Mumbai Noir (14 page)

Poor girl. I feel sorry for her. She stands in the rain, biting her lower lip, tears rising to her eyes as auto after auto gets hijacked by packs of commuters who bring a ferocious urgency to their hunt for transportation. She cannot bring herself to race against them, or elbow aside the competition.

For a week after the rains began, I let her suffer. When I thought she had learned her lesson, I decided to try again. I joined the line and called out loudly: “Sheetal-Sheetal!”

Small as a mouse, her voice struggled over my shoulder. “Sheetal?”

I turned and looked at her face closely for the first time. She was standing less than a foot away. I nodded and we stood side by side, waiting until another man called out: “Sheetal?” A white-cap man with a beard. He climbed into the auto first. She hesitated and glanced at me. I got in ahead of her, then she too bent her head and climbed in.

We rode together for ten minutes. Her hips were warm against mine and so were her arms as they gathered up her chest. She did not turn to look at me though. She didn’t remember seeing me at Ruff Ruff. But everything has its time and place. She will have time to remember afterward.

I often step out with the feeling that something is missing, or about to go wrong. Doesn’t that happen? You pause at your door, keys in hand, waiting. For the phone to ring perhaps. Or you suspect you are forgetting something. Umbrella? Glasses? Wallet? Tiffin? Chewies? Mobile? Hair band?

It happens a lot to me these days. I peek into my tote, check for items I cannot afford to forget. Then I shake my head vigorously and pull the door shut. I have to stop being paranoid. It isn’t like I have to swipe in at work. If I forget something, I can always turn around and go home. Nobody’s going to e-mail an office memo. My KRAs won’t slide.

It’s brilliant. I don’t have to worry about leave or promotions. As long as I can find even two clients a month, I’m okay. But the salary mentality doesn’t disappear so easily. I tell myself, Daddy’s there, worse comes to worst. But Daddy has the most terrible job in the world. No hope of promotion or raise, no holidays. Still, I can always go back to the house. And he wouldn’t let me starve if I returned.

If only I could work from Juhu. Mira Road makes everything harder. Just getting out and coming back crushes the sanity out of me. Like last night, when I tried getting on the 10:21. The crowd was manageable, but one aunty tried to push past me. I got up on the footboard and blocked her with my arm. Other women scrambled on and off, but I stood obstructing half the doorway until the aunty swung her bag at me and boarded, screaming, “Where are you from, man? Where do all you people come from?”

I occupied the fourth seat, turned my back to her, but she kept at it, all the way to Mira Road. As she was getting off, ahead of me, I stuck my foot in her path. She tumbled onto the platform and lay there panting in a heap. I ran up the stairs but stood watching her from the overpass. She lay there for a good two minutes before someone hauled her to her feet.

I found her outdoors, buying carrots. I was standing in my usual place near the laundry. She did not recognize me.

I don’t mind. Why should she remember a man she shared an auto with? She didn’t even turn her head to look at me, not once. But I like her more for it. It is a sign of character. It is a good sign.

Or maybe she is farsighted. I think I would like it if she was. I can imagine her being fifty-five years old and picking up a letter from the doormat, squinting at it helplessly. I could then take it from her and read it out loud.

If Mom was alive, she’d have been disappointed. Actually, if Mom was alive, things would not have been this way. She’d have objected to my quitting the bank, objected to my moving out, objected to sharing autos.

This—sitting outside the airport at four in the morning with two hundred rupees in my bag—would have caused a panic attack. Three cups of coffee down, no sign of the flight. I could go inside and wait in the lounge, I guess. I have the Annie Z aidi // 127 permit letters and everything and the customs guys know me well already. But the coffee inside is twice as expensive. And the customs people always ask too many personal questions: Why animals? Why not banking? In that case, why not an NGO? Don’t NGOs pay well nowadays? But how will you get home at this time of the night? Pet transportation is all very good, but who will take care of you? Hahaha! Who is your boss? But who is responsible for you then? Where does your father live? He must be worried. Unmarried daughters …

I think I can do without all that. It is so much simpler meeting the animals. If you say hello, they just say hello back or ignore you. And that’s fine with me. Thank god it is a dog this time. It is supposed to be a black cocker spaniel with one white ear. In a rectangular basket, painted white and sprayed with Lyla’s linen perfume. Apparently, Lyla douses her sheets and curtains with perfume before using them. Santa Barbara lifestyle, I guess. The dog has his own deodorant too.

