will Pandey Saab reach?” He asked Jadhav.

The watchman shrugged.

“I have another delivery to make,” The Mithai Wallah said. “I’m already late.”

From his pant pocket, he extracted a white envelope containing a thick bundle that made it bulge. He pressed it into Jadhav’s palms.

“Give this to Pandey Saab,” His voice was loud enough to be heard by the residents on the side rows. “Tell him that Dayal Saab is grateful that we could come to an agreement.”

He exited the room, and I allowed myself a smile. He had played his part well. But it was only the opening salvo. I had another arrow in my quiver, still to be fired.

Ten more minutes passed, and the assembled residents were getting restless.

“Where’s Pandey?”

“How much more time??”

Jumani Saab stood up in the first row. “Let’s get started.”

He went up to the podium. He brushed his hair back, cleared his throat, and launched into a narrative about stability and maintaining tradition. Soon, he lost everyone’s attention. Some yawned and stretched. Some chatted away. 

It was apparent that he had no chance of winning, had it not been for the invisible forces that were assisting him.

“So, if you elect me as your Chairman…”

He never completed that sentence, because the side doors were thrown open and a young girl barged inside. She wore a smooth white shirt and black trousers. Her hair was tied up in a compact bun. A lanyard hung around her neck, carrying an ID card that read: Jwala Mukherjee, PGT India.

Jadhav staggered towards her. “Madam…where you going?”

“Are you all from Asha Bhavan building?” She didn’t wait for a response. She marched to the front of the room and stood at the podium. Her face was wound up tight, her eyes were sharp, and her voice was piercing. 

“I represent Plant Green Trees. My organization has learned that you people plan to tear down your garden to build a parking lot,” She regarded the rows of faces with disdain. “That’s unacceptable, and we will not let it happen.”

Her words bounced around the four walls of the room, and jolted everyone sitting inside. She was a little thing, but she radiated a rabid energy. If she hadn’t been my daughter, I would also have been afraid of straying into her orbit.

“You think there isn’t enough pollution in Mumbai, is that it?” Her tone was caustic. “Less trees and more cars, that’s exactly what this city needs.”

“Madam, it’s not like that…” Someone said.

“That’s the way you are behaving. Tell me, when you watch the news, do you skip the part about global warming, rising sea levels, hurricanes, tsunamis??”

None of the residents opened their mouth to speak.

“Some of those trees are a hundred years old. You people should know better,” She said reproachfully. “I mistook you all for an educated bunch.”

A hush descended over the residents of Asha Bhavan. Then they stirred and began objecting.

“Madam, you’re misunderstanding us…”

“Please Madam, we are not like that…”

She raised a hand for silence. “Our organization is committed to saving the trees. If you proceed with this parking lot plan, we’ll do whatever it takes to stop you. We will raise public awareness, we will organize protests, we will take the fight to courtrooms and bring this garden under the umbrella of the Environment Protection Act.”

She stopped speaking, allowing her words to sink in. Then she hooked a rigid finger in the air.

“You decide what you want to do,” She said. “But don’t tell me later that I didn’t warn you about the consequences.”

With that, she stormed out of the room. It took every ounce of my restraint not to hug her as she passed by. What a performance she had delivered. I made a silent promise to never again discourage Roshni from acting.

The smoldering fumes of her speech still hung in the air when Pandey entered. He moved briskly to the front of the room, looking a bit hassled.

“Sorry everyone,” He said. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

He went to the podium, and Jumani Saab returned to his seat, having been implicitly dismissed.

Pandey tapped the microphone twice before speaking. “I won’t waste more of your time, I’ll get straight to the point. Parking has been a major problem in our building. We see cars double and triple parked, clogging the compounds and choking up the lane. We need to fix this. My plan is to build a new parking structure where the garden currently is…”

“How many shops you plan to open?” Someone cut in.

Pandey blinked. “Nothing is decided about shops.”

“Hah,” A loud, derisive snort came from the first row. “Dayal Sweets is already confirmed, we know that.”

“No, no, nothing is confirmed.”

“Then how do you explain the free mithai and the discount coupons?”

“What mithai?” Pandey looked puzzled. “What coupons?”

“How much are they paying you??” Someone yelled.

Pandey’s eyelids flapped up and down. “It’s true that I thought about the possibility of allowing some retail stores, but I was going to bring that up at the next society meeting.”

The muttering amongst the residents grew and swelled till it became a low growl.

“You were going to tell us only after elections, ha?”

“We saw the Dayal Sweets guy leave money for you…”

“Don’t try to con us, Pandey. You think we were born yesterday??”

The elderly man with Gandhian glasses stood up, and the others quietened down to let him be heard. He was the oldest building resident, and one of the most respected.

“The bigger problem,” He said gravely. “is this business with the environmental NGO. I know these type of people. If we cut down the garden, they will create a ruckus. They’ll start rallies outside our building, and make our lives hell.”

“What you talking about?” Pandey’s forehead compressed inwards. “I’ve obtained all the necessary permissions to build the parking lot.”

A clamorous uproar swept over the room, as everyone began shouting at the same time. Some leapt to their feet and gesticulated wildly.

“You don’t know what you’re doing, Pandey.”

“The Green Trees people will come every single day with placards and slogans. They’ll ruin our peace…”

“We’ll be running from one courtroom to another…”

At the podium, Pandey reeled backwards, as the barrage of questions and impassioned declarations went on and on. 

I saw the look of bewilderment on his face, and savored it. It was almost unfair. He was my opponent across the chessboard, and he didn’t even know it.

*****

It felt good to be out of the rain. I had earned my place in the shade. It was mine by right.

I watched the raindrops splash on the ground. Their gentle pitter-patter on the awning above my head sounded so soothing. The Mumbai monsoon can be delightful, as long as you don’t get drenched under it.

When the rain eased up, I sold twenty dozen fruits in an hour, more than I normally sell in a week. My free samples at the society elections had reminded the residents how my fruits could match the big stores in selection, and surpass them in freshness. And freshness is the key attribute of a fruit, as all my customers can attest.

Jumani Saab strolled towards my stall. Despite the cloudy skies, he was basking in the afterglow of his victory. He had become Society Chairman for the first time, after four failed attempts. Of course, it wouldn’t have happened without my machinations. But he didn’t know that, and he never would.

“Enjoying the shade, Raghu?” He beamed at me.

“Very much, Chairman Saab. Thank you for this.”

He took half a dozen mangoes and a bag full of lychees. When he brought out his wallet, I waved it away.

“Don’t worry about it, Jumani Saab.”

“That’s not necessary, Raghu. Let me pay you.”

“Consider it a celebration of your victory,” I put a box of strawberries in his packet. “Try these, they’re very fresh.”

His smile was gracious. He had not only sanctioned my move under the awning, but also arranged for a plastic barricade to shield my stall from those pesky footballs that sailed over from the garden. I won’t forget his kindness.

A while later, Pandey, the former Society Chairman, came out of the building. His eyes were enveloped by dark patches. Creases appeared on his cheeks. He looked like he hadn’t slept for days. It made me feel a twinge of guilt.

“Pandey Saab, would you like some mangoes?” I called out.

He turned and muttered something incoherent.

“I saved some for you from the last batch of the season,” It was my peace offering, and I meant it sincerely. But Pandey grunted and walked off.

I shrugged. Sooner or later, he would forget this ignominious defeat and move on. Life has a way of always moving forward, like a train hurtling down an infinite track.

Jadhav came next and loitered near my stall. This time, I offered him a fresh mango before he plucked it. I didn’t even record it in my ledger. I was feeling rather magnanimous. 

Jadhav took his fruit and started to leave. Then he stopped and turned to face me.

“You know, when this story is told in the years to come,” He paused. “No one will believe that the residents of Asha Bhavan didn’t get the parking lot they badly needed, all because of the schemes of a fruit wallah.”

I met his gaze. The rotund watchman was far more perceptive than I gave him credit for. There was an undertone of admiration in his voice, which made me smile. 

The sky rumbled and the rain fell in slanting streams. In the building garden, I saw a cat curled up under the overhanging branches of a tree. I followed her example and lay down on my side. I closed my eyes. The rhythmic drumming of the rain served as a background melody that lulled me into a deep, dreamless sleep…

The Fruit Wallah – Part 1

They call me Raghu. I was named after the ancestor of the revered Hindu deity, Lord Ram. But I have the luck of a cursed demon. My family has been cursed for generations.

My grandparents died a horrific death from cholera, spending their last days in unbearable agony. My father owned lush farmlands, until they were destroyed by a fire. He had to restart again with his meagre savings, and whatever little he could salvage from the charred remains.

What about my sister? Forget it. I won’t be able to control myself if I think about all that…

To cut a long story short, I’m in Mumbai now with my wife and daughter, all cramped together in a 500 square foot room in a chawl. For seven years, I’ve been selling fruits at Asha Bhavan building. During some months, I don’t make enough sales to pay my rent. Yet somehow we survive. The banal drudgery of my routine sucks the zest out of me, day after day after day. But I do it for my family.

*****

Sheets of rain crashed into the ground, and muddy brown puddles formed in the cracks of the road. The wind billowed and slanted the rain into oblique angles that defeated umbrellas and other feeble human defenses. Mumbai monsoons have a primal fury, like a herd of wild animals howling in the jungle.

I hunched over and rode my bicycle up the slope to Asha Bhavan building. Attached to the cycle was a heavy crate laden with fruits. My lower back muscles strained to pull their weight. The rain splashed on my face. My clothes were drenched, and every pore of my skin felt wet.

When I reached my designated spot near the building garden, the rain ceased abruptly. The sun peeked out from behind the curtain of clouds. The ground was still wet though. I spread a white cloth on it and arranged my fruits in a neat grid of rows, like a chessboard.

Chess was my favorite game once. At 15, I had mastered all the opening gambits. My teacher said I had the aptitude to become a grandmaster. Of course, life had other plans. The world kept ejecting me from one place to another, like I was a broken cassette.

But the residue of chess still lingers within me as I line up fruits on the ground. The little grapes are my pawns, the apples my knights, the pears my bishops. The mango is the king, no doubt. The Lord of the Fruits.

No customers came to me that morning. I idly toyed with my moustache. I’m one of those odd creatures without a single hair on my head, but a full moustache above my lip. I’m awkwardly built with bony fingers, gaunt forearms, and elbows that jut out a little more than normal. 

A portly man in a blue khaki uniform ambled towards my stall. He was Jadhav, the building watchman.

“Raghupati Raghav Sitaram,” He addressed me, mocking my name. He tugged his belt where his football-shaped belly overflowed out of his shirt. “How’s business?”

“Slow,” I admitted.

Few years ago, most building residents bought their fruits from me. But with the advent of MarketFresh, my customer base dwindled. I kept losing my regulars to the big stores.

The new come in waves to wash away the old. That is the flow of life. I just wanted to hang on for a while longer, until my time came to return to the dirt.

“The sun’s out now, people will start to come,” Jadhav stretched his arms and arched his back. He bent down and grabbed an apple. He crunched into it, and little bits of fruit got stuck in the gaps between his front teeth.

I knew he wouldn’t pay for the apple. I noted it down in my accounting ledger, like I did for every fruit he took. The debt would be recorded, though it would never be paid.

Ours was not an equitable friendship, if you can even call it that. Technically, he was supposed to ‘supervise’ my presence in the building. That didn’t involve any actual work. But it meant that he could get me fired if he wanted to.

“Chalo Sitaramji, I’ll see you later,” Jadhav said, in between mouthfuls.

The afternoon was dull. Some building residents greeted me or nodded in my direction before going on their way. But no purchases were made. I yawned and stood up. 

Just then, a black-and-white checkered football landed with a splat in front of me, wreaking havoc amongst my wares. Oranges got squeezed, grapes got squished, plums leaked their juice. Even the Lord Mango rolled off and landed askew in the mucky ground.

“Oye Fruit Wallah, pass the ball fast.”

The words came from a chubby boy in a loose red t-shirt with a white tick centered on it. He stood with his elbows pointed out and a scowl of disdain etched on his face.

“Baba, can you please not kick the ball on my fruits?” I said, as I tossed him the ball.

“You shut up,” The boy snapped. “I’ll kick the ball wherever I want to.”

“Try to understand, the fruits will get spoiled…”

“Your fruits stink,” He crinkled his nose. “No one buys them anyways.”

The boy bounced the ball on the ground with a thud, and returned to his football match. His father was Pandey Saab, the Society Chairman. His mother, Neelam Madam, tended to spoil him. If he was my kid, I would smack him. Kids like him need to be given a taste of the real world, where you struggle and suffer, and you don’t get everything you want.

Two tights slaps would do wonders for this brat, no doubt. But I did nothing and said nothing. There was no choice but to endure. In this game of life, you have to endure all kinds of nonsense.

The skies burst open again and the rain tumbled down below. I scrambled to gather my fruits. The space next to me had a large awning above, which kept the ground dry. Apart from few wooden stools, it was empty. It was meant for the building valet and drivers, who were rarely there. 

The building valet ducked under the awning and sat on a stool, until he saw a figure approaching. He jerked upright and raised a palm in salute. “Pandey Saab.”

The Society Chairman was a tall man with a stiff posture, and hairy as a bear. His chest fur crept out from the top button of his shirt. His cheeks and chin were buried under a beard. His two thick eyebrows merged into a unibrow.

“Come with me,” He commanded the valet. “A tree branch has fallen in the building compound.”

“Pandey Saab,” I said. “I have a small request.”

He looked at me, as if noticing my presence for the first time. He held an umbrella that swayed with the wind.

“If I can move under this awning…” I pointed to it.

“Come fast,” Pandey Saab addressed the valet. “Bring that fatso Jadhav too. The branch has to be moved.”

“Please think about it, Pandey Saab,” I persisted. “Most of the drivers are gone during the day, and I won’t take up much space. It will be better for the residents only, if my fruits stay clean and dry.”

The Society Chairman brushed his hand dismissively in the air, and turned his back to me. His boots stomped across the ground, splashing puddles along the way, while the valet straggled behind him.

Despite his snub, I gave him the benefit of the doubt. I didn’t know a thing about Pandey’s life. Maybe he was going through some turmoil. Maybe it was a bad time to ask him for anything.

I sold half a dozen apples and four peaches that day. I packed the crates, loaded my bicycle, and rode down the lane. I had to take my wife to the doctor, and a glance at my watch told me that I was already late. I pedaled faster, despite the ache in my knees. The scenario felt familiar. 

