Mumbai Noir (5 page)

I opened a window and typed.

Ghulfam88: Hi, sorry I got DC.

Shaghufta_91: Oh hi!

I could hear her bangles clinking.

Ghulfam88: U missed me?

Shaghufta_91: Wht do you think?

Ghulfam88: U never answered me. u wnt to meet in real?

Shaghufta_91: Maybe.

Ghulfam88: What if I could be in the booth next to u and touch u just now?

Shaghufta_91: Cd be.

Ghulfam88: Ya? Excited?

I could hear her breathing. Maybe she could hear mine.

Shaghufta_91: U r bad.

Ghulfam88: U r making me go mad. U r putting bad thoughts in my head. Whole day I thnk of u, of kissing you, dnt be angry.

Shaghufta_91: Wat is happening to you 2day!

Ghulfam88: I have written a poem for you.

Shaghufta_91: Show.

Oh, I would show her. I opened my e-mail account and fetched that Badayuni fellow’s poem out of my Drafts folder and pasted it into the chat window. I was aroused and angry now.

Shaghufta_91: Is beautiful.

Naturally it was beautiful. It wasn’t written by a guy called Ghulfam88, was it?

Ghulfam88: Wat are you thinking? Y quiet?

Shaghufta_91: I am thinking if you would be next to me then the poem cud come true.

I stood up and looked over the partition at her. She glanced up, her eyes disoriented as if woken suddenly from a lifelike dream. She was flushed and quickly opened up some random window and pretended to be concentrating on it.

“Do you want me to come there, then? And make the poem come true?”

She went pale and looked confused. I walked into the booth and it was very crowded between the two of us.

“What are you doing?”

“Only what you want me to do—you said it on the chat.” I reached out and squeezed her breast. She was shocked, but didn’t stop me. For a minute I thought of doing more. But I wasn’t thinking clearly and I didn’t want to make a mistake.

I went out; she sat inside the booth for some time.

When she came out she said, hesitatingly, “Suryaji …”

I looked up.

“Why were you chatting with me like that when I was here? Why did you want to trick me like that?”

I shrugged. “Maybe you wanted to be tricked. People like that so they can pretend to be innocent.”

“What do you mean?”

I peered away at my terminal. She stood there vaguely for a minute.

“I don’t know how many other people you chat with, do I? Your dad tells Haider bhai you are coming here for your studies. Haider bhai doesn’t charge you. And me, I’m just a fool.

We are all fools.”

She turned red. “How can you say something like that?

Why are you behaving like this? I thought—”

“What did you think?”

She shook her head angrily and left as if she was never coming back.

I could see Osama outside chatting up some customer. He was wearing huge dark glasses and looking like an evil fly in a cartoon—they weren’t his goggles, of course. He must have borrowed them from Amul Butter, his chikna friend who manned another DVD stand. I wasn’t too angry with Osama. It was a matter of expectation. About Shaghufta I felt unsure. She had been carrying on with Ghulfam88, and now that I was Ghulfam88 I didn’t really know what that meant to her, or to me. I felt a bit fucked up.

Then there was no Shaghufta for three days.

I was just getting used to that when she walked in on the fourth day, in the afternoon as usual. She was wearing a strange color—blue and green at the same time—in a shiny material, with some transparent bits. It was sexy. She didn’t look directly at me. She went into the booth, leaving the door open. There was no one else in the cybercafé.

After some time she turned around, but I refused to meet her eyes. I stared steadily at the computer, where I was logged in on Osama’s account as G
hulfam88.
She soon logged on and sent me a message, as I knew she would.

Her
: Are you still angry?

Me
: That makes you happy, doesn’t it?

I could hear her breath.
Why should I feel good if you’re angry?

“Isn’t that what girls want? They want men to be angry because of them,” I said out loud.

She laughed then. I got up from my seat, walked over to her booth, went in, and closed it behind me.

“See, you’re laughing. For that very reason, isn’t it?” I clutched her shoulders and she did not stop me. She was flushed. I moved my hands down and squeezed her breast again. We were both breathing very hard. I sat on the edge of the computer table and kissed her. She wouldn’t open her mouth and I could feel her teeth hard against my lips. I put my hand between her legs and pushed. She groped her way up my leg. Mrs. Haider’s orange laminate was blurry. Shagufta said, “Surya, Surya, I love you …”

“I also love you,” I said between my gasps.