I should have charged more for this. I can still tell Lyla there will be extra expenses for the night I spent waiting at the airport. Plus taxi fare. I’m hoping the flight will be delayed another half hour, then the night rate won’t apply.

Daddy is getting so difficult. He’s stopped asking if I need anything. I’d usually decline, but he’d offer me five or ten thousand anyway. He’d say, “House-warming present,” or, “Overdue birthday present.” But he can be nasty about it.

Once, I dropped in when his old colleagues were visiting. Later that afternoon, I had an appointment at the Karjat dog farm, so I got up to go. Daddy told me to wait and handed over some money. He winked at his friends as he held out the cash, and said, “You better find another man to mooch off. I’m just a pensioner now.”

Daddy must have thought Mira Road would straighten me out, that I’d come running back in a month, suitably chastened about harsh realities and rational choices. But now that I’ve stuck it out five months, he’s stopped giving me money. He doesn’t even ask Anwar, the driver, to drop me home. I have to ask.

It killed me to ask last time but it was forty degrees outside and I didn’t have money for a cab. Daddy finally sent the car but he made a big production out of it. He first asked if he could call a car service instead. Then he shook his head despairingly and finally he rang Anwar, but insisted I wait until the driver had eaten his lunch.

I said I’d wait. But Daddy didn’t ask if I wanted any lunch. So instead I asked him if he was hungry. He sneered at me and said I could go ahead without him.

I went to the fridge and stood with my face against the open freezer. My face felt hot and my eyes brutally dry. I fixed myself two parathas from the ready dough, which I spiced up with coriander and chilies. Finally I crushed a pill into the chutney. I spread the chutney on two slices of toast and told Daddy he should eat it or he’d get acidity again.

Daddy just doesn’t leave me a choice. I keep wanting to make him eat better, and I visit regularly, but he doesn’t understand my need for space. I too have some rights. I’ve always had to fight for everything. Even to choose my work. He was the one who gave me Montu. He should understand why I want to work with animals. But no, he will never understand. I will have to fight him forever.

It is easier to fight with pills though. He doesn’t know we’re fighting and it doesn’t hurt either of us. He just falls asleep for a while. I prefer to leave our Juhu house while he is asleep. Anyway, it doesn’t hurt to sleep a little extra at his age.

* * *

I finally found out where she goes when she stays out late at night. I kept wondering what she does and then I decided to follow her. She heads to the airport to deliver goods, or to wait for some delivery. I don’t know what is inside the packages yet, but sometimes she waits for hours.

It was really distressing to think that she often doesn’t return to Mira Road until after midnight. It was painful just to think of where I might find her, and how I’d explain to her that it was not right. I was worried that she would be like the Bandra-Versova girls, standing on the road in knickers, or like that one who had grown up in Mira Road and still would not listen to me, though I tried for so long to explain that it was not right to hang around in the market after dark. For some women, there is no cure except to keep them locked up. But this one is different. I have always known it in my heart. She only stays out late because of her work.

I was just a few steps behind her when she hailed a taxi. I heard the driver ask her, “Domestic or international?” and she said, “International.” So I knew she was going to the airport.

I followed in a bus. She could have taken the bus too. A bit of a wastrel, but she will learn. Once we have kids, she will definitely learn to save. I am pleased to see that she isn’t irresponsible. Look at the way she goes to visit her father once a week at least, even twice a week sometimes. It is a sign of character.

She takes good care of her old father too. She makes the auto wait while she picks up a bottle at the wine shop, and something at the medical store, each time she goes to visit him. Every day I grow more convinced that she is the right one. A good, responsible girl.

I think her father is very understanding also. He does a lot for her. The driver drops her home. And the last few times she walked out of his house, her handbag was so full that her shoulder was weighed down by it.