For my whole life, I’ve been running towards something or running away from something…

*****

Shalini Didi stumbled into our shack, gripping the wall for support. A round black patch covered her left eye. Her right cheek was swollen to the size of a cricket ball. Blood dripped from the corner of her lip. She collapsed on the ground and told her story.

The first time her husband hit her was when she left the stove on and the tea spilled. The beatings continued for any minor offense. If the clothes were not ironed properly, if the food had less salt, if the bathroom was not cleaned spotless.

As I listened to her, a rage built inside me. I wanted to kill the man who did that to my sister. It didn’t matter that I was a scrawny boy half the size of my brother-in-law.

My parents had a more stoic reaction to my sister’s woes. Papa stared at the ceiling, and Mumma started making rotis.

“Don’t make me go back there,” Shalini Didi joined her palms together. “Please papa, please.”

Papa grunted. “I’m sorry beta, I can’t help you.”

Shalini Didi clutched his ankles. “Papa, I can’t live there…”

“You have to,” Mumma said from the stove. “This is how life is in the real world.”

I glared at my father. “You can’t send Didi back there.”

My father paid me no heed as he sat cross-legged on the ground, while my mother served him sabji and rotis. Shalini Didi’s face shrunk into itself and drowned in a flood of tears.

“You can’t send her back…” I screeched, my voice breaking. 

I woke up drenched in sweat, like I always did after that nightmare of a memory. I sat up and gulped some water.

After that day, the same scene repeated many times. Didi would show up with scruffy hair and fresh bruises. Once, there was an ugly purple scar on her neck. Another time, a deep cut ran across her forearm. In my dreams, I thrashed her husband every night. But in real life, I was helpless.

Finally, on Didi’s fifth visit, my father relented and let her stay with us. For the next week, I nursed her wounds. She didn’t crack a single smile, despite all my attempts at jokes.

Didi’s return home would have ramifications. Papa and Mumma knew it. Didi herself knew it. And I did too.

The Yadav pariwar she had married into were a singularly vengeful species. From our neighbor, we learned about the assassins they had hired to eliminate us from the planet. We had reclaimed their bahu, so they vowed to murder our entire family. They considered it a fair retribution.

We bundled all our belongings into four suitcases and left at dawn. That was the first time I was forced to flee from my home. And it wouldn’t be the last…

I snapped back to reality. I got out of bed and sat down with my chai. The wife bustled around the house, dusting surfaces, folding clothes, chopping vegetables. The bangles on her wrist jingled as she moved.

“He came again today,” She said, clucking her tongue. “Demanding money.”

“Who?” I asked.

“God Almighty, who else?”

“Ha?”

“The landlord, you duffer,” She rolled her eyes. “He wants the rent for July.”

“So did you give it to him?”

“Oh yes, why not? I plucked it from the magic money tree behind our house. I gave him a little extra too, for goodwill.”

I grimaced. “I gave you all the money I made last month.”

“And I didn’t use it to buy rice and daal and onions. Na, na. Those things fell from the sky straight into our kitchen.”

I blinked and scratched my hairless head. It had taken few years of marriage to get accustomed to her sarcasm. Till today, it was nonstop. But I had also learned that in her own convoluted way, sarcasm was a form of affection.

“How’s the pain?” I asked. “Did you take the medicine?”

“It didn’t help. That doctor of yours is useless.”

The lone tubelight in our house flickered on and off intermittently. But the real light of our lives was our daughter, our Roshni. She lay sprawled on the sofa with her bare feet dangling over the armrest. Her hair was tied in a ponytail that ran down her back.

“Roshni, why aren’t you in college??” I asked.

“College is boring.”

“You still have to attend.”

“Why?”

“What why?”

“Why must I suffer through such boring lectures? It’s a waste of my time.”

Before I could compose a response, the wife cut in. “Yes, your time is so precious. You have a busy day of sitting on your bums and staring at the ceiling.”

“Very busy, Mumma,” Roshni agreed. “But my busy bums would appreciate a cup of chai.” She was her mother’s daughter, well-versed in the art of sarcasm.

“The only fun thing is rehearsing for the college play,” She said, her tone serious now. “That’s where I figured out that I’m going to be an actress.”

“Be realistic, Roshni,” I said. “Focus on your studies.”

“Why can’t I be an actress? My teacher says I’m a natural.”

I sat next to her on the sofa, and took her hand in mine. “Such fanciful dreams come true only in movies. But we have to live in the real world, where life is a daily struggle.”

“I never asked to live in this ‘real world’ of yours,” Roshni said. “I would rather live inside a movie.”

“And I want to be a chess grandmaster,” I let out a long sigh. “I never asked to be a fruit wallah either. But here I am. We don’t get to choose our destiny.”

The blaring of a siren from the main road reverberated inside our home, and made the walls judder. All of us went silent for a minute. When the sound faded, Roshni spoke first. Her eyes were large and bright, and her pupils danced about as if in tune with a melody playing in her head.

“I don’t have to be a movie star,” She said. “There are other options. I can act in TV shows or plays.”

“You want to be on those saas-bahu serials?” The wife asked.

“Why not?” Roshni sat up and contorted her face into a stern expression. She gestured towards my wife. “Bahurani, I’m tired today. Can you bring me a cup of chai?”

For a moment, the wife and me were rendered speechless. 

Roshni burst out laughing. “See, I told you I can act.”

“Only kids of famous actors make it into movies,” I said. “People like us have no chance, you understand?”

Roshni cupped a palm on my cheek. “Papa, you cannot predict my future. No more than I can predict yours.”

I blinked twice. Then I turned to the wife. “Are you hearing this? Your daughter has become a philosopher now.”

“I heard,” The wife said, her eyes twinkling with amusement. For once, she had nothing sarcastic to say.

While riding my cycle to work, I replayed the conversation in my head, and smiled inwardly. If the next generation doesn’t get to dream big, what was the point of me toiling all day to sell a few measly fruits?

*****

That morning was pleasantly busy. Building residents came to my stall, and actually bought fruits. Two dozen apples, three dozen pears, five dozen oranges. It had been such a productive morning that I indulged in a stroll to a nearby public garden.

The sky was grey and laden with clouds. An intermittent breeze blew through the trees. The air smelled damp, carrying a latent threat of rain. Yet not a drop had fallen, and the ground was dry.

At the garden, I came across two white-haired men seated on a bench, with a chessboard between them. One of them furrowed his brow, the other stroked his beard.

I found a tree to lean on, from where I had a viewing angle. The sight of those black-and-white squares had activated a reservoir of knowledge that lived in my brain.

“Knight to B4,” I mumbled.

“You want something?” The bearded man asked. 

I shook my head and turned away.

“Knight to B4, then castle on the Queen’s side,” I whispered to the tree.

The bearded man glowered at me, and I hastily walked away. I glanced at the board. The knight was moved to exactly where I had suggested. I couldn’t help but smile. My advice had been taken, though I didn’t get the credit.

At Asha Bhavan, I saw Pandey Saab heading out. His short-sleeves t-shirt displayed his arms, layered with thick fur from elbow to wrist.

“Pandey Saab, did you think about my request?” I asked.

He gave me a blank stare.

“I’m the fruit wallah, saab. I only wanted to move under the awning so that my fruits don’t get spoiled.”

“You have an assigned spot already. Stay there,” Pandey Saab said brusquely, and strode off.

Sooner or later, he would come around. I knew it.

I settled back into my spot with my fruits. Over the years, I’ve developed a fondness for them. Their texture, their fragrance, their flavor. How they ebb and flow with the seasons. Mangoes in summer, kiwis in winter.

The hours ticked by, with no further customers appearing. Jadhav came and helped himself to an orange. The building valet sat on a stool and smoked a brown beedi.

A football flew into my stall, scattering everything. Apples rolled into puddles, oranges got smashed, and grapes got crushed.

“Pass the ball back,” The chubby boy demanded.

It was the fourth time this week that his football had mangled my fruits and ravaged my sales. One day, I would tally up the accounts and present a bill to the brat’s mother.

“I’ve asked you many times to be careful,” I pressed my lips together. “Please.”

“Your stupid fruit stall is in the way,” He said. “No one wants you here. Everyone buys fruits from MarketFresh.”

He said it with a brazen insolence, as though my whole existence was meaningless. He reminded me a bit of my brother-in-law, how he  lorded over Shalini Didi and bullied her into submission.

I picked up his football and flung it down the lane.

The boy’s nostrils flared. “Go fetch that ball, madarchod.”

The kids these days learn expletives, before they learn how to spell.

“RIGHT NOW,” He hollered and stepped towards me.

The center of my forehead began throbbing. The top of my head felt like it was being pricked by a hundred needles. Something stirred inside me, something old and dormant. It was the flicker of a candle flame that had been doused long ago. But it burned again that day.

Before I knew what I was doing, I raised a taut palm and whacked a forehand across the boy’s face.

Pin-drop silence descended all around us. The boy’s eyes widened in shock. Jadhav’s jaw hung open. The valet’s beedi slipped from his fingers and dropped to the ground.

“HE HIT ME,” The boy screamed and clutched his cheek.

“I’m really sorry baba…I didn’t mean to…”

“MUMMA…THE FRUIT WALLAH HIT ME…” The boy spun on his heels and lurched off.

His shouts receded as he went into the building, and for a moment there was a lingering hush.

Then the clouds erupted above and sent a torrential downpour upon me. I looked up at the darkened skies, and I knew that something had begun…

*****

TO BE CONTINUED…

Read further: The Fruit Wallah – Part 2

The Twin Sister – Part 2

If you haven’t already, first read The Twin Sister – Part 1

On Saturday morning, I awoke early. My mind was whirring like a computer server processing terabytes of data.

Our parents had left the house to us. Daddy had gone on a business trip, Mummy was visiting her sister in Delhi. They lived separate lives after Raja’s accident. Their marriage was a sham at this point.

Nysha buzzed about the house with restless energy. She gobbled up her lunch at lightning speed. She fiddled with her hair clip till it nearly broke. Her phone never left her hand, not for a second.

I recalled Aarav’s message:

“I can’t wait for it…this is going to be our first time…”

Nysha was clearly feeling it too. But not for long. Not if I had anything to do with it.

I pretended to be engrossed in my book, but I watched her like a hawk. I waited for the right moment to make my move.

Nysha made herself a cup of chai and sat at the dining table, while I lounged on the sofa. She slurped a few sips, and got busy with her phone. I knew I had to act quickly, or the chai would soon be over.

I stood up and walked towards the table. I took an awkward step and jerked my left hip into the sharp edge of the table.

“Owwww,” I bent over and clutched my side.

“Are you alright?” Nysha asked.

“Uff,” I grunted.

Nysha stood up. For a fleeting second, a gap opened while she was focussed on me. I grimaced and massaged my hip with my left hand. With my right, I slipped an off-white powder from a tiny glass vial, into her chai.

The substance was called ketamine, a so-called ‘date drug’ as per my Google research. It had no smell or taste. It would dissolve into the chai, leaving no discernible trace. It would confuse her and dull her senses.

When you’re the college topper, you know people. Or rather, people know you. I had leveraged my status to acquire a contact who supplied me with the vial.

“Is it hurting badly kya?” Nysha asked.

I flexed my leg and stepped back gingerly. “I’m alright…”

“Okay, if it’s still paining, I can order a Combiflam from the medical store.”

I nodded. “I’ll tell you if I need it.”

I went back to the sofa and to my book. With every sip of chai that Nysha took, I felt a surge of anticipation.

Before long, my sister began to slump in the chair. She put a palm to her forehead. “I think I’m coming down with something.”

“Fever?”

“I don’t know, I’m feeling woozy.”

“Why don’t you go lie down for a while?”

Nysha stumbled unsteadily into the bedroom. She grasped the side of the bed with jittery hands, and lowered herself onto it.

I followed her in. “Should I take your temperature?”

Nysha turned on her side and didn’t respond. Her eyes were drooping.

“I’ll get the thermometer…” Before I finished the sentence, my sister had passed out. I covered her with a blanket. It’s not that bad, I told myself, the effect will last only till tomorrow morning. She’ll be fine after that.

I took her phone and read Aarav’s messages:

“All set for tonight…yayy…”

“Wear that pink top na, you look amazing in it.”

That was useful. I wouldn’t have known what to wear for such an occasion. I opened Nysha’s cupboard, and a stiletto-heeled shoe spilled off the lower shelf and onto the floor. I gaped at the sheer volume of clothes inside, a potpourri of dresses and tops and outfits for all occasions. There were 3 pink tops. I picked the fanciest one.

Then there were the shoes: a dizzying array of shapes and sizes and colors. There were high heels and flats, open-toed and closed, strapless and strappy sandals…there must have been at least 50 in there. Gods, how did she ever decide what to wear?

Myself, I have just 3 pairs: one casual, one for college, and a dressy one for outings. Who needs more than that?

Eventually, I went with a black, high-heeled pair. I brushed my hair and sprayed Nysha’s perfume on my neck.

“See you soon.” I wrote to Aarav, and added a smiley for good measure.

The meeting spot was a Spanish restaurant with high ceilings and wooden decor. Nysha’s stiletto heels were killing me. My toes were all squished together, and I nearly toppled over twice in the short walk from where the cab left me to the restaurant entrance. Aarav had reserved a table for us, and I was early apparently. I sat at the table and waited.

As the minutes ticked by, my hands and feet were flooded with a sudden bout of perspiration. I shifted in my seat. I crossed and uncrossed my legs. I toyed with the zips of my purse.

I didn’t know how to exchange two words with a boy. How was I going to survive an entire evening??

I had no business being there. I was a fish flapping haplessly on the land. I had to abort. There was no way I could go through with it…

“Nysha,” A booming voice called. He was six-feet tall with broad shoulders and taut arms. He had large eyes punctuated by bushy eyebrows. His hair was gelled and spiked up. His outfit was a purple shirt over black jeans, and boots that were polished to a shine.

“Aarav,” I said, trying not to make it sound like a question.

He came towards me, and I rose from my seat. His arms wrapped me in a tight embrace. I inhaled his sporty deodorant.

After we sat down, Aarav took charge of the menu and ordered a round of tapas and margaritas for both of us. Luckily, he did most of the talking.

My mind retrieved an image of Nysha from its storage, as I’d seen her in college, with her head tilted and her eyes fluttering. I replicated her exact gestures, and this seemed to please Aarav.

Tapas came and vanished into our bellies. I drained the last drops of my drink. Aarav ordered another round.

“…you should’ve seen the look on his face when he was kicked out of class, it was hilarious,” He paused and looked at me expectantly.

My internal computer conjured up more snapshots of my sister.