After I left the booth, she stayed inside for some time, the door open just a little. I watched her, openly now.

“See you,” she said while leaving.

The next day there was another customer when she came, so I ignored her. But the next day and over the following days there was no one around so I went into her booth. I always positioned myself to face the door. In case anyone came I could pretend to be checking some virus problem.

After a few days I suggested that we meet somewhere else, but she said that was impossible for her, she wasn’t allowed to go out alone anyplace but college and the cybercafé. I was feeling bold, so I tried to pull her kurta off, but she stopped me. She didn’t mind hands under clothes, but not clothes off. Finally, she did not stop me from unzipping my pants.

It was understandable and maybe it had to happen, but that day I did not realize Osama had walked in.

“Abbe!” he yelled. Wise words as usual. It was awkward. He stood around, looking pale. Then he said, “Sorry,” and fled. I quickly sorted myself. Shagufta looked like she was going to cry.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “He’s my friend, he won’t say anything to anyone.”

“How do you know!” Shaghufta cried. “My father will kill me!”

“I’ll kill Osama then. Nothing will happen. Really!” I touched her cheek.

She turned away. “What we are doing is wrong.”

“Who says?”

She shook her head and left.

* * *

The next day she did not come, and the next and the next. A week passed. Osama didn’t come in either. I tried to talk to him about it after a few days, but he just mumbled, “Don’t worry, yaar …”

One afternoon, he came and sat at a computer and made feeble jokes. I saw him checking his chat messenger. Haider bhai paid a surprise visit that afternoon. When Osama got up to go, Haider bhai exhaled in exasperation and waved at him to continue. Osama sat awkwardly, trying to look serious while Haider bhai checked the accounts and looked over the register. “Ahmed saab’s daughter hasn’t been coming?” he asked me.

“No, bhai, been a few days.”

“Oh, I must check with her father if she’s all right.”

My heart thudded and tried to get the better of me but I gritted my teeth to keep it down. As soon as Haider bhai left, Osama also sidled out. I quickly swapped my SIM card. Jadhav might have considered my extra SIM card suspicious activity. But sometimes you had to lie low and switch off your phone, so you needed a number to call from, right? I dialed Shaghufta’s number. After some rings she answered. My heart unfurled when I heard her voice.

“Shaghufta, are you okay?”

She was quiet. Then she said, “Who is it?”

“It’s Surya. Haider bhai was here, and he was saying he was going to check with your father if you’re okay, so—”

“Okay, thanks,” she said, as if the conversation was over.

I quickly said, “Shall I meet you at your college gate to discuss it?”

“Why? I will handle it.” She hung up before I could respond.

My heart felt tight. I didn’t think she was cut-and-dried like most girls. But she’d have to prove she was innocent if things got dicey. Which meant she might have to prove that someone else was guilty. Like me.

I thought a lot about what to do. I realized there was only one option: I would have to tell Haider bhai myself.

The following Saturday, when he came in for his evening check-in, I told him that I needed to show him something. I opened up Ghulfam88’s chat history and told him it belonged to Osama. Haider bhai read it slowly and got very quiet.

Then he said, “Surya, you’ve been with me a long time and I know I can always trust you. Thank you for telling me this. If something had happened … You know, I owe Shaghufta’s father a large sum of money. If this had got to him, I would have been responsible and … Well, son, you did the right thing by telling me.”

“I’ve worked for you seventeen years, bhai.”

He patted me on the shoulder.

I let my breath go a little; I felt safer. As Haider bhai got on his scooter outside, I saw him say something to Osama.

The following Monday, Amul Butter was at the stand, in his dark glasses and stonewashed jeans. I went out. “Oye, Amul, where’s Osama?”

“Arrey, that bugger. He went to Virar yesterday to pick up DVDs from Kaana Shankar. There was a raid going on and he must have talked some nonsense, as usual. He got a solid beating. Solid. Both his legs are badly broken. Asif went, it seems, and took him to a hospital. Let’s see when he gets okay and comes back.”

Haider bhai, a man of the moment, had never looked back too much.

