Lockdown Liaisons Page 2

  Dharavi was going to be sealed soon. People were saying this was our only chance to get out, before Dharavi was turned into the world’s biggest prison. I had seen the muncipality babus going from kholi to kholi checking people for fever. They looked very odd in plastic suits from head to toe. I had a few extra masks and gloves which I would leave for Suman when I left. I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving her. She had captured my heart. She spoke Marathi, which sounded like music. And her voice was soft, like her eyes. Her hands were rough because of the work she did. And she had a big scar on her forehead, where her dead husband had hit her with a stone. Each time I looked at the scar and touched it with my fingers, my blood boiled at the thought of anybody raising a hand and striking this woman. Had the man been alive today, I would have killed him with an even bigger stone. Good thing he died in a gutter. Bloody chutiya… bewdabaaz.

  I used to drink also. Till I met Suman. I realized she would feel scared of me and shrink from my touch if I smelled of gaunthi liquor, which all of us working on these sites drank at night to fall asleep before another day started. Before our ears got accustomed to hearing the abuses of the contractor. I saw the persons in the next kholi putting their belongings into a small tin trunk. Some cooking things were placed inside a steel balti. They had three small children. I asked how will the children manage? It was going to be a long, long walk of over 1,000 kilometres. They raised their hands to the sky and said, ‘Allah will look after us.’

  Two days later, they came to say ‘Khuda Hafiz’. They were smiling. So were the kids, who looked excited. ‘First we will try at the bus station to get into a truck. We will sell my wife’s gold bangles to pay for the journey. We were told special trains may also start. But by then, we may be trapped inside our kholi.’

  Dharavi is the most dangerous place to be, TV-wallas are saying. I still haven’t told Suman I am also leaving. I don’t have the guts! How will I be able to look into her eyes when I say those words? I lack the courage to inform her. In my village they used to say I could wrestle with a wild boar and win. But in front of Suman, I become a meek rabbit. Even though she never fights or raises her voice. Maybe, I will sit in my kholi for a day or two and think about the best way to break the bad news to Suman. I have the kholi to myself now - the others have left for their villages. They said they were never coming back, no matter what happens.

  I am confused. There are no jobs in the village. There is no money. No food. How are we to live? If I abandon Suman, she may die of starvation - as it is, she is weak. She told me she had been to a hospital once and the doctor had told her she had TB. I was not scared of getting TB from her. I wanted to keep her safe and see her happy. Suman had nobody to turn to. Her dead husband’s family had disowned her and taken away the kholi she shared with him. Her own parents were dead. Her only sister lived far away and they were not in touch. Suman had a strong mind but a weakened body. Her wrists are as thin as neem twigs. And I know she is very scared of this new bimaari, because that was all everyone talked about.

  At one point I got sick of discussing corona and all that. I told Suman to stop thinking about it. Nobody really knew what it was. People were talking kuch bhi. I have stopped watching news on my phone. What is the point? More and more people are dying, left and right. This corona bimaari spares no one. I heard Mehtaji also has the bimaari. He is blaming us! Saying all these dirty fellows from the slums are giving corona to ameerlog! I feel like saying, ‘Good! You deserve it.’ Nobody from the outside world wants to enter Dharavi. As if corona has taken a permanent kholi here. People are saying soon there will be no place for anybody in hospitals, not even for rich people. But for us poor people, whether we die on the road, on the railway track or in a hospital - it makes little difference.

  Though if I die here, who will be there to claim my body? Cremate me? They won’t give my corpse to Suman, if she goes and says, ‘He is my man.’ They will ask for proper papers and all that. Considering all these things, it is better I go back. I will take my final decision later.