“Oh really?” I said, with my eyes widened.

“Yeah, it was unbelievable…” He resumed his story, and the momentum took him all the way till dessert.

I crunched into churros and commented on the sweetness. He took hold of the bill, and I didn’t bother to squabble.

Suddenly, steel utensils clattered to the floor near us. A plate tumbled down and cracked into two, scattering a mushy pulp of food around it.

“Oh shit!” A girl at the next table put her hands on her head, as all eyes in the restaurant turned towards her. Her complexion reddened, and she fled to the washroom.

“Reminds you of someone?” Aarav grinned.

“Ha?”

“Tysha, your sister?”

“What about her?”

“I mean, you keep saying that she’s so clumsy, she’s a messy eater, she always burps after food.”

I shot him a withering look.

“I didn’t mean to…” He held his hands up. “I was just repeating what you only told me.”

“What I told you??”

“I’m really sorry Nysha,” He reached out and touched my arm lightly. “Let’s forget about it, okay?”

“Fine,” I said and exhaled. What my sister said wasn’t his fault anyways. But Nysha would have to pay the price. Did she think she could go bad-mouthing me around town without any repercussions??

We left the restaurant and he led me to his car, a Hyundai with scratches on its paint. The seats had sporadic tears and the interior smelled musty. At least the a/c worked.

“Where you taking me?” I demanded abruptly.

“Sid has this extra house in Colaba.”

“Extra house?”

“His father has a big jewelry business,” Aarav said. “He’s given us his place for the evening.”

He glanced at me with a glow of anticipation, and I met his look with trepidation. I didn’t even know this guy. What was I getting myself into??

His hand slid across the seat and his fingers interlaced with mine. There was a warmth and tenderness to his touch that put me at ease.

This was Nysha’s boyfriend, someone she trusted. Whatever else my sister was, she had sound judgement. She could always tell the creeps from the nice guys. Years of being propositioned by countless boys gave her the practice.

The ‘extra house’ turned out to be a large flat with several bedrooms and a spacious drawing room. The ceiling had recessed lighting, the floor had designer ceramic tiles.

We sat on the plush sofa, and Aarav poured us two glasses of wine. He tapped his glass with his fingers as he drank and told more stories. My hands trembled with each passing sip.

Eventually, we moved into the bedroom. Aarav did everything he could to make me feel comfortable on the bed. Then he snuggled up next to me.

His hairy paws felt rough on my skin. A part of me wanted to shove him away. But he pressed his lips onto mine and his tongue wandered into my mouth. My legs quivered and I felt an edge of wetness.

He gently undid my jeans, while planting kisses all over me. My heart pounded and my muscles twitched.

I should have stopped him right there. No further. This was already too much. I should’ve feigned some illness and made my escape.

Yet I didn’t. There was a wildness inside me that bubbled to the surface. A rage that had festered like the pus of an open wound.

Rage at the SUV driver for backing into my brother, at Nysha for drifting away from me and speaking about me the way she did. Rage at the universe for letting it all happen.

All that rage erupted then and there, and I let out a primal scream. Aarav looked startled.

“Everything okay?” He asked.

I smiled and nodded. I found myself egging him on as he climbed on top of me. Soft moans escaped my lips, an odd mix of pleasure and pain. Blood oozed out of me and trickled down my thighs.

What happened in the next ten minutes, I cannot recall. Even my famed memory could only produce hazy renderings of that chunk of time. The next thing I knew, Aarav emitted a series of low grunts, and rolled off me. He lay there looking smug and satisfied.

I gathered my clothes and went to the bathroom to wash up. I scrubbed and scrubbed till the last whiffs of that sticky smell were eradicated from my pores.

I reentered the bedroom and saw that Aarav had put his boxers back on. He slouched on the bed with a silly grin splashed across his face. I was only five-foot-four, but it felt like I was towering above him. In that moment, I experienced an inexplicable aura of power over him. Like I was the Queen and he was my subject.

“So, I’ll see you tomorrow?” Aarav said.

“No,” I said, finding a baritone in my voice. “You won’t. Not tomorrow, not the day after that, not ever again.”

“What?”

“You and me, we’re done. Finished.”

“You’re breaking up with me??” His forehead contracted and his cheeks collapsed inwards. “Why? What happened?”

“I can’t be in a relationship anymore. I need space to figure myself out.”

I stood still, waiting for further reaction. But he sat there looking dazed. I strode out of the bedroom, and he staggered after me.

“I…I don’t understand,” Aarav stammered. 

“You don’t need to understand. You just need to stop calling or messaging me. Don’t try to contact me ever again.”

I reached the front door, stopped, and turned.

“It’s over,” I said firmly.

He stood in his boxers with his jaw hanging open and his eyes glazed over, as I let the door swing shut behind me.

When I reached home, I saw Nysha lying motionless in the same position I had left her. I adjusted the blanket and tucked it around her body. I sat on the edge of her bed and watched her tummy rise and fall with the steady rhythm of her breathing.

After a time, I stood up. I changed and plopped down on my own bed. I lay on my left side, then on my right side, then on my left again. I squirmed onto my stomach. Whatever I did, I couldn’t fall asleep. I sprawled on my back with one arm dangling over the side of the bed, and peered at the white paint of the ceiling.

What the hell had I gone and done??

*****

Sunlight filled the bedroom, and I still hadn’t slept a wink. When Nysha awoke, I turned away and shut my eyes tightly. After she left the room, I resumed my staring contest with the ceiling.

Hours later, I conceded defeat and hauled myself up. The digital clock on my bedside table proclaimed that it was noon. Outside, the crows were croaking. I brushed my teeth while the events of last night rumbled around in my head.

I sauntered to the drawing room where Nysha was curled up on the sofa with her knees tucked into her chest. Her eyes were red and puffy, and watery tears rolled down her cheeks.

“What happened?” I asked.

She hesitated for a moment, then thrust her phone at me. “See for yourself.”

A series of messages from Aarav:

“How dare you talk to me like that? Who do you think you are, ha?”

“You think you can just use me and discard me like a second-hand toy??”

“I’m breaking up with you. BITCH. Don’t ever call me again. Don’t even look in my direction at college, you slut.”

I handed the phone back. “Who’s Aarav? Your boyfriend?”

“Ya,” Nysha said. “I mean, he was.”

“Something happened last night?” I said. “You came back quite late.”

“I did?” Nysha blinked rapidly. She looked like a puppy dog blinded by the headlights of a speeding truck. “I don’t know what happened…I can’t remember anything…”

For two full minutes, I watched her as her mind thrashed about, trying to recollect memories that it had never actually formed.

“Forget it,” I said finally. “He doesn’t deserve you.”

“But Aarav’s such a sweetheart…I can’t understand why he’s saying all these nasty things to me…I can’t…I don’t…”

The tears sprang forth again and cascaded down her face with the ferocity of a waterfall. Nysha buried her head into a pillow and bawled like a baby. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen my sister like that. I had no inkling that this boy meant so much to her. I sat next to her and stroked her hair with my hand.

“It’s going to be alright,” I murmured. “I promise.”

I don’t know for how long we sat in silence. Nysha submerged in the pillow, and me caressing her lightly.  Eventually, she straightened and wiped her cheeks with the back of her palm. She squeezed my fingers. “I’ve missed this.”

“You have?”

“Of course I have. We used to be so close. But after Raja was gone, you disappeared into books.”

“I disappeared? What about you?? You were so into boys that you had no time for anything else.”

“There were so many boys in college…it was new,” Nysha shrugged, a gesture so eerily similar to mine that it felt like looking at my reflection.

“But you’re right,” She said. “Boys are horrible creatures.”

“They’re not so bad.”

“They are,” She insisted. “Boys are the worst things in the world, and I’m done with them.”

“Hah,” I snorted. “Before you even shower, you’ll have four new boyfriends lining up for you.”

I grinned broadly, and Nysha smiled back. She took my hands in hers.

“I’m sorry I ignored you for all these years,” She said. “I’m really sorry, Tysha.”

And she meant it, I could tell.

Pangs of guilt and shame assaulted me from within. I should fess up to what I had done. I really should. Nysha deserved to know the truth.

“I’m sorry too,” I said, and drew in a deep breath. “I…I shouldn’t have gotten so lost with books. But after Raja…” I felt a catch in my throat. “After the accident, books were the only escape route I knew. And I needed an escape.”

I put both my arms around Nysha, and let her head rest on my shoulder. I’d just gotten my sister back after so, so long. No way I was going to let her go. 

*****

One month has passed since that day…

Nysha and me sit and talk for hours now. We’re sisters again. Real sisters.

On the night when I made my treacherous plan, I couldn’t have anticipated such an unexpected outcome. Life can sometimes surprise and delight you in ways you would never have imagined.

We even talk a bit about boys. That wavy-haired boy approached me again in the library. I had told Nysha about him. This time, I spoke to him for a few minutes. It felt comfortable and nice.

Nysha had made a few attempts to talk it out with Aarav, but he stonewalled her. She was ready to move on from him, and wanted a makeover after the breakup. I volunteered to do it. She sat at the dresser while I stood behind her, focussed on my task.

“Sit still Nyshee,” I was permitted to call her that now.

I gathered up tufts of her hair and inserted colorful little beads into them. Nysha loved colors. Blue, green, red, yellow, orange. I put a rainbow on her head.

We reminisced about the time we had put beads in little Rajat’s hair. He had protested and grumbled, but us sisters had a gala time. How much we had laughed and laughed.

After the last bead was in place, I stepped back to examine my handiwork.

“Thanks Tysha, it looks amazing,” Nysha shook her head from side to side, making the beads rattle.

“Anytime,” I said and beamed at her.

I felt a sense of serenity. The broken pieces inside me had started to glue back together.

The next week, I missed my period.

I ordered a pregnancy test online and intercepted the package before anyone at home could see it. I squatted on the commode and peed on the small strip.

I paced back and forth in the claustrophobic confines of the bathroom. A bile churned in my tummy and rose up through my chest. My mouth tasted bitter. The commode rotated before me. The cupboard on the wall turned upside down. My breath came in wheezing gasps.

When that strip turned blue, I already knew there was life inside me. When that strip turned blue, I was plunged into a new world, more surreal than any novel I read. When that strip turned blue, I had no idea what to do… 

The Twin Sister – Part 1

They call me Tysha. Or sometimes they call me Nysha. No one can tell us apart, you see. We’re twins, Nysha and me. Tysha and Nysha. God knows why Indian parents name their children so similarly.

When we were small, we used to play together in the garden, picking flowers and knocking off unripe mangoes from the branches of trees. We shared a dollhouse where we would host little tea parties for families of four. We would tie each other’s hair in pigtails. All day long, we would be giggling away.

Those days feel like such a long time ago.

Since we started going to college, Nysha is interested in nothing but boys. Whenever I see her, she’s glued to her phone, typing messages. She takes her phone to the bathroom and coos sweetly, presumably to some boy or the other. She plants herself for hours in front of the mirror, applying shades of lipstick and trying on dozens of earrings.

Myself, I prefer to keep it simple. Simple top, simple jeans. I don’t care what boys think of me. I’m happy to retreat to my cozy corner and read my novels. I get lost in imaginary worlds, full of knights and castles, angels and dragons, androids and cyborgs. I find them so much more colorful than the dark desert of the real world.

*****

Nysha sat at the dresser, decorating her face with a bevy of creams and powders and brushes, as though it was a canvas to be painted. The high, wide mirror caught both our reflections. Her right in front of it, and me on the bed behind her. Our eyes met briefly in the mirror.

We had the same large brown eyes with long lashes, the same high cheekbones, the same jet-black curly hair.

“Looking very pretty, Nyshee,” I said.

“I’ve told you to stop calling me that.”

“But I’ve always called you Nyshee since we were kids.”

“We’re not kids anymore,” Nysha snapped a powder box shut. She brushed her hair back with steady strokes.

“Is that name reserved only for your boyfriends now? Is that it?”

“Why you want to know?” She said. “Jealous kya?”

“I just don’t understand why you have a problem with me calling you a pet name you’ve had since childhood.”

“You don’t need to understand. You just need to stop calling me that, that’s all.”

Nysha sprayed perfume on her neck and began to exude the scent of fresh strawberries. She slid her feet into silver sandals with broad heels that elevated her few extra inches. She scowled at me from above, then turned and left in a huff.

Despite that, I didn’t get angry with her. My sister helped me get through the most traumatic time of my life. I’ll never forget that.

I showered, dressed, and left for college. Jadhav, the building watchman, leaned back in his chair with his belt buckle loosened to make room for his ample belly. 

“Namaste Nysha Madam,” He extended an open palm to the tip of his forehead in a salute.

He’d been the watchman at Asha Bhavan building for as long as I could remember. He knew us since we were little girls, but he still couldn’t differentiate between us sisters.

I didn’t bother to correct him. I nodded and went on my way. Nysha and me went to the same college but we never traveled together. She was in Commerce, I was in Science, and our timings were slightly different.

College was a single yellow building at the end of a crowded lane. Students bustled around me as I walked up the steps. I saw Nysha across the corridor, surrounded by classmates. Wherever she went, my sister was always surrounded. I looked at her and gave her a small wave.

Nysha glanced at me, but didn’t wave back. She didn’t so much as acknowledge my presence. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, tilted her head, and faced up to a tall boy with muscular arms who was speaking with animated gestures. Nysha smiled and fluttered her eyes. The poor guy lost his train of thought, and stopped talking for a moment.

I’d seen enough. I turned and walked onwards. A hand tapped my shoulder. Mrinal stood there, grinning and displaying her braces.

“Congrats Tysha,” She gushed. “You did it again.”

“Ha?”

“Your results…”

“Oh yeah, thanks.”

I had come 1^st in college in the semester exams, like I had in the previous semester, and the one before that.

“Both you sisters are rocking it,” Mrinal said. “You topped college, and Nysha became the Rose Queen. Did you see how many roses she got? Almost all the boys gave her one.”

I shrugged. Nysha was the beauty, I was the brains. Or so they said. Except that we were identical twins, carbon copies from head to toe. I was no genius either. I only scored such high marks because of my photographic memory. When I read something, I remember it. Exams are then a simple matter of regurgitating the right tidbits from my reservoir.

“Tysha,” Mrinal said. “Can I borrow your Chem notes?”

I rummaged through my bag and produced the notes. “I’m not sure you’ll be able to understand them.”

“No, no, I’ll understand,” Mrinal assured me.

She didn’t know what she was in for. My handwriting was a scruffy, illegible scrawl that I could barely comprehend myself. But when you’re the college topper, everyone wants your notes anyways.