Days passed and Osama certainly was not back. I felt a bit bad. I missed having him around. It wasn’t like there was much to do in the cybercafé. But mostly, I was relieved. It was peaceful without the constant distractions of Osama walking in and out. Gave me time to plan. Another year here and I would have enough to start something of my own. Once you were inside, you were in, and if you kept your head down, you could keep burrowing further in.

Then one morning, as I walked up the narrow footpath to work, I saw the cybercafé was already open. I entered warily. Haider bhai was standing with Mrs. Haider, who was dressed in pink, looking like a bubble of gum. A carpenter was measuring out some space.

Haider bhai saw me and smiled. “Arrey, Surya, I was trying your mobile since last night but it’s switched off. Why?”

“No balance, bhai, so I just kept it off.”

“Accha, listen. Your bhabhi here has been telling me for long to start something new. This area is also changing a lot—it’s no longer full of riffraff. New buildings are coming—you know Kalpataru? It has a swimming pool even. Gentry like to buy knickknacks. You know that feng shui—Chinese frogs and bamboo and kya kya. We will start up that now. As it is, a modular kitchen shop is opening next to us so next need is good luck for the new house. Bhabhi is also at a loose end since Asif is married and his wife looks after the whole house. We can move one-two computers to the DVD shop. One can stay here for shop purposes. Rest we’ll see what we get.”

I said nothing.

“Frankly, I made the cybercafé with a lot of faith. But what to do—the world changes and one must change with it, eh? It’s no longer a place for riffraff.”

I stood quiet. He looked me up and down with a strange expression.

“Arrey, you’re worried? Why? You’ve been with me seventeen years. You think I’ll just throw you away? For now, you take over the DVD stand, and later I’ll settle you somewhere.”

He slapped me on the back, which made me choke. But it wasn’t like I needed a clear voice to say anything.

With the feng shui shop Haider bhai finally hit the right note. Everything in it was fake from the start. How could it betray him? A man needed to be very sure about that before he put his wife to work. As for settling me somewhere else, it didn’t really seem to be on his mind. After installing me at the DVD stall, he barely noticed me.

I tried Shaghufta’s number a couple of times from both my SIM cards. She cut the call each time.

Under the sun, steadily steeping Mumbai sweat, I acquired a philosophical perspective on Osama. After all, why would his actions be above the level of his sleazy brain? “Ladies watch maximum adull films,” he would say, standing tipsy on top of the Caves some nights, like a spare part in a gangster movie. “Because they are restricted to the house, they are pent up, so what should they do?”

“Abbe, shut up, you little rat. It’s not
adull
, it’s adult films. Hurry, we’ll miss the last bus.”

“Arrey, what does it matter how you say it? Thing is the same, is it not? Haan? Ha-ha-ha—haaan?” And he would hurtle down the slope without brakes.

When I thought of him a lot the other day, I didn’t question it too much.

I went to visit him. He lives in Mograwadi too, in the backmost lane, where the later, poorer people built their leantos, close to the train tracks. I took along some DVDs. Adull films, of course. And some Romantic Customer whiskey.

He was really happy to see me. “I’m mending well,” he said. But it didn’t look like it to me. He looked awful.

“You go out if you want, khala,” I said to his mother. “I’ll stay with him till you come.” She looked reluctant but I knew she’d have many errands that needed doing.

We drank a bit and talked of this and that. Osama asked, “So how’s everything at the cybercafé?”

“It’s fine.” No need to tell him more than this.

“Accha. All is okay between you and Haider bhai?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

He looked troubled. I watched him, trying to fathom his drift.

“Look, yaar, you’re the only one from the lot who has come to see me since … you know …” He looked away, his eyes wet. “So I feel I can’t lie to you. That day of the raid, Haider bhai called me over. He had been asking about RC before in the cybercafé and I … I got nervous, and I told him about you and her.”

It took me aback, I admit it. I stared at him. “But why?”

He avoided my eyes. “Yaar, you know me, I don’t think straight sometimes. I panicked. I thought if Haider bhai knew that I knew about you and RC and didn’t tell him, then he’d have my ass. It’s been eating at me since then … and I … I’m so glad nothing’s happened. I’m sorry, yaar, forgive me.”