  Today, I have kept a nice, ripe mango to give to Suman - the fruitwala gave it to me yesterday, saying, ‘Better to give these mangoes to neighbours since, in any case, I can’t sell them in the mandi this year. Who will buy fruits from Dharavi? Eat quickly, before the fruit rots.’ Suman will be so happy when she bites into the golden mango. I will tell her about my plans to go back to the village, after she has enjoyed the mango. Maybe…

  THE MAN WHO WANTED MORE

  I have always seen myself as a very successful fellow. Right from my school days. Everyone admired me - my parents, my neighbours, my teachers. So, you see, I didn’t really have a complex, as such. I mean, what they call an ‘inferiority complex’. All was going well - my job, my status, everything! Till I met my future wife.

  Mind you, she was a good woman. I mean, she is still a good woman. But somewhere she lacked something, and I was not sure what that was. Yes, it was an arranged marriage - all of us in the family had arranged marriages. It is better that way, we believe. Why take risks with unknown elements - you get what I mean? We are openly orthodox and conservative - why hide it? Gotra and all that matters to us. We stay in a Brahmin-only colony. Of course, we don’t say that to outsiders. But within our community, it is understood that we don’t allow non-Brahmins to buy a flat. Non-Brahmins, mind you. Muslims don’t stand a chance! Why lie?

  Anyway, from the first moment I saw Sushila, I liked her, and I am sure she also liked me. What was there not to like - I was tall, had a good job in a government office, and was the only son of my parents (my father was a civil engineer - so, I was considered quite a catch!) I told Sushila straightaway, that I did not want her to work after marriage. I wanted a proper, loving wife who would look after me and my parents. That is a full time job, I said to her.

  She agreed… after a little hesitation. But my point is, she agreed. How was I to know her parents had given her an ultimatum? She had seen and rejected five boys by then! In our community, girls cannot reject matrimonial proposals - only boys can. Anyway, I was happy she hadn’t rejected me, and the marriage date was fixed. We were very frank that way - and dowry had been discussed from the start. A middleman is needed for such delicate matters, and we had a trusted chap, known to the entire colony.

  If Sushila’s family did not have enough money to give us, they should have said so from the beginning. But they kept quiet – they wanted their daughter to somehow get married and save the family further dishonour. Later, I was told by Sushila that her father had had to borrow a lot of money to meet our dowry demands. That is not my fault! I told her so.

  I said, ‘We were getting double of what your father gave us, but since I liked you, we compromised.’ That night, we had our first big fight. Sushila accused me and my family of being greedy and unreasonable. She said there were many better boys who would have been happy to marry her for free - without her father paying a single paisa.

  I got angry - naturally! And told her she should have married one of them. Why did her father send the middleman to fix the alliance in that case? Sushila stopped talking to me for a week. This looked really awkward, since we all ate together, and Sushila helped my mother to cook and serve. I spoke to her after a week and asked her to forget what had happened.

  She said, ‘Women never forget insults.’ But how had I insulted her? She started keeping to herself after that… and it was difficult to have conjugal relations with her. She was my wife! I had every right to demand what was my right! But I kept silent, not wanting to force myself on her. I am not such a bad fellow, also. After a month or so, I started to feel frustrated - you understand. And a little angry. I had married for what? To lie in my bed twiddling my thumbs at night, while my colleagues were enjoying?

  This was most unfair, and I decided that night to try with Sushila, after she had washed the thaalis and cleaned the kitchen. She had stopped changing into her nightie after that big fat argument, and her clothes smelled of haldi and kothmir. I told
myself to ignore all that, and try. So, I stretched my arm and caught hold of her shoulder. She shuddered and jerked her entire body to the other side of the cot. I thought she would fall on the floor. She also pushed my arm away, very rudely.

  This was a big insult! Which man would be able to tolerate such a defiant act from his wife? I wanted to slap her there and then and make her see sense. This was too much! What would my parents think? That their son had become a eunuch? I showed a lot of self control and held myself back. Sushila must have felt encouraged by my weakness… and from that day she started to sleep on the floor. I was deeply hurt, and more than that, insulted. This is not how decent girls behave after marriage.

  It was getting very awkward for me. Especially since I was sure my mother had sensed something was wrong. She must have seen Sushila folding up her mattress and putting it away carefully every morning. No wonder one day my mother asked out of the blue, ‘When will we get some good news?’ This was exactly at the time Sushila was serving me a hot chappati. Instead of placing it politely on my thaali, she dropped it on my lap. I know it was deliberately done.