“Chal, see you in class,” Mrinal said and took off.

In class, I sat on an inconspicuous side bench, not too near the teacher, nor too far behind with the backbenchers. Afterwards, I bought a grilled veg sandwich from the canteen and headed to the library. I selected a corner table, where I nestled in and opened a book. I flipped the pages and munched on my sandwich, until I saw a figure approach my table.

A boy with thick, wavy hair and a clean-shaven face. He wore a blue-and-white checked shirt. He stopped right in front of me.

“Hi Tysha,” He flashed a toothy smile.

I gave him a blank stare.

“Congrats on topping again,” He said.

I nodded stiffly.

“Next time they should just declare you the topper before the exams even start,” He chuckled.

I blinked and said nothing. My expression must have been severely stolid, because the boy’s shoulders sagged, his head angled downwards, and he trudged off.

What was I supposed to do? Make googly eyes at him and laugh at his joke? I didn’t find it funny, and I don’t enjoy flattery.

Sometimes, I wish I was more normal. I wish I could converse with boys as easily as other girls. But the only boy I could talk to had long since departed from this world. And nothing could ever fill the void he left behind.

When the day was done, I took a cab home. Daddy was riveted to the TV. Mummy was tidying up her bedroom. Nysha was out with friends. We all have dinner at separate times, ever since the tragedy that devastated our family.

I ate my meal with my nose in a novel. Later, I put on comfy pajamas and settled into bed. Nysha and me have our own single beds, separated by desks and tables. There was a time when we would take naps together on the same bed, chatting about movies and food and so much else. Nowadays, we hardly talk at all.

An hour later, I was still reading with my bedside light on, when Nysha entered the room. She changed into nightclothes and plonked down stomach-first on her bed. She looked across and raised a palm to shield her eyes from the light.

“Shut that off,” She demanded.

“Two minutes,” I said. “I’m about to finish this chapter.”

Nysha got up from her bed and walked over to my side. She fumbled for the light switch. The click was firm and crisp, and then there was darkness.

*****

We sat in the Honda in our usual formation. Daddy and Mummy in the front, Nysha and me on the back seat. We were headed to Navy Nagar at the south end of Mumbai for cousin Tanvi’s wedding.

Daddy was in his old black suit that had become a tad tight for him. Mummy was in an elegant teal-blue saree. Nysha had taken so many hours to get ready, you would think she was the bride herself.

But I had to admit that after all that, she looked gorgeous with her flowing lavender lehenga and matching nail polish. Her hair was styled in curvy, cascading locks. Silver-gray contact lenses adorned her eyes, and sparkling earrings dangled from her ears. She looked like the Queen of the flowers in the garden, the one who bloomed the brightest.

I looked pretty too, if I do say so myself. I was in my favorite yellow lehenga that I had paired with a silver bracelet and lemon-colored nail polish.

The road outside was packed with buses and taxis, scooters and sedans, that constantly cut lanes and flouted every traffic rule. A cacophony of horns blared. Daddy added to the chorus by pressing his fist on the horn and muttering curses under his breath. Mummy swiveled around in the passenger seat and appraised her daughters.

“Both you girls are looking lovely,” She declared. “There’ll be many eligible bachelors at the wedding today.”

“Please Mom,” Nysha rolled her eyes.

“I’m just saying, weddings are a great place to meet the right boy,” Mummy’s eyes flicked between Nysha and me, and lingered a bit longer on me. “Specially for you, Tysha.”

“Why specially for me??”

“It would be good for you also to meet a boy,” Mummy said and turned to face forward.

I bit down and chewed on my lower lip. A period of silence ensued inside the car. We were crawling a meter ahead every five minutes. At this rate, there would be no food left by the time we reached.

Outside my window, a big, burly SUV stopped in the next lane. My lips immediately twisted into a snarl and my teeth grinded.

I hate SUVs. I can’t stand the sight of them, after one of them took my brother from me.

His name was Rajat. He was nine years younger than Nysha and me. I called him Raja. My little Raja. He was my favorite person in the whole world. I scrubbed his bums when he was a baby. Later, I dressed him for school. I did his class projects for him. I hugged him till he shooed me off.

There was a time when I couldn’t imagine how dull and empty my life had been before Raja came into it. But then he was gone. Just like that.

The driver of the SUV had been in a hurry. He reversed out of the parking lot, not noticing the boy in a blue school uniform walking behind him. My baby brother bore the full impact of the rear bumper of the SUV. But it wasn’t the impact that did it, the doctors said, it was the fall.

He fell backwards and his head struck the ground hard. His little skull was not strong enough to protect its encased brain. There was internal bleeding and immense damage…

A wetness formed around my eyes, and I blinked hard to prevent the dam from bursting. Those dark pockets of sorrow would reside permanently within the confines of my heart. They would never leave me till I took my last breath.

I glanced at Nysha. I don’t know how I would’ve survived that phase without my sister. She stayed by my side throughout.

I touched her arm. “You’ll be the prettiest girl at this wedding.”

Nysha gave me a half smile and went back to her phone.

After Raja left us, Nysha had cried a lot, night and day. She vented all her grief. And then she got better. She made her peace and moved on. It wasn’t that easy for me. Unlike Nysha, I couldn’t simply cry it out.

Talking about my feelings during those days felt like trying to squeeze out invisible toothpaste from an empty tube. I felt dead inside. I was as cold and stone as a statue. Yet my sister didn’t give up on me. She hugged me when I needed it. Little by little, she got me to open up, and I was able to recover a semblance of my sanity. At least I appeared as though I was functioning normally. For the most part, I buried myself in books…

A earsplitting horn reverberated inside the car and jarred me out of the black pit of memories. Daddy jammed down on the horn and waved his arm about. Other cars joined him in the incessant horning.

The traffic surged forward, and the deafening symphony gradually fell silent. It took another forty minutes before we reached the venue.

Open grass lawns were brimming with wedding guests decked up in their finest sarees and lehengas, kurtas and sherwanis. The elevated stage at one end had floral curtains behind it. A line of guests waited to ascend and greet the couple. The bride and groom stood at the center, posing with plastered smiles, while the shutters clicked.

Daddy ushered us straight to that line. He liked to get the picture-taking routine over with and then move freely. Myself, I was eyeing the buffet.

Soon, we were up on stage. We hugged cousin Tanvi in turns, shook hands with her hubby-to-be, and assembled in a row for the photographers. After that, we dispersed. Daddy made a beeline for the bar. Mummy mingled with relatives. Nysha was surrounded, as always, by a string of hopeful suitors.

I was about to hit the buffet when two hefty hands clasped my palms.

“Nysha beta, you’re looking lovely,” Smitha Aunty said.

“Thanks Aunty, but I’m actually Tysha.”

“Oh sorry…both you girls look exactly the same,” She said. “How are you? I hear you’re a genius, always coming 1^st in college.”

I nodded and pried my hands loose. The smell of tandoori chicken was making my stomach growl.

But Smitha Aunty was undeterred. She took me by the shoulder. “Do you have a boyfriend now?”

I shook my head.

“Why not? You’re such a beautiful girl…”

I shrugged, and peeked at the steaming mutton biryani with its saffron-white rice, chunks of tender meat, and sprinkles of coriander.

“Smitha,” A male voice called. “Come here one minute.”

“Okay beta, I’ll see you later,” Smitha Aunty said, and mercifully turned away.

I grabbed a plate and filled it up. There are no secluded spots at wedding receptions, so I ate my food while dodging assorted chachas and chachis, masis and mamis. For dessert, I had gulab jamun and malai kulfi. I let out out a hearty belch, drawing sharp looks from nearby aunties.

“Excuse me,” I said to no one in particular.

I went to the washroom to relieve myself. When I emerged, I wandered aimlessly around the lawns, until I overheard a familiar voice.

“Karan’s a smart boy,” Smitha Aunty was saying. She paused to gauge interest. “But I’m sure a pretty girl like you doesn’t need me to set you up.”

Nysha just smiled.

Smitha Aunty seemed to take the hint, and lapsed into momentary silence. 

“What about your sister?” She blurted. “I spoke to her earlier, she said she doesn’t have a boyfriend.”

I shuffled in my stance. A couple of uncles stood between them and me, and conveniently concealed me. Still, I stooped a little lower.

“Tysha?” My sister threw her head back and gave a shrill laugh. “She’s only interested in her books.”

“But Karan is a really nice boy. He has a job in the US. I know the family too, they are very decent people.”

“Forget it,” Nysha shook her head. “Tysha’s hopeless, she’ll never get married.”

Something about the way she said it, her tone of voice, it made every hair on my body bristle. For the rest of the evening, I evaded all forms of human contact. I didn’t utter a single word during the car ride home.

*****

In the thick of the night, I tossed and turned for hours, waiting for sleep to arrive, while Nysha snored away on her bed. At 3am, I gave up and lumbered out of the bedroom.

I decided to make some chai. I went to the kitchen and turned on the gas stove. The fire crackled at the center of the burner. My sister’s words crackled at the centre of my brain.

Tysha’s hopeless, she’ll never get married…

When my chai was ready, I took it to the drawing room. I didn’t turn on the lights, preferring the darkness. I placed my mug on the side table, and lowered myself onto the sofa. I felt something under me, a flat, rectangular object.

It was Nysha’s phone. She was always leaving it here and there, and then raising the roof in panic to find it.

I picked it up. It was the latest iPhone with an immaculate touch screen and super-duper retina display.

Nysha always got the best of everything. Fancier phone, bigger cupboard, nicer dresses. She was born 17 minutes before me, you see. When she learnt this, she was quick to latch on to it and anointed herself the ‘elder sister’. She used it to claim first dibs on all the good stuff. And I was stuck with the leftovers.

I swiped to unlock her phone, but the insolent thing demanded a password.

Most people use some variation of their birthdate. But that was not Nysha’s style. She would be different, unique, quirky.

The birth time. That’s what she would use. A sister’s instinct told me I was right. Nysha was born at 12:21am. 

I entered the numbers and sure enough, the phone opened its gates. I checked her emails, I scrolled through her photos, I read her messages. There were a flurry of them from someone called Aarav.

“Heyy cutie pie, how was the wedding? Did you get bored? Did you miss me? 😉 ;-)”

“So we’re on for Saturday right? You’re sure your parents are out of town?”

“I can’t wait for it…this is going to be our first time…”

I looked up. There’s only one thing that excites boys so much. I wondered if it was to be the first time for Nysha too? Or did she have experience with past boyfriends?

I tossed the phone aside. Nysha’s grating voice bounced around the inside of my skull.

Tysha’s hopeless, she’ll never get married…

Tysha’s hopeless, she’ll never get married…

My own sister thinks I’m beyond hope, and she goes and tells people about it.

Silver moonlight shafted in through the window curtains, and shadows flickered on the wall. The edge of the dining table, the armrest of the sofa, and my own head, black and faceless.

Suddenly, I burst out crying. The tears came without preamble, and poured forth like a rushing river. I cupped a hand on my mouth and tried to stifle my sobs. I didn’t want to be too loud. Nysha hated being disturbed from her sleep.

I can’t believe I was still being considerate towards her. After the way she spoke about me, I was concerned about her sleep?? It’s ridiculous.

My jaw clamped and hardened. I reached for tissues and wiped my face. During those endless nights after Raja’s accident, when I couldn’t sleep, Nysha would stay up with me and wipe my tears. 

What happened to that Nysha? What happened to my sister??

Today, she’s the reason I’m crying…

An idea came unbidden into my thoughts. A plan so devious, so machiavellian, that it could easily belong in a novel. I almost dismissed it. But then a cold, black fury pervaded inside me and contorted my cheeks into knots.

I would do this to her. Nysha deserved it. The fucking bitch.

*****

TO BE CONTINUED…

Read further: The Twin Sister – Part 2

Everything has a tax

“In this world, nothing can be said to be certain, except death and taxes.” – Benjamin Franklin.

The inevitability of taxes goes beyond the percentage of our earnings we fork over to the government. Everything we do, create, achieve or acquire comes at a cost to us. Sometimes the cost is obvious, sometimes it is more hidden. But nothing comes for free.

Say you get a promotion at work. This means more money, more stature in the organization, and more people reporting to you. What could be better, right? But look closely and you’ll see that it also means longer working hours and more pressure to deliver. Your performance will come under more scrutiny, and the bar for future success will be higher.

Say you meet the man or woman of your dreams. You have fantastic chemistry, camaraderie, and compatibility. You enter into a committed long-term relationship. Happy days lie ahead, right?

But what’s the tax? In a serious relationship, you lose some of your independence. You’ll need to inform your significant other before making any impromptu plans. Every decision will need to be discussed and debated, from small ones like what to eat for dinner or which painting to hang on the wall, to the big ones like which city to live in or how many children to have. These never-ending discussions and spending so much time with the same person will cause conflicts.

Say you buy a swanky new house, with 4 bedrooms, 3 bathrooms, and a spacious living room. It’s in a great neighborhood too. Now you can look forward to a lifetime of stability, right?

But there’s always a tax. For starters, there’s literally property tax. To keep up with the payments for a long-term loan, you’ll be obligated to earn high levels of income for decades. Then there’s the constant maintenance work from painting the walls to fixing the plumbing to cleaning the carpets.

Say you go on a nice vacation where you have many memorable experiences. But when you get back home, work is piled up and will leave you feeling exhausted.

Say you’re a comedian or musician or YouTuber, and you build a large fan following. But fame brings with it a loss of privacy. Anything you say or do will be in the public domain and can be used against you. The more successful you get, the more fans you acquire, the more you’ll be hounded and photographed. You won’t be able to enjoy a moment of peace and solitude.

The examples are endless. You pay a tax on everything you get, without exception. There’s a flip side to every coin, a thorn in every rose, a shadow behind the light. Every medicine has its side effects. To gain something, you must lose something.

And that’s okay. There’s nothing wrong with that. It doesn’t mean you shouldn’t strive to achieve anything or make progress towards your aspirations. You just have to understand what it will cost you, and what you have to sacrifice.

So next time you embark on any endeavor, take a moment to ask yourself what is the tax you’ll need to pay. If you can accept that tax, then go for it. But sometimes, you might find that what you want to do will cost you too much. If the trade-off no longer feels worthwhile, then reevaluate your choices. No harm in changing your mind. The wisest amongst us have always been open to a course correction.

In the end, you are the author of your own life.  You can pursue any goal you choose to, but you have to be willing to pay the tax for it.

“He who wants a rose must respect the thorn.” – Persian Proverb.