Yesterday I followed her all the way up to her building. She lives on the first floor. I found a ladder and climbed up until I could look into her window. She was pulling things out of her bag. A carton of milk. A bag of basmati rice. Her father is so thoughtful. It is a good family. A solid family.

She is a proud type though. A little too stuck on independence. A lot of girls are. But she knows her limits. She buys alcohol for her father but never drinks herself. I have been watching her trash can and the grills on her windows. There are no empty bottles. She is a really good find. Once I have explained to her about not taking so many taxis, she will learn to save. Together, we will manage.

I glanced at the photo again. Mini’s beautiful. She’s bitten someone only once, but that was because Juneja had been shouting at her. Dogs take cues easily. When I was given Montu, I was just two and a half. I couldn’t talk properly, much less give orders. But Montu mostly knew what I wanted from him. He obeyed my gurgling, my pointing, my screaming.

That’s the amazing thing: dogs just know. They do whatever you want; they almost kill themselves trying. In comparison, what rubbish human relationships we drag around. Mom was supposed to love me. Daddy says it even now, after he’s had his nightly ration: “I love you, sweetie-pie.” Sometimes, it makes me snarl on the inside.

Daddy used to say that Montu spoiled me. I think he did. Loved me so much, nobody measures up. Some nights I lie awake wondering what Montu felt. Him sitting at home, waiting for me to return from school, me petting him for ten minutes, then rushing off to play with other kids. It makes my heart ache to remember Montu.

I’m glad I have to go to Karjat. Being at the farm will be good for me. Juneja won’t be there until later and I will have plenty of time to get to know Mini.

I watch her waiting at the airport. She drinks a lot of coffee. I must teach her to switch to tea. Made from fresh cow milk. I still don’t know what she is carrying in those big baskets. I have tried standing close to her but she never sits near a crowd. She moves to a corner and sits alone with a cup of coffee from the Nescafé booth.

I stand with the taxi drivers and hotel boys, and hold a placard so I can blend in better. Once or twice, she has looked up in my direction, but she never recognizes me. I even choose a name that I take from the envelopes I find in her trash. Lyla from Santa Barbara. Katie from Sydney. But she never notices.

Some of the drivers who wait with placards at the airport have begun to know my face. They have started asking which hotel I work for. I always name a company in Pune. I say I wait for company officials. Up and down, once a week. That satisfies them. I say Pune because I know the place a little. When I worked in Versova, I was with one Pandit who had a big farmhouse outside Pune which he sometimes rented for film shoots.

Once he took me there. There was a special kind of party and he needed a trustworthy guard. I was supposed to warn him if I saw a police vehicle. I did too, but most of them were so far gone, they didn’t run or hide. So they were rounded up and some tested positive for drugs.

The police wanted me to become a witness, identify whose party it was, who came, who left. Pandit found out. He was on bail when he called me to the office. I just kept saying, “What will I do now? Where will I get another job?” He would take care of me, he said. He went on and on about how I should leave Mumbai. He would give me a gold chain and one lakh.

A lakh was nothing. There was nothing even in Mira Road for a lakh. But I didn’t want to argue. I promised to leave the city and asked Pandit to give me his blessings. But before I left, I took the keys to his office. There wasn’t much kept there but even small things add up to a lot. There was a petty-cash drawer. There was a silver idol of Ganesha. There were names and addresses in a diary. It was enough at first.

I called a few people who were at the party, found addresses. I learned to wait, and to follow. Over six months, I asked for only a little bit. One should not crush people with greed. Like Bapu has said, the world has enough for human need, but not greed. All my small earnings added up to a onebedroom flat near Petrol Pump. Just six months’ work and everybody was happy at the end.

The trouble with people like Pandit is that they don’t understand the worth of small things. Small jobs, small savings, small deals, small shops. That is what life is about: Small things. Small connections. Small appetites. It keeps the world healthy.

Juneja turned out to be such a bastard. First, he wanted me to sort out his hound within three days. I asked for a week because Mini was taking longer to respond to the trainers. She took to me like a magnet though. I even called her Montu once or twice, instead of Mini. The farm people asked me to help train her, so I did.