  Before I could reply, Sushila said a bit too loudly, ‘I am not planning a baby. God only knows what will happen after this lockdown ends.’ She said ‘I’. Not ‘we’. As if she could have a baby by herself, without involving me. I was very angry, but kept quiet.

  That night I gave it to her. I said, ‘Don’t think too great of yourself, okay? Remember, you and your family lived in a cramped up one bhk flat in Malad. Now you live with me like a maharani, with a room and a bathroom to yourself! All this luxury without your phutka father paying a paisa to us. Okay. I will show you. Don’t think I am a napusakaling - a hijra. Let’s see what happens when you come to the room tonight. After brushing your teeth for ten minutes and doing what not in the toilet. Just see. I will claim my conjugal rights - right there and then. On the floor. If you try and push me off, I will raise my hand. I may also kick you - that’s what you deserve, you kutti. You kuttey-kutti ki bachchi. Showing ghamand to your husband! Now you will see what the man you married is made of… oh, one more thing. My mother is already looking for a proper wife for me… someone who knows my worth. Someone whose father will willingly provide a flat and car. But for that to happen, my mother has to wait for the lockdown to be lifted. You will wake up from your trance and realize you are not the only woman in the world. You wondered aloud, “God only knows what will happen after this lockdown ends… ” Let me tell you before God does - our marriage will end.

  A WHIFF OF ETERNITY

  I have to be honest - I mean, I could die of Covid-19 tomorrow! What’s the point in lying at this stage? I could die. You could die. We could all die. The thing about this little shit of a microbe is that it spares nobody. The scary corona thing - the bloody pandemic - has made non-liars out of all those of us who wasted so many years pretending, pretending, pretending. I had decided to stop lying and pretending. I liked girls, not boys. Okay? You have a problem with that? Go fuck yourself. No more hiding and playing games.

  Had Minu been wearing any other perfume but THAT one when our eyes met on the jogging track near home, I am sure I would have stayed away from her. I mean… all I had seen were her eyes above that heavy duty mask covering most of her face! As I jogged past this mysterious woman’s taut and fit form, gloves and all, I got a whiff of ‘Eternity’ - the one fragrance in the world I had sworn I would never allow myself to react to - not after my break-up. Not ever! Like jilted lovers block out sentimental conversations, voices, notes, gifts, touches, I had blocked out a particular fragrance.

  But that was two years ago. My nose was sensitive and active again. I was sniffing and smelling with enthusiasm. But ‘Eternity’ still hurt. It continued to haunt. I had broken several other promises made to myself during that difficult period. I had changed cities, quit a great job in Delhi, found a lousy new one in Chandigarh and now… here I was, back in Mumbai with my tail between my legs.

  Imagine! I was forced to come ‘home’ to live with my parents after a break of seven years. Heartbreak had extracted its price. I was determined to start on a fresh, uncomplicated note this time. I couldn’t afford to screw up. My parents were not overjoyed to have their single, unmarried and now overweight daughter back in their smallish flat in Dadar colony. But they weren’t that cruel either to not let me back into their simple, retired, professorial lives.

  Just as I was settling into this unexpected new life, wondering what the fuck to do next, the world turned topsy turvy and Narendra Modi announced the fucking national lockdown. We were given four hours to deal with the devastating news that was going to change our lives forever. Four hours! Initially, I didn’t get it! What? A microbe in China was screwing the world? Rubbish! We were overreacting - what sort of nonsense is this? A bat in Wuhan had more power than a nuclear bomb! I ignored the news.

  But my parents kept saying, ‘Very contagious, very contagious… don’t step outside, wash your hands, drink hot water, gargle with salt.’ I laughed and pretended to be busy. My office had announced WFH (work from home), I was in a brand new job, an alien set up, I had to earn that desperately needed salary. It was half of what I was getting in Delhi. But what the hell, I was lucky to have a job at all! And no rent to pay.