Time: The Currency of Life

The average human lifespan is around 900 months. If you’re reading this, you’ve probably already used up a sizable proportion of those months. Our entire lives are made up of finite blocks of time. Time is our most scarce and most precious resource. And it dwindles with every passing day.

Time is also a great equalizer. No one has any more or less of it than anyone else. It doesn’t matter who you are, where you live, and how privileged or disadvantaged your life is. We all have the same 24 hours in a day and 365 days in a year.

We use time as a currency for trade. When you take a job or any form of paid employment, you’re basically exchanging time for money. You work for a certain number of hours in a day, and in return, you get paid a certain amount of money.

Time is also a means for showing affection. The most valuable gift you can give someone you care about is your undivided attention i.e. your time. To master any skill or achieve success in any field, it takes hours and hours of practice. Whether it’s money or success or affection, you can have these things, if you’re willing to spend enough time on them.

But our time on this planet is limited. It’s important to acknowledge that when you do one thing, it is at the expense of doing something else. There’s always a trade-off you’re making, whether you’re aware of it or not. So start by at least being cognizant of what you’re choosing to do with your most cherished possession: your time.

Many people try to make the most of their time by using efficient time management techniques to accomplish as much as they possibly can. But such relentless efficiency rarely leads to satisfaction and contentment. This is because no matter how much you do, there’s still more left to do. There’s always the next thing, and the thing after that, and the thing after that. It never ends.

This approach of efficiency and productivity neglects a cold, hard truth: you will die one day, having not done many things you wanted to do. The finite nature of our lives means that several things will necessarily be left undone. That’s why the choices we make are vital.

Instead of trying to do it all, channel your time and energy into the things that truly matter to you. A life spent chasing the mythical state of being able to do everything is less meaningful than a life of focusing on a few things that count. So spend more of your limited time on things that make you happy, and less on things that don’t. But this requires a deeper self-awareness to discern what those things are.

Some people would like to spend most of their time with family and friends. They are nourished by a sense of community. Some find solace in travel and adventure. Some are happiest while pursuing their interests and hobbies. Some come alive when they’re playing a game or sport.

There are as many possibilities as there are humans on this planet. Your preferences can also change over the years. The key is to look inward and be honest with yourself. What brings you joy? What makes your life feel meaningful?

As the years roll by, they are gone forever and will never come back to us. Time is not a renewable resource, and one day, you will run out of it. So value your time. And enjoy it while it lasts.

“Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?”

— Mary Oliver.

The Lift Man – Part 2

If you haven’t already, first read The Lift Man – Part 1

*****

The intense crush of the Mumbai local train is something I never got used to. A sea of bodies squashed together. Limbs upon limbs, knees upon knees. A cocktail stench of perspiration and body odor.

I stood with one hand clutching an overhead railing, and one hand covering my face with a handkerchief. The mass of bodies careened forward and backward in tune with the stops and starts of the train, like one single unibody organism.

It made me remember how I first came to this city.

After I abandoned all hope of ever seeing the outside world again, they decided to let me out of jail. Some judge said there was ‘insufficient evidence’. Such a master of the obvious he was. 

So I could breathe the free air once more, but nobody came to receive me when I got out. Everyone I knew was dead or forgotten. I owned nothing. I wandered from place to place, searching for a job.

I ended up in Mumbai, a city where there is no green grass, only people. They’re everywhere, in every gully, at every corner, on every patch of ground. There are a thousand humans here for every blade of grass in my village.

When I first landed here, I thought it was temporary. I’d get a job, earn some money, then go back to the village. But as I’ve already learnt in life: there’s nothing more permanent than a temporary situation.

The train lurched to a halt at Churchgate station, and I made my way to Asha Bhavan building. As I reached the lift, a pleasant thought struck me. Soon, there’d be one less person in this overflowing city.

The glossy lustre of his shirt, the glimmer of his gold watch, they appeared unbidden before my mind’s eye. Then I saw blood, dark-red and viscous, gushing out of his chest and spilling onto his shirt; his sunglasses clattering to the ground, his head arching backwards, his eyes wide and vacant…

My smile grew broader and broader. Why was I enjoying this so much??

Hours later, I wandered outside. Pankaj, Chawla’s driver, was missing from the communal lunch group. I strolled to the parking lot and saw that Chawla’s Toyota was absent from its reserved spot. I felt a surge of excitement.

“What happened Motu Bhai?”

I turned to see Shankar at his valet post, jingling a bunch of keys.

“Looking for someone?” He asked.

“No, no.”

“Chawla’s out of town, if that’s what you want to know.”

“Chawla?” I spread my arms. “Why would I want to know?”

“You’re standing in his parking spot,” Shankar said. “And who doesn’t want to know about Chawla these days?”

The valet came towards me, leaned in, and whispered. “You know that Chotu who used to deliver newspapers here?”

I nodded vaguely.

“Apparently, he plotted to steal from Chawla…and Narayan Seth.”

“What? What you talking?” I was struggling to keep grasp.

“Narayan Seth is that big builder. Half the new buildings in Parel are built by his company. There was some money laundering scheme that Chawla was running for Narayan Seth using his shop. But Chotu figured it out and he stole something from them worth a crore.”

Shankar shrugged with an exaggerated lift of his shoulders. “Who knows what happened exactly? But Chotu is gone like that,” He snapped his fingers in the air. “No one knows where he went. Narayan Seth lost one crore and he’s maha furious. So Chawla is shitting his pants. He’s hiding somewhere in Pune.”

“Pune,” I murmured.

“Haan, Pankaj has driven him there.”

I furrowed my brow and tried to digest all this.

Shankar took my shoulder and pulled me aside. “It’s not just about what Chotu stole. Even Chawla was skimming money from Narayan Seth. They say he has a secret stash up there.”

He tilted his head, and I followed his look to Chawla’s balcony on the 3^rd floor. That rascal baniya. There was more to him than I thought.

“Anyways,” Shankar straightened. “Back to work.”

He returned to his valet post, and I returned to my steel cage.

*****

One month later, there was still no sign of Chawla. The Russian ubitsy and their twin black boots had not appeared again in my lift.

I wondered if they had ferreted out the baniya from his hiding hole. I hadn’t see any visible weapons on them that day. Did they have a knife in their pockets? A subtle revolver? Or would they do the job with their bare hands? Theirs was such a fascinating trade.

Meanwhile, life at Asha Bhavan returned to its mundane routine. The same crappy train rides. The same boring lunch every day, just me and the flies. My lift rumbling up and down the floors, carrying residents oblivious of my presence as if I were an infinitesimal insect.

Though one day, there was quite a commotion when I arrived at the building. A chubby 6-year-old boy in a red Nike t-shirt was screeching in the middle of the compound, his face red.

“He snatched my biscuits,” He pointed at another boy, about his age, who was in a filthy white banyan and brown shorts. His nose was shriveled and flattened. He stood near Jadhav the watchman, holding a packet of chocolate oreo biscuits behind his back.

Jadhav raised his palm above his shoulder and slapped the banyan-clad boy hard across his face. “Why you did that ha?” 

The boy clutched his cheeks and said nothing.

“I want him in jail, I want him in jail,” The chubby boy said, tugging his mother’s kurta.

His mother, Neelam Madam, squared her hips and surveyed the scene.

“It won’t happen again memsaab,” The watchman assured her. “I’ll teach this brat a lesson.” He clenched his palm for another whack.

“Bas, bas,” Neelam Madam said. “Stop that.”

“He took my biscuit,” Her son said. “My biscuit.”

Neelam Madam addressed the watchman. “Let him keep it.”

“It won’t happen again memsaab,” Jadhav repeated and retreated immediately.

“What’s the meaning of this, Mumma?” The chubby boy demanded. ”He stole my…”

“Yes, yes, I know he took your biscuits,” Neelam Madam said. “But did you stop to think why he did that? Maybe he was hungry. Maybe he’s never eaten biscuits like that.”

“But…but…” Her son looked flustered for a second. Then he found his voice again. “But it was my biscuit.”

“We’ll get you another,” Neelam Madam grabbed his hand and pulled him forward.

After they left, Jadhav gave the banyan-clad boy a savage thump on his back, and the boy scampered away.

The whole episode reminded me of my mother. Whenever I fought with my sister, she would take me aside and tell me: Try to think from her point-of-view. There must be a reason why she acted the way she did. Try to understand what she’s feeling. 

I assume she said the same things to my sister too. My mother was such a sweet lady. God bless her soul.

*****

The next day, I saw the baniya himself, back at Asha Bhavan. 

Chawla wore a rumpled white shirt dotted with brownish stains. His face was full of fresh wrinkles. Dark circles clouded his eyes. His breathing was a bit labored. Throughout the lift ride, he kept blinking and muttering to himself. Then he stumbled off towards his flat.

During my lunch break that day, I did something I hadn’t done since my qaidi days. I went for a smoke. I bought a matchbox and a cigarette pack from the paan-beedi shop down the lane. I went to a quiet alley a few buildings away where a rare patchwork of trees provided some respite from the burning midday sun.

I sucked on a cigarette and exhaled puffs of smoke. I thought about Chawla. He was obviously mired in some deep shit. Builders like Narayan Seth are not people you mess with.

I recalled overhearing a conversation between watchmen about how Chawla’s son was in jail. I’d also heard that his wife had some serious illness. Maybe cancer? Or was it M.S.?

Either ways, he clearly had his troubles. Why was I so keen to wish him dead? Because he yelled at me and forced me to stand on my feet? Was I really such a vindictive psychopath?

I took another puff and reflected further.

Perhaps my sadistic glee at the prospect of Chawla’s imminent demise had nothing to do with the baniya. An anger has long simmered under my subconscious. I have many things to be angry about.

That bastard Inspector who branded me a murderer. Me, a man of science, who never harmed a soul. That Municipal Corporator who created such a stink and pressurized everyone. A judicial system that was rigged against me and never gave me a fair chance. Even that stupid girl for dying outside my house. Why couldn’t she have died somewhere else??

I dropped the cigarette butt to the ground and crushed it with my heel. Then I lit up another and unfurled more black fumes.

When I looked up, my face turned ashen.

The two xerox copies stood smoking away. Tall and sandy-haired, with their chiseled features and muscular physiques.

For a moment, I froze. My palms became clammy. A wave of panic submerged me. This was not some Bollywood film. These were killers. Real killers.

The wave passed over, and I found myself taking a step towards them. I can’t explain what got into me. I looked away, pretending to be immersed in my smoke, but I cocked my ears to decipher the heavy Russian accents.

“….the snake is finally out of the grass,” Mr. Mole was saying.

“We’ll get him on Sunday, when his wife and daughter are away visiting his in-laws.”

“Why can’t we do him today?”

“It’ll be cleaner with the family gone.”

Mr. Mole tossed his cigarette aside and brushed his hand dismissively. “Let’s just get this over with and move on.”

“We will. Soon.”

Mr. Mole shook his head.

“Sergei,” Mr. Spotless said. “20 years in the game, and we’ve never failed to execute a contract. And we won’t start now.”

Mr. Mole grinned and nodded. “Sunday it is then.”

I got the feeling that if I lingered any longer, I would attract their attention. Although I doubt they had any inkling that a haggard old fogey like me could understand their language.

In any case, I stomped out my cigarette and walked down the lane. I sneaked a glance behind me. No one there, but I quickened my pace all the same.

My brisk walk turned into a jog. By the time, Asha Bhavan came into view, I was running and panting for breath.

I had to tell him. Chawla was an obnoxious haraami but he didn’t deserve to die. I’d tell him everything I heard about the Russians and their plans.

I dashed through the building compound, into the corridor where a sweeper with a tall mop and a bucket of water passed me on his way out. My lungs cried for air, but I raced onwards.

Suddenly, my legs skidded on the slick surface, my body wobbled, my arms flailed. I plummeted down face-first on the floor. My forehead erupted and blood sprayed, dark-red and viscous, just as I had pictured it in my head. Only it was on my shirt, not Chawla’s like in my visions.

I turned over and pressed both palms against my temple. But the red liquid flowed unrelenting, dripping down my nose and cheeks and slipping into my mouth. It tasted so warm.

“Help,” I croaked, and tried to lift my neck.

I didn’t see anyone there. My eyelids fluttered. My vision blurred. This was it. This was how it ends. Right there outside my daily cage is where I would breathe my last. It almost made me chuckle.

“Motu Bhai?” A voice called, sounding like a distant echo.

Shankar’s bearded face appeared. He gaped at me, then turned to holler. “Jadhav Bhai. Call someone fast. We have to take Vishwanath to the hospital…”

It felt nice to hear my first name after ages. I wanted to smile but my face hurt too much. My forehead burned like a scorching volcano, spewing red lava.

More footsteps, heavy on the granite tiles.

“What’s this?” It was Chawla’s jarring voice.

“He had a fall…” Shankar began.

“Must be drunk on the job,” Chawla said. “Useless bhadwa.”

The baniya stepped over me like I was a pile of garbage. His bulky shoes plodded down the corridor. That was the last thing I saw, before I succumbed to the darkness…

*****

For three days, I lay flat on my bed, studying the cracks and damp patches on the ceiling of my shack. The doctor at the municipal hospital had fixed up my wounds, but I had lost lot of blood and needed time to heal.

On the fourth day, I emerged from my cave. I went back to Asha Bhavan, back to the lift, back to the daily grind. The chunky white bandages that encircled my head drew sympathetic looks.

“How you doing?” Jadhav asked.

“Hmm.”

“Does it still hurt?” Shankar asked.

“Hmm.”

That’s all I had to say to them. Nothing more.

I spent the day in stoic silence. Then I collected my things and left for Churchgate station. While waiting for my train, I saw a man sprawled on the platform like a crumpled plastic bag that someone had casually discarded.

He had no shirt, only tattered grey pants. He had a scruffy beard and barely any flesh on his body. Bony ribs stuck out awkwardly from his chest. His arms were extended outwards with gnarled fingers and mutilated palms full of scratches and scars. Dark green veins ran down the length of his pencil-thin forearms. His right knee was bent at a grotesque angle.

The train commuters bustled around, paying him no heed. Office-going men and college students with backpacks. Saree-clad women and young couples. They all stepped around him or over him. No one stopped to see what had happened to him. No one even gave him a second glance.

I went to him and squatted down. I saw that his lips had peeled off and many of his teeth were half chipped. He was moaning softly and muttering something.

“Platform number teen pe aane wale local…” The announcements blared on the loudspeaker, as a train hurtled towards the platform.

I leaned forward to hear the man’s words.

“How long will I wait?” His voice was raspy as though his throat was full of sand. “How much longer will I wait?”

“What are you waiting for?” I asked.

“How long?” He repeated. “How long will I have to wait?”

I took out my water bottle and brought it to his mouth. He lifted his head and guzzled a few sips.

“Should I get a doctor?” I asked.

He shook his head, though it took him some effort.

“Any family I can contact? Mother, father? Brother? Sister?”

He turned his face away from me.

My train was soon to depart, so I stood to go. The man rolled over and whimpered. Something made me bend down again.

“How long will I wait?” He asked the wind. “How long?”

“What you waiting for bhai?” I said.

His lips parted but only a gurgle came out. I went closer and he inclined his head towards me.

“For death.”

The words struck me like a punch in the gut. The man let his head sink back onto the hard concrete platform and turned on his side.

My train came and went but I made no move towards it. My body had become inert. I remained there, in my squatting position, for god knows how long.

For death.

That’s what this man’s life had come to. A long, agonizing interlude until the sweet release of death.

I eventually made myself walk away. I took the next train and went home in a daze. The sprawled man’s words kept reverberating inside me.

How long will I wait?

My future flashed before my eyes. Endless days spent in the lonely lift and the squalor of my home. Nothing to do, no one to care. I would end up just like him. A decayed human heap, waiting to die alone.

How long will I wait?

They say every seven years, each cell of your body dies and is replaced. But my replacements were wearing thin. The light inside me was fading. There was hardly a flicker left. Before long, my flame would be extinguished in a wisp of smoke.

Unless I did something about it…

*****

I marched into work next day with purposeful strides. Jadhav bobbed up from his watchman’s chair when he saw me. 

“Motu…” He began.

I blazed past him.

“They’re going to remove you from your job,” He called after me.

I turned and glared.

“That’s what I heard,” The watchman nodded gravely. “Many complaints have gone to the Society Chairman about you being asleep in the afternoons. And when you were recovering from your fall, they hired a temporary guy, who was much younger….the residents seemed to like him…”

“They won’t do it today, will they?” I said. “Today’s Sunday.”

“Haan, maybe tomorrow. I just wanted to warn you…”

I was gone before he could say more. I reached my lift and sat down with a forceful clench of my jaw. I looked around those steel walls, those rusted black bars. For once, it didn’t feel like a cage. Today it felt like a passport to another life.

The morning was a blur. I didn’t notice when I had my lunch. Afterwards, I splashed water on my face to stay awake. And I waited.

I didn’t sit down for a single moment that afternoon. I took one step outside the lift, then a step back inside. Out and in, in and out, again and again. My eyes remained riveted to the corridor. I fidgeted with my shirt button till it nearly came off. The hours, minutes, and seconds passed so achingly slow.

Finally, they came.

The two xerox copies, shirted and booted. I dared a look before averting my gaze. I saw something, the tiniest of bulges at their waists. Could’ve been a gun, or something else.

Mr. Mole, who I now knew as Sergei, raised three fingers, and I obeyed. This time, they didn’t exchange a single word of conversation during the ride up. When I dropped them off, a tremor ran through my body from head to toe.

The game was afoot. The current in the air was palpable.

I went back down, kept the lift door closed, and waited.

Ten minutes passed. Thirty minutes. Fifty minutes.

How much time does it take to finish a fat baniya??

They must be searching too, I realized. And suddenly my hopes dimmed.

Just then, the lift buzzed and pulsated, and rose upwards. To the 3^rd floor. The two ubitsy entered with taut muscles and erect postures. Their faces gave nothing away.

After they got off, I inched outside to the corridor. I watched them walk away, wondering if I would ever see those two again.

I quickly dismissed the thought and went back to the lift. I closed the door and pressed ‘3’.

When the lift halted, I drew in an extended breath to fill my belly, and let it out gradually. Then, I went to Chawla’s flat. The door was locked but not latched. I had planned for this. It was a wooden door with the locking mechanism on one side.

During my student days, I was a glutton for random knowledge. I once took a locksmith course on the side, just for fun. Never thought I’d use that.

I squinted at the keyhole. The fundamentals of locks had mercifully remained the same. First, I took a hefty ladies’ hair pin and inserted it into the lower part of the lock to apply the appropriate pressure. Next, I put in a bent paperclip and wiggled it till I heard a series of satisfying clicks for alignment. All the while, I kept one eye behind me and my ears perked.

I silenced my breath. I looked left and right to ensure no nosy neighbors were around. I turned the pin and eased myself into the flat.

First thing I saw was Chawla lying spread-eagled on the floor. His eyes were tightly shut. His arms were limp by his side. But there was no wound whatsoever, no sign of any blood. I marveled at the craft of the Russian ubitsy. So clean and pristine. Real artists they were.

As it happens, I’d seen a dead body before. That bloody girl who haunted my dreams. So I knew the signs. The floppiness of the muscles, the paleness of the skin. And the smell. Death has a particular smell.

That same odor emanated from the baniya’s stationary frame. There was a strange serenity about him too, as though he had found peace within.

I sidestepped the motionless body and walked to the drawing room. My eyes widened and my jaw hung open. 

The sofa cushions were torn from the inside out. Tables and chairs were upturned. Cabinet drawers were removed and their contents scattered. Identical scenes were replicated in the kitchen and bedrooms. Cupboards had been cleaned out. Bartans and clothes were strewn all over.

I hunted for a spot that was still untouched. A futile effort. Every square centimeter had been ransacked with immaculate thoroughness. If there was a secret stash of money that Chawla kept, the Russians would have found it.

My face deflated like a punctured balloon and the remnants of optimism leaked out. I plonked down on the cushion-less sofa, defeated.

I sat there for a while, when my stomach stirred, demanding to be fed. I idly walked over to the kitchen and opened the fridge. The shelves were sparsely populated. A half-eaten cabbage, a stray apple.

I shook my head and headed towards the front door. The fridge swung shut behind me with a pronounced thud that made me pause mid-stride.

That didn’t sound normal.

I went back to the fridge and examined the door shelves. Nothing but a half-empty milk carton. Yet it felt heavier than it should have.

I put a ear to the outside of the door and tapped it with my fingers. I heard a muffled sort of echo. Weirder and weirder.

I shook the fridge door vigorously. Something shifted inside. It was subtle but unmistakable. I put both hands on the rubber gasket, and mustering all the force I could, I wrenched it off.

I fell backwards to the floor. Before I could blink, it was raining money. Bundles and bundles of crisp 500 rupee notes tumbled on top of me. Each bundle was securely tied with double rubber-bands. I picked one up and flipped through the ends of the notes. I closed my eyes and inhaled the intoxicating aroma. My face suffused with a warm glow.

Chawla, you magnificent bastard!!

The tricksy baniya fooled us all. Almost. He had hidden his stash so perfectly that the Russians gave up looking. God bless his soul.

*****

Six months have passed since that day…

I won’t tell you where I am now. Someplace far away and quiet. No, I didn’t go back to my village. I’m not that stupid. That’s the first place they’d go looking for me.

The money, my money, is buried in four different locations. I’ve memorized the exact coordinates, and I know how to work a compass.

I had been imprisoned for 25 years, but only now, for the first time, I’ve broken the law. That feels good. Like a sort of twisted version of justice. I’d done the time, so might as well commit some crime.

The days pass in a leisurely manner. I do my morning yoga. I walk to buy veggies and chit-chat with the vendor. I cook for myself. After lunch, I laze around and fall asleep with a newspaper in my lap.

Still, there are days when fear wraps its tentacles around me. I stop in front of store display windows, looking for lurkers in the reflection of the glass. If I see black boots and hear their clacking on the ground, my heart palpitates and my innards turn to soup. My mind conjures up images of the Russians with their compact, concealed pistols.

They must be still hunting for me. They could find me anytime, and that would be the end for me. Sometimes I can’t fathom the danger I’ve put myself in. 

Yet I don’t mind it. The restive fear, the omnipresent tension, they make me feel vibrantly alive. I haven’t felt this way in a long, long time. A second innings of life has begun. I can do anything I want to, I can become anyone I choose to. New adventures beckon…

The Lift Man – Part 1

They call me Motu, probably because of my thick thighs and rotund belly that sags like a sack of potatoes. My real name is Vishwanath Vasudev Kharwa, but nobody ever called me that. My mother used to call me Vishy, god bless her soul. She’s gone now. My father’s gone too. And my sister. They’re all gone. No one left on this planet but me.

When I was in the village, we slept on charpai cots under the stars, surrounded by open fields with fresh green grass. A mighty peepal tree spread its branches wide and gifted us fleshy fruit in the summer. We had our squabbles, but by and large had a serene existence. Until that day when our lives were upended forever…

I try to forget all that and remember the happy times instead. Once I was the headmaster in my village and the most learned man for hundreds of kilometers. They used to call me Masterji. Boys and girls would bend over and touch my feet. I taught them Maths, Science, History, Geography, everything. I was a man of respect then.

Now what am I? A man who opens and closes a black grille door, and presses buttons numbered 1 to 7. Four stainless steel walls make my cage. One white plastic stool with wobbly legs. A wheezing fan above, as noisy as it is useless in circulating air. I spend hours catching flies and gazing at my own hazy reflection on those walls.

The skin on my face is cracked, my lips are chapped, and strands of white hair peel out of my ears. When I was 5 years old, everyone in the village said I had bright, beautiful eyes. Now at 65, what’s left of them is two faded black balls shrinking deep into their sockets.

*****

“Lift man?” A shrill voice snapped. “What you sleeping there?”

I hastily scrambled to my feet. Neelam Madam was in a flush peach-colored salwar-kurta. She stepped inside the lift and a whiff of her lemony perfume wafted into my nostrils.

I closed the door with a rattle and pressed ‘7’. The lift juddered and grumbled before finally acceding to climb upwards.

Neelam Madam’s lips were pressed together, her face wound up tight, her eyes lasered on the mobile device that emerged from her purse. She said nothing to me. I was invisible to her. Even the flies got more acknowledgement of their existence when she swatted them away.

I let her out on her floor and went back down in my empty cage. The only qualification needed for my job is the ability to count to seven. No one cares that I’m a college graduate, that I understand differential calculus, that I speak five different languages.

The rest of the morning passed slowly. The flies kept buzzing from wall to wall. I admired their vigor, while I sat planted on the stool that was barely able to withstand my weight.

At noon, I stood and stretched my creaky bones. I lumbered out of the building and the biting glare of the sun made me raise a palm to shield my face.

Voices rang out from a shaded corner of Asha Bhavan building.

“…what a shot…”

“…India’s winning this…”

“I’m telling you, Hardik Pandya is the best allrounder we’ve had since Kapil Dev….”

“Were you even alive in Kapil Dev’s time??”

A group of building workers hovered around the watchman’s table. A mobile phone perched on top of the entry log book, played the match. Flanking it were open steel dabbas with neat little compartments of rice, roti and sabzi. A community lunch where everyone contributed and everyone partook.

There was Jadhav, the building watchman in his blue khaki uniform who loosened a belt buckle and sat back; Shankar, the building valet in charge of the cars; Pankaj, a bald gangly man who was Chawla saab’s driver, and few other drivers and cooks.

Somehow, I was not part of this clique. Maybe it’s because of my job stature. A lift man is the lowest form of life in a building, below watchmen, drivers, cooks, sweepers, everybody. I’ve also heard them say that I smell weird. I wouldn’t know how I smell, but I’ve seen the wet patch of sweat that perennially occupies my armpits.

Or could it be because of my past?? No, I don’t think so. No one here knows that story.

“Kya haal, Motu Bhai?”

Shankar walked over and was towering over me. He was all of six feet tall with a protruding chin and a beard that swamped his face.

“Did you get your Aadhar card finally?” He asked.

I shook my head.

“It’s easy, you can apply online,” Shankar whipped out his mobile, tapped some buttons, and showed me the screen. “Go to this website, fill up the details like your name, mobile number, birthdate.”

I blinked and stared. During all those lost years, the world had passed me by. These new-fangled gadgets and apps and what-not-all, they bounced way above my head.

Before I was the man who knew it all. Children came to me from three villages over with their questions:

Masterji, what causes rainbows?

Masterji, which is the biggest animal in the world?

Masterji, how far away is London?

There was no Google in those days, I was their Google. And I loved it. I was a man with a reputation. Now, I’m a pitiful old dinosaur who can’t tell ABC of their devices. Too much had changed.

“It’s not that tough, Motu Bhai,” Shankar caught my blank look. “If you can’t manage, I’ll do it for you.”

The colossal prick actually tried to sound magnanimous.

A ripple of laughter came from the other side of the building, and high-fives broke out between the group of watchmen and drivers watching the match.

“Chal, I’ve to go,” Shankar said. He half-turned, then hesitated. For a brief moment, I thought he was going to invite me to join them. I liked cricket too. I was even around in Kapil Dev’s time. I could’ve participated in their discussion.

“See you later, Motu Bhai,” Shankar said, and started walking.

My mouth opened, but no words were heard. I had my own dabba to contribute to their lunch. Maybe I should walk over there.

Or maybe all these chutiyas can go fuck themselves.

Their trailing laughter echoed in my ears as I retreated to my lift and descended onto the stool. I pulled the grille door half-closed and brought out my lunch. One pithy cheese sandwich, sitting alone in a plastic dabba. No wafers next to it, no ketchup to accompany it.

I bit and chewed and stared opaquely at the black bars of the lift door with their zigzag pattern that looked like rows of X’s. Their rusted metal smell, their cold touch. They felt so familiar, like they were a part of me.

After the food reached my belly, I swiveled sideways and rested my back on the wall. The mid-afternoon heat dulled my senses. My head started to sag to one side. Soon, I lost track of time…

“Lift Man!” A voice bellowed into my face, and made me jump up.

I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and when the blur cleared, I saw Chawla, the Sindhi baniya who owned a shop in Colaba. He wore a shiny purple shirt, a gold wristwatch, and sunglasses tilted above his forehead. The size of his bulging belly matched my own.

“I’ve been standing here for five minutes while you snore away.”

“Sorry saab, sorry,” I mumbled.

Chawla’s eyes were large and distinctive like billiard balls. They bore into me as he stepped inside.

“Why did we hire a lazy saand like you?” He said, as the lift began its ascent. His grating voice bounced around the confined space and drilled into my ear. “I’ll talk to the chairman and get you fired, you wait and see…this behavior will not be tolerated…”

And on and on he went.

It felt like an hour before the 3^rd floor arrived. Chawla took one step outside, stopped, and turned.

“From now on, I want you standing at all times,” He hooked an accusing finger towards me. “I don’t care if no residents are coming or going, you have to be standing up. Always.”