  The worst part of being back in the home I had fled years ago was the new lockdown regime because the part-time servants could no longer come to the flat since our building fell in the ‘red zone’ and all the flat owners had decided to bar outsiders from entering the premises. This was terrible! There was nobody to clean the place, and help Aie with the cooking. This meant just one thing - I had to do it! Aie had a problem with her back, and Baba had never entered the kitchen or lifted a duster in his life.

  Housework didn’t bother me - I was used to doing it in Delhi. But that was different. My partner Roohi was there to share the work, and just having her in the same room made me forget I was slaving. Coming home after a long day and knowing Roohi was already back from her design atelier waiting for me… oh… bliss, bliss, bliss! I would breathe in the air deeply while opening the latch on the gate. I would wait for ‘that’ moment - a whiff of ‘Eternity’ would alert my nostrils - she was there! Upstairs! Waiting for me to rush up and hold her in my arms. I would take the two flight of stairs and grab Roohi in a tight embrace before getting down to organizing dinner for the two of us.

  Roohi was the romantic one. She would light aroma candles, get Alexa to play ‘our’ songs, and sip her favourite white wine, while I quickly chopped veggies for the salad and put daal and rice into the pressure cooker. She would offer to lay the table, but I would insist on doing it myself. Just watching Roohi in a silk kimono, relaxed and smiling, was enough of a stress buster for me. Looking back on our last terrible fight, I feel relieved it led to my ending the relationship even though I thought I would die without Roohi in my life.

  I didn’t die-die. But I did die on many levels. I tried living in the same place and staying on in the same job for two years. Nothing was working. I was seeing a therapist who had put me on a course of anti-depressant pills. The side effects of those were leading to other issues - weight gain and sluggishness. Something snapped around the end of February, and I quit. I needed to get the fuck out of Delhi. But without a decent income, I would not be able to afford the rent or pay my bills. I was used to a certain lifestyle - not lavish, mind you, but comfortable. You know, weekends spent loafing about and eating at new places in Cyber Hub, drinking at new watering holes, buying Roohi gifts at DLF Select Citywalk. Standard stuff.

  But my timing to make all these major changes really sucked. There were no jobs, as more and more media offices were scaling back and firing long time staff, right and left. Mumbai was the only realistic option. My parents didn’t sound enthusiastic, but they realized I was in a mess - emotionally and financially. I had given a lot of money from my savings to Roohi - strictly as a loan. But I also knew I had kissed the money goodbye and it would never be returned
! That was not the difficult part. It was when I shut my heart’s door on Roohi, memories, longing, Delhi, ‘Eternity’, booked a train ticket to Mumbai, that my destiny changed.

  The lockdown changed everything! I got here in March… a day before India shut shop. When I look back, I thank my stars I bought the train ticket on that particular day or else I would have been stuck in Delhi, without a job, without Roohi, without a future, without hope, without any life. Once Roohi walked out, so did most of ‘our’ friends. I had never felt this isolated and unwanted. Nobody phoned. I stopped meeting people or making social plans. Here in Mumbai, with Aie and Baba around, I did not feel as suicidal or alone, even though we rarely chatted or laughed or shared pleasantries. They read books on history and sociology. I pretended to be busy. Thank God they had finally stopped asking me, ‘Have you met a nice boy?’ And when nosy neighbourhood Mauvshis called to ask, ‘Has Shaalu set the date? No? Hurry up! Hurry up! All the good boys in the community are already booked.’ Like ‘good boys’ were flats in Panvel which my parents could book in advance. I detested this life. It was only that short respite in the park, my evening walk, which made me feel there would be a silver lining to those early monsoon clouds racing across Mumbai skies.

  Her eyes were kind and smiling. I nodded to let her know I recognised her. It doesn’t look good to appear too pushy. She slowed down her jogging pace, and kept running on the spot, to allow me to catch up. I felt embarrassed, because I was already out of breath, huffing and puffing. Sweating profusely, as well!