My chin slumped to my chest. Decades of continuous standing in my past life had left permanent blisters on the soles of my feet. A meld of purple-black blotches were evidence of that, and the sharp pain that shot up my ankles. But how to explain all that?

“DO. YOU. UNDERSTAND?” Chawla barked, his belly heaving up and down.

I didn’t respond, but my shoulders drooped and my eyes cast downwards. I waited a full minute after he stormed off, and only then closed the door. I went back down in my empty cage.

*****

“Please saab,” I joined my palms and pleaded. “Please….you know I didn’t do this…”

Inspecter Saab shifted his weight from one foot to the other, and revealed a tiny glint of indecision in his eyes. But it fast disappeared, replaced by a mask of indifference.

“Take him away,” He ordered his subordinates.

My hands were twisted behind my back and sharp steel handcuffs snapped onto my wrists.

“I didn’t do this,” My voice rose in pitch and volume till it hit an ultrasonic high. “You know I didn’t do this….”

Rough arms seized my shoulders and shoved me forward. I screamed and wriggled, but a palm clamped around the back of my neck and steered me towards a dusty white jeep with a red siren whirring above…

I awoke with a startle and hopped to my feet. Bitter-tasting saliva filled my mouth and drooled from my lips. I took out a handkerchief and wiped my face in disgust. I peered into the reflective steel walls of the lift and straightened my hair.

The incident that ravaged my life would regurgitate again and again in my nightmares. Like a bile in my stomach that just wouldn’t go away.

I was still the village headmaster when the bleeding body of a teenage girl washed up in the gutter near my house. I discovered it in the morning and reported it to the police. She turned out to be the daughter of a bigshot Municipal Corporator who raised a ruckus.

The pressure on the local inspector was intense. You could tell by the knot in his face and the restless tugs of his moustache. They couldn’t find the killer, so the lazy, spineless scoundrels pinned the murder on me.

They concocted a story about an illicit affair and fabricated some evidence. The judge denied me bail. I found myself behind bars for supposedly killing a girl I’d never seen before.

Jail for a qaidi is punishment for the entire family. My parents sold their land to pay for the protracted legal battle that followed. I was never convicted, but I remained under trial for what felt like a lifetime.

Under-trials in jail are like the kachra that overflows from the dustbin. We were crammed into a temporary hall by the thousands where we crawled around like insects. We bounced from one courtroom to another, awaiting trial dates. Sometimes a lawyer was unavailable, sometimes a document went missing.

That ’temporary’ incarceration went on for 25 years. During that time, my father died of a heart attack, my sister never got married. And my mother? On her countless visits to jail, I saw the lines being etched on her face, and the life-force ebbing from her pores, bit-by-bit, till there was nothing left…

I shook myself to return to the present. The past was a whirlpool, always ready to suck me in. Those memories were so full of pain and loss that I had to trample upon them and shovel them into dark corners of my mind.

Two sets of polished black boots appeared in front of the lift and forced me to snap out of it. Two men with smooth shirts tucked into thin belts and trimmed trousers. Firangs obviously, from their milky-white skin and sandy-brown hair. They had rigid faces and sharp jawlines. One had a small black mole on his cheek, the other’s face was spotless. Apart from that, they were xerox copies of each other.

Both stood ramrod straight in the lift with their arms stiff by their sides. The one with the mole raised three fingers to indicate the floor. When the lift started moving, they started speaking.

“Why do we have to dress like this?” Mr. Mole said in thick, accented Russian, a language I had studied during my M.A. degree. Though my knowledge was rusty, I got the gist of it.

“We look like mudaks.” It was a Russian word for chutiyas.

“The boss said we’re to look professional,” Mr. Spotless said. “Else they’d have sent Sharad Bhai and his goons to do the job.”

“Look professional?” A snigger. “We’re ubitsy.”

The Russian word for assassins has a peculiar malevolent ring to it, and it made me quiver abruptly. I swallowed a breath and willed myself to not glance behind.

“This man’s a shopkeeper, so we should look like we’re representing a company or selling something,” Mr. Spotless shrugged.

Mr. Mole muttered something indistinct.

“Narayan wants the fat fuck finished off in his own home. He was clear about that,” Mr. Spotless said. “This is personal to him. He has zero tolerance for anyone who tries to steal from him.”

The lift grunted to a halt at the 3^rd floor. My chest thumped and my hands tingled a little as I pulled aside the door. I kept my gaze steadfastly at the floor while the twin black boots exited the lift and turned left in lockstep with each other. They made a clacking sound against the granite flooring.

Asha Bhavan had never seen a murder in fifty years. I knew who they were going to kill. The world would be a better place without him.

*****

TO BE CONTINUED….

Read further: The Lift Man – Part 2

Know Yourself

Most of us lead mechanical lives. All our reactions and choices are conditioned by what we’ve learned from society, from people around us. We are like machines.

Someone tells you, “That t-shirt looks amazing on you.”

You start to blush and feel good about yourself.

Then someone tells you, “That t-shirt makes you look fat.”

You feel angry with the other person, and bad about yourself.

Aren’t we all just little puppets? Press a button and get a reaction.

We pick colleges, careers, and jobs under the influence of our peers. We’ve forgotten who we are, what we really wanted, what our intention was. Instead, we become the average of the people we spend the most time with.

But why not become a perfect version of yourself, rather than a poor copy of someone else?

“To be yourself in a world that is constantly trying to make you something else is the greatest accomplishment.” Ralph Waldo Emerson.

But to be yourself, you must first know yourself.

There is a broader obsession with self-improvement these days. The top selling books are all self-help books. There’s nothing wrong with trying to improve, but how many people bother to first understand themselves?

Self-awareness is far more important. Otherwise, you will forever be trying to “fix” yourself, always swimming against the current, forcing a square peg into a round hole.

First, know yourself. Discover who you are and what makes you tick.

How do you build self-awareness? Some people write their thoughts in a journal and over time glean insights about themselves from their writings. Some look back at their childhood photos, reminisce about who they were then and who they are now, and identify the core parts of them that always stay unchanged. Others discover themselves by constantly exploring new places, having new experiences, and doing activities that bring them joy.

In truth, no one can give you a definitive method or technique for self-awareness. You have to find your own way. Observe yourself. Pay attention. Notice patterns. Introspect and dive deep into yourself.

Think of a scientist studying the behavior of birds. He wants to learn as much as possible about the birds. He has no other aim. He is not trying to train them or change them. He’s only interested in observing and understanding them.

The day you attain a posture like that about yourself, you will be on the path to self-awareness.

Study yourself. It is the most important subject you’ll ever learn.

“The unexamined life is not worth living.” Socrates.

It is likely that you’ll learn the most about yourself in times of challenge and hardship rather than in times of comfort and convenience. In those moments of suffering and agony, your true nature may reveal itself.

There are many things you can learn: What do you want? What do you fear? What gives you joy? What causes you pain? What are you good at? What are your limitations?

It will take courage and humility to accept yourself, for you may learn things that are not to your liking. You might discover your own pettiness, your controlling or vindictive nature, or cowardice, or any number of other unflattering qualities. It won’t be easy to accept these hard truths about yourself. Acceptance doesn’t mean you can’t change or improve. But don’t be in denial. Acknowledge your flaws and failings, and then build from there.

It may take a while, but you will find that there is nothing more delightful and liberating than self-awareness. When you know who you are, you can choose a life that resonates with your innate nature. You can be comfortable in your own skin, and people won’t be able to hurt you so easily.

You will be able to make peace with your past, forgive yourself for the choices and mistakes you made, and let go of your regrets.

You will understand your own struggles and suffering. When you’re reading a book or watching a movie or show, you can empathize with the characters and feel for their suffering. In the same way, you will finally be able to understand and empathize with your own suffering. And when you understand something, it no longer has a hold over you. You can accept it, and let it go.

You will be able to live purposefully and create meaning in your life. You will naturally gravitate towards things that bring you joy. You will be able to make decisions quickly and instinctively.

When you are in tune with yourself, you might find that large parts of your life flow effortlessly. There is a certain lightness of being that comes from living an authentic life.

“Know the truth, and the truth shall set you free.” The Bible.

Know yourself, and you will always be free.

 

The Delivery Boy – Part 2

If you haven’t already, first read The Delivery Boy – Part 1

*****

I decided to follow Chawla again.

This time, I borrowed a bicycle. Mumbai’s rush hour traffic crawls like a snail in a park, so a bike can keep up with a car.

I could have taken the dagger from the garbage or the diya stand before that, and gotten some money for it.

God knows I needed the money. Fifteen thousand rupees in five more days, or that chaprasi would throw Pinky out.

But I didn’t take the dagger nor the diya. I had to know what the game was first. No Sindhi baniya could be stupid enough to throw out something worth 10 lakhs.

Chawla went to his shop. I stopped a safe distance away and waited till that pesky Pankaj went off on his lunch break.

A group of white firangs opened the door, setting off a little bell. Leaving my bike on the footpath, I slipped inside behind them, and ducked into the aisle to the left, while Chawla looked at the foreigners with his big baniya eyes.

The shop racks were stacked high with statues and t-shirts and photo frames, high enough that I could be unseen in the aisle, yet able to watch my bike through the window. It helped that I was short and dark and practically invisible to most.

Customers came and went, until there was an afternoon lull. I heard Chawla shuffle towards my aisle. I crouched behind a rack of ‘I-Love-Mumbai’ t-shirts.

Luckily, the bell on the door tinkled again.

“Not here,” Chawla gasped. “I told you not here.”

I peeked around the rack and immediately recognized the big man with biceps like footballs and hanging gold chains. The hockey stick from before was replaced by a black plastic bag in his hand.

Bundles of crisp 500 rupee notes came out from the bag, as Chawla staggered behind the counter to put them away.

“Thakur, don’t do this here,” Chawla remonstrated with his hands.

The big brute shrugged. He kept planting notes on the counter, and Chawla kept tucking them below.

“How much…?”

“It’s 50 lakhs.”

Through the window, I saw a pair of boys on the road outside eyeing my bike.

“It’s too much,” The baniya sputtered. “I can’t take…”

“You’ve already taken it,” Thakur laughed, making a sound like the braying of a horse.

“I…I can’t…”

“Narayan Seth doesn’t want dirty cash from Sharad Bhai. He wants his money cleaned,” Thakur said. “You got to bid the highest for the item you’re told about…”

“Yes, items sold by Narayan Seth’s companies,” Chawla said. “And then white money gets deposited into his accounts….I know how the system works Thakur, but the amounts are too much now. How do I show 50 lakhs in my books??”

Outside, the boys crossed the road and moved towards my bike.

“Your son would be rotting in jail if Narayan Seth had not intervened,” Thakur said. “Have you forgotten already?”

“I know but…”

Thakur suddenly yanked Chawla’s collar. He flipped out a pocket knife and leaned in. “Looks like you need more convincing.”

Chawla’s eyes were wide with fright. His hands shot up in submission. The gawdy gold of his wristwatch matched Thakur’s dangling chains.

I glanced outside to see the boys examining my bike closely. I thought I saw Shankar across the road. What was he doing here??

I blinked and looked again, but he was gone. That bearded bastard was in my head, invading my thoughts.

Thakur released Chawla, and straightened.

“You’ll be told what to bid for in the usual way,” Thakur said, and turned towards the door. He paused and looked back at Chawla. “What do you do with the items?”

“Nothing, I don’t like keeping them, so I chuck them out.”

“You fool…”

“They are worthless junk anyways. I know they look like original antiques and get appraised, but they are really rubbish, only a way of getting Narayan Seth his money in white.”

“You have this store,” Thakur spread his arms. “Just sell them here.”

One of the boys outside was on the bike, and pedaling away.

“Oye,” I shouted, and dashed to the door. Thakur and Chawla stared at me.

One boy ran on foot, the other on the bike.

“Stop,” I ran after them.

The boy on the bike tried to veer past pedestrians, and lost his balance. The bike came crashing down with his legs under it.

He managed to get up and hobble off by the time I got there. I had no time to chase these fools. I got on the bike and pedaled like hell, turning left and right at random.

I didn’t stop till Chawla’s shop was a few zip codes behind me…

*****

The next day, I washed the Volkswagen absently, while Mukund and Keshav looked on.

“You’ve been coming late these days,” Keshav said to me. “Usually, you’re on time.”

“You haven’t heard?” Mukund nudged him.

“Heard what?”

“The Bhatias moved out of Asha Bhavan to go live with their son.”

“Bhatias…?”

“The Hondas are gone,” Mukund explained. “Both of them.”

“Oh,” Keshav’s eyebrows shot up. “So Chotu now has the Volkswagen and…”

“Only the Maruti.”

Keshav nodded solemnly. “Also the newspapers.”

“Your bike fell,” I told Mukund. “The handle is broken. I’ll get it fixed before returning it.”

Mukund stepped towards me with that squirrelly walk of his. He put a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t stress too much, Chotu.”

He left his hand there, and for a brief moment I felt a kinship. Like I wasn’t alone in my misery, and we were all in this together.

The building watchman, Jadhav, approached us. He was in his blue khaki uniform, and his stomach bulged outward, eager to escape from the confines of his shirt.

“Chotu, I’ve to talk to you,” He said. “The residents have complained that their newspapers came late last week.”

“Once or twice,” I said.

“And also,” He tugged his belt buckle. “The papers were wet.”

“Jadhav Bhai,” Mukund said. “Is it Chotu’s fault that there was unseasonal rain in October?”

Jadhav held up a hand. “I’m only relaying the message.”

“Arrey but…”

“The society chairman has said that if more complaints come, he will ask for Chotu to be replaced.”

I stared at him with eyeballs of fire. But I said nothing.

The watchman turned and shuffled away.

“Don’t worry,” Mukund said. “They can’t fire you for such a stupid reason.”

“They can,” I said sardonically. “And they will.”

A silence swept over the Asha Bhavan parking lot, as everyone went back to their work.

“You’ll be alright,” Keshav said. “It’ll take time but you can save money, pay whoever you need to, and get that job at the online shop.”

“How much time?” I said. “5 years? 10 years?”

I had only four days before the chaprasi’s ultimatum…

I was sick of getting my tail twisted like a monkey. I was done being a puppet in the game show of life.

My phone buzzed with a text. It was from Sanjay Sharma, and had a list of item numbers with pictures and prices.

It buzzed again. Jaggu, who I knew from a past delivery job at Chor Bazaar, simply wrote: ‘It’s on.’

I smiled. It was time to play my own game…

*****

Color printouts cost 50 bucks a page! It’s outrageous. These rascals with the little print shops are looting the public.

The item I’d chosen was a white cricket ball used in the final of 2011 World Cup, autographed by the man himself: Mahendra Singh Dhoni. Our captain, who finished it with a six launched into the Mumbai night sky, sending the Wankhede crowd into raptures.

It was a moment no Indian would forget. They better not. My deal with Jaggu depended on it.

I reached Asha Bhavan early, before the first light of the sun, before the night watchman stirred from his slumber, before even the milkman.

I crouched near Chawla’s door, silencing my breath. I compared the printout there with the one from my bag. My item number was scribbled in red at the same spot on the page.

All I had to do was to leave my printout where I found the other.

Then the wait began…

*****

The building garbage dump became the center of my existence. The ball didn’t appear the next day, nor the day after.

Where was it??

One more day left to pay the chaprasi principal…

I texted Sharma frantically, and he confirmed that the Dhoni ball had been purchased by a fat Sindhi baniya.

I was gazing lustily at the garbage, when a voice called out. “Chotu.”

I turned to see Neelam madam in a yellow salwar-kameez with the usual silver bracelet. Her expression was grave.

“You’ve been coming late,” She said. “You’ve been distracted. The car has not been as clean as normal.”

Her voice was soft and measured. To me, it sounded like the tolling of a death knell.

“I’m sorry,” She said.

A bile rose in my stomach to my chest, constricting my lungs, and bitter in my mouth.

“I have to let you go,” She said.

My mouth opened. There were words in there for sure, but what came out was a gurgling sound. No matter. The drooping of my shoulders and shrinking of my eyes said what needed to be said.

“I’ve found somebody else,” She went on. “Don’t take the keys from tomorrow.”

She stood there for a moment, waiting for a reaction. Then she turned to Shankar and nodded.

He brought the Volkswagen around and opened the door for her. I thought I saw him smirk.

He saluted and gently closed the door after madam was inside.

Oh yes, the bearded bastard was definitely smirking. I wanted to rip his face off and kick it like a football.

I watched her drive away. My beautiful blue Volkswagen, who I had scrubbed so dearly and for so long, whose every inch I kept spotless.

She eased out of the parking lot, out of the lane, out of my life.

A hand came on my shoulder. It was Mukund. He and Keshav had seen everything.

I shrugged off his hand and walked away. My train ride back to Dharavi felt like the longest train ride I’d ever taken. The city flew by me. Residential skyscrapers under construction, swanky shopping malls, new bridges and highways.

But I didn’t see any of that. I saw the filthy train tracks, the family of four living in a tent near garbage, the stray dog hobbling and twisting its neck to lick an injured back leg.

That was my world. Not the one above, but the one below.

I reached home and found Pinky curled up in one corner, her legs tucked under her body, scribbling in a notebook. She was in an oversized grey t-shirt and denim shorts.

“What you doing home so early?” I stared at her. “And where is your school uniform?”

“I had to give it back,” She replied without looking up.

“Back to whom??”

“They take the uniform back on a student’s last day.”

“Last day,” I sputtered. “Last day….”

Pinky looked at me. I saw that her school bag had disappeared too.

“Did that bastard Shirodkar…”

Pinky nodded with her eyes.

“It’s one day early,” I shouted. “He said one week.”

“Bhaiya, it’s not like we could pay him fifteen thousand rupees by tomorrow anyways,” She said. “He must have assumed that…”

“Oh he assumed, did he?” My voice dripped with venom. “The chaprasi had the audacity to assume that a pathetic loser like me wouldn’t pay him.”

Burning lava from an active volcano rose up my spine and cauterized my head.

“At least they let me keep my notebook,” Pinky said.

My forehead began pulsating. It was the same volcano which had exploded the other day. It was my fault that my baby sister was no longer in school, and had nothing but a notebook left. It was my fault that Neelam madam cut me off from my Volkswagen.

It was my fault. Not greedy principals or bearded valets.

I watched Pinky sit there immersed in her notebook. On the day of our father’s funeral, I swore I would take care of her. She was my responsibility.

I was responsible. For everything. Me and me alone.

*****

I went back to Asha Bhavan, though I had only a measly Maruti to wash, and newspapers to toss. I went there for the garbage.

The Dhoni ball still hadn’t appeared…

On the third day, it finally struck me. I recalled the big brute admonishing Chawla to sell the items, not trash them.

I couldn’t be seen in the shop again. But I had an idea for who could be my trusted accomplice for this task.

“You want me to buy a ball?” Pinky asked, as we got off the train.

“A white cricket ball,” I took out my phone, searched for a picture, and held it up for her. Then, I looked up another picture. “And it should have this signature on it.”

Pinky peered at the phone, and then at me. “I’ve not seen you play cricket for years…”

“I don’t know how much he’ll charge for it,” I handed her few hundred rupee notes. “Pay whatever it is.”

“Why can’t you buy it yourself? Why do you need me?”

“I’ll explain everything later,” I said.

Pinky’s eyes were bristling with questions.

“Think of it as a game,” I said. “Like chor-police we played as kids.”

“This is not chor-police,“ She said. “This is like how you used to send me to Papa to ask for money….because I was cuter than you.”

“Yes,” I smiled. “You’re still cuter.”

I stopped several streets away from the shop. “You remember the directions?”

“Left at the end of this road, then right, then right again.”

Pinky had walked on her own all over Dharavi and Matunga and Sion. Not once had she gotten lost. My sister was smart.

“Okay bhaiya, I’m going,” Pinky said.

I nodded, and watched her walk away.

Then, I paced up and down, down and up, round and round. The guy at the nearby Xerox shop looked at me like I was a crazy freak. It made sense. I was also muttering to myself.

Half an hour passed. It felt like an eon. Like the whole Ramayan  and Mahabharat could have been narrated in that much time. The Xerox guy seemed as though he would call the cops on me.

Finally, my sister emerged.

I rushed to her. “Did you get it? Did you get it?”

She handed me the ball. I twirled it in my hand, and squinted my eyes to compare it with the picture on my phone.

This was it. This was the ball. I got, I got it!

“How much?” I asked.

“200.”

The baniya probably thought it was junk as usual.

Pinky watched the smile envelop my face and sparkle in my eyes. “Bhaiya, are you going to tell me what you’re up to?”

I held her hand and started walking. “We’ll be moving out of Dharavi soon, to a better place.”

“What?”

“Yes,” I nodded vigorously. “And you’ll be back to school again. A much better school than that shit hole.”

Pinky stared at me as though I was speaking Latin.

“Trust me Pinky.”

*****

I tossed each newspaper with an exaggerated flourish, I scrubbed the Maruti with a song on my lips.

Diwali was weeks away, but I was already feeling festive. I felt like jumping. I felt like hugging someone. In lieu of that, I showered some love on the Maruti, which I had always taken for granted.

“Chotu? You’re here?”

I turned to see Keshav clutching his greying hair.

“Keshav Bhai,” I chirped and grinned.

“They…they came asking about you.”

Then I saw the sobering looking on his face.

“What?” I said. “Who came?”

“A bunch of goons. One guy was huge, looked like he could punch down a tree.”

I blinked and swallowed.

“They said Sharad Bhai was looking for you,” Keshav said. “What kind of trouble have you gotten into, Chotu?”

“I…I…”

Looking for me…they were looking for me…how did they know??

“You should go,” Keshav said.

“Yes,” I dropped my wash cloth on the ground and broke into a jog.

“Chotu,” Keshav said from behind me. “Mukund left early today but he said you can keep his bike, he doesn’t need it back.”

I didn’t care, I had bigger fish to fry. I kept moving and on the way out glimpsed Shankar smiling and closing the door of the Volkswagen.

I reached Chor Bazaar in a huff, to collect my winnings. I dashed through the narrow gully, pushing past pedestrians, till I arrived at the little shop, which was crammed with pots and pans, bags and belts, watches and clocks, and so much else.

Jaggu was waxing lyrical about a frying pan to two eager housewives. He was a bald man, but strands of hair peeled out of his ears. Gold-rimmed spectacles were perched on his nose.

“Jaggu,” My voice came out shrill. “I need it now.”

He held up a hand, and I grimaced. It took him ten minutes to close the transaction. When the ladies were gone, I stepped forward.

“Never interrupt when I’m with a customer,” Jaggu said. His voice was deep and full of bass, a far cry from his mellow customer voice.

“Do you have my cash?” I said.

From a plastic box, he flung a hundred rupee note on the table.

“What is this?” I had expected to be taken out back and presented with a suitcase.

“Your cash.”

“You said it would be worth 50 lakhs, maybe more.”

“This rubbish?” Jaggu reached beneath the table and tossed the white ball at me. “It’s a fake.”

“What??” I scowled at the ball. “It can’t be…”

“That signature was made a few days ago. My guy confirmed it.”

“But…but…” My throat dried up. How could it be??

“Get out of here Chotu,” Jaggu said. “I have a business to run.”

I stayed rooted to the spot. A turmoil of thoughts scrambled my brain. Then, one name crystallized.

SHANKAR.

It had to be him. I thought I had seen him that day at the baniya’s shop. His friend Pankaj was Chawla’s driver, he could have swapped the ball with a fake…

I took one step and stumbled. My legs felt heavy. My stomach felt woozy.

“Your ball has been sold Chotu,” Jaggu’s voice sounded distant.

“Wh…what?”

“We’re a small community here, and word gets around,” Jaggu paused for a moment, then continued. “I heard that a competitor of mine acquired an original cricket ball from 2011, signed by Dhoni.”

“Who…when…” More saliva than words spurted from my mouth.

“Go home Chotu.”

I took a deep breath. “I’ll go. Just describe the seller to me.”

Jaggu nodded. “I saw him yesterday….”

“Was he a bearded man with a big chin…?”

“…he was a short, wiry fellow who walked in a funny way…”

“Walked in a funny way,” I mumbled.

“He took short, quick steps,” Jaggu said. “Like a rabbit or a…”

“Squirrel,” I gasped.

Jaggu’s head moved up and down, and seemed to expand like a balloon, then blurred out. The narrow gully revolved in front of me.

“…Mukund left early…” Keshav’s voice echoed in my head. “He doesn’t want his bike back…”

Mukund who lived next-door to Pankaj. Mukund who knew about everything from Swapnil’s new salary to the wares at Chawla’s shop.

Mukund who pleaded my case to the watchman, who generously lent me his bike.

He had duped me all along. How could I be so stupid???

Now Sharad Bhai was looking for me….

I left the bazaar, jumped into a train, and raced back to our shack in Dharavi. It was empty.

“Pinky,” I called out.

I heard car horns from the road, the buzzing of mosquitoes, the chattering of neighbors. But not the voice I wanted to hear.

“Pinkeeeeeee,” I screamed and ran through the slum alleys. “Pinkeeeeeeee….”

They couldn’t have taken her…it was me they wanted, and the ball.

“Pinkeeeeeee……”

“What? What happened?” A head popped out from one of the shacks. My baby sister.

I ran to her and held her shoulders. “Where were you? Are you alright? Are you alright?”

“I was just playing with Meenu.”

“Let’s go pack your things,” I took her to our shack. I brought out a bag and started dumping things inside it.

“Bhaiya, what’s going on??”

“Move fast and pack everything you want to take.”

“Take where??”

“We have to leave Pinky,” I roared. “We have to leave now.”

Her eyes met mine, and then she got into action. She bundled her scanty possessions into a small haversack.

I wrote Mukund’s name and number on a page from Pinky’s notebook, and left it on the cot, along with the ball.

“This is all because of that cricket ball?” Pinky looked incredulous.

“We have to go,” was all I said.

*****

One month later…

We lived in a shit hole slum in Nalasopara. I never thought I’d say this, but I missed Dharavi.

Pinky was in another pathetic government school, worse than before. I had made those lofty promises to her, and broken them. She never quarreled with me about it. It was obvious from the creases under my eyes and restless twitch in my face that I was inflicting enough punishment upon myself.

The days passed dolefully, one after another. Diwali arrived, the festival of sparkling lights and colorful rangolis and sweet mithai. But for me, the city remained darkness and shadows.

I took Pinky to a bazaar to buy any gift she chose. Throngs of people filled the street, exchanging animated festive greetings while they shopped and ate. Firecrackers exploded in the sky.

I took furtive glances over my shoulder, as had become my habit. Sharad Bhai’s gang had probably moved on. Still, in the reflection of shop windows, I would sometimes see the glint of gold chains hanging over a hairy chest. My body would quiver, expecting a blow…

“Bhaiya, I want this,” Pinky held up a large spiral-bound notebook with lined pages.

“Really?” I said. “Not a new dress? Or shoes?”

“Fine,” Pinky put the notebook down and turned away.

“No, no, you can get whatever you want,” I said and paid the vendor for the notebook. “What about pens? Do you want a nice pen?”

“I like pencils,” Pinky said.

I bought 4 pencils and 2 notebooks. Pinky gave me a brief hug, and clutched her prize.

She was special, my sister. Someday the whole world would see it.

In one shop, I saw a brass diya stand, and my body froze. The memories came flooding back. Of fat baniyas, greedy principals, bearded valets. Of my clever plan, and my colleague who stole the winnings…

I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around, trembling.

“Chotu, so good to see you.”

“Keshav,” I looked at my old colleague. “How are you?”

“I’m still at Asha Bhavan, same old. How are you, Chotu?”

“Surviving.”

“Good, good,” Keshav said. “Did you know Shankar got the job at the online shop and is earning big bucks?”

“Oh.”

“Apparently, he had been saving money for years to pay the bribe.”

“What news of Mukund?” I asked.

Keshav shook his head. “He disappeared. I never saw him or heard from him after that day. And Pankaj too,” He brushed his palm in the air. “Both were just gone.”

“Bhaiya, can I get ice-cream?” Pinky asked, and quickly added. “It’s okay if we can’t…”

“Yes,” I said, and handed her two tenners.

She gave me one back. “I’ll get the half scoop.”

Keshav turned to leave. “Okay take care Chotu,” He said. “Visit us at Asha Bhavan sometime.”

I watched Pinky relish each bite of her ice-cream, including the cone.

So, Shankar had moved up in life. He was probably never after my Volkswagen job. He was not such a bad guy as I imagined.

I thought about Mukund. Why did I never suspect him? Was he living a life of luxury now? Was he looking over his shoulder like me? Would Sharad Bhai find him one day? I hope he gets caught…

As for me, I’m scrubbing toilets now instead of cars. It doesn’t matter. I’ll do whatever it takes to look after my sister.