Authors: Aatish Taseer
All in all – I wouldn’t recommend taking Tasser on as a client now – but it might be worth asking to see a substantially rewritten version of this novel.
As I finished the email, with its cruel misspellings of my name, I felt as though I had been set free. I realized that it was not so much the fraudulence of the literary effort but waiting for that fraudulence to bear fruit that had been the hardest part. I hadn’t found a way to write about my situation. I had the disarray of my situation to show me why.
Stronger now for being stripped of my pretences, I boldly approached Sanyogita about wanting to go back to India. She was not angry. She only said, ‘Baby, I hope you don’t mind if I follow in a few days?’
Part Two
13
The season had changed. The moisture was gone from the air and the evenings were now a little smoky. The occasional cluster of yellow petals, the odd burnt-orange tendril, stubbornly hung on in the laburnum’s branches and the gulmohar’s stepped canopy. Their brilliance was unsuited to the new season and there was something of the gloom of streamers and confetti from a past celebration in their now rare occurrence. New pigments and scents flooded the leaves and branches of Delhi’s trees and winter flowers began appearing on roundabouts. One tree particularly, the
Alstonia scholaris
, or the Indian devil tree, a weed-like cousin of the frangipani, marked the beginning of the festival season. Its nocturnal scent, when filtered through the smoky air, was sweet at first, then quickly cloying, filling the city’s streets and avenues as evening fell. I sat in my mother’s flat, awaiting Aakash and his girlfriend’s arrival.
At Junglee, too, there had been changes. Pradeep, Aakash’s pale, meatier rival, had moved back to Bombay, leaving the field open to him. The ponytailed owners, afraid to give him too much power, had promoted Montu, the pork- and beef-eating chooda, to the position of trainer, in the hope of putting up a counterbalance. This only inflamed the situation, and Aakash, with Mojij the Christian at his side, now spent a good part of the morning leaning against the cable crossover machine, ridiculing Montu. He would organize his clients’ workouts based on what Montu was doing with his (most of whom were inherited from Pradeep, though even from these Aakash had pinched a few). Then, within earshot of Montu’s client, he would point out his failings. ‘See, wrists not straight. Weight is coming down behind shoulders so effect is falling on back, balance is off. Like that, anyone can do. Now, follow this, wrist’s straight, weight coming down here, yes, balance perfect, thirdeen, fordeen, we’ll do it slowly…’
There were also changes in Aakash’s physical appearance. His hair, once neat, short and bristly, was now long and uneven and fell jaggedly over his forehead. ‘Messy look,’ he answered briefly when I asked him about it. He had also, to go with the look, grown a short black dacoit’s stubble with a vicious nap. If it grew too long, he would shave it off, leaving either the faint outline of a French beard or a triangle of stubble below his lower lip. He wore a diamond stud in one ear. His manner was also different, not colder, but harder somehow. It manifested itself in the smallest ways. We’d start a set; he’d correct me one or two repetitions into it; I’d ask that we start the count again; he’d tell me to continue, but then either repeat a number of his choice along the way or take the count past fifteen when I least expected it. He now spoke of Ash’s, the one-stop total image clinic, as if it were up and running. He threatened to deny Junglee’s sub-trainers their promised positions as masseurs and stylists if they spoke back to him; he had new phones, new ring tones; he was full of aggressive political opinions. The transformation was like a preparation. It was as if he was gearing up for some bigger fight, for which he could show no weakness, and I suspected somewhere in this the hand of the new girlfriend.
It had become a point of awkwardness between us that we hadn’t discussed her. Aakash hinted at her existence, but said nothing openly. If she called while we were working out, he smiled knowingly at me, then slipped off into a corner. I came to recognize the ring tone – the Hindi pop song with the single English line – he had assigned to her. Once or twice I even saw her name flash on his phone. He hadn’t saved it as Megha, but as chahat, longing. Then a few days after I came back to Delhi, we were in the final stages of an abs workout when, ‘I will always love you, all my life,’ rang out from Aakash’s pocket. He hesitated, but then, continuing to lend me the support of his two fingers, answered it. ‘Nothing, beev,’ he said, looking down at me trying to lift myself a few inches from the floor, ‘just finishing off sir’s abs. Beev, you know I have no friend circle, only one best friend.’ My abs gave way as Aakash became more engaged in his conversation. ‘Because, beev, he is a very important person. He’s just been two months in New York, and before two months in… where were you?’ ‘Spain,’ I breathed. ‘Spain, two months in Spain. Beev, he’s very busy, he’s a writer, his girlfriend, you know who she is? She’s the Chief Minister of Jhaatkebaal’s niece.’ He let go of my hands and I fell to the floor. ‘OK, OK, beev, I’ll ask him.’ Covering the receiver, he said, ‘She wants to know why she hasn’t met you, if you’re my best friend?’ My face, like my paralysed abs, was not able to express sufficient amazement at his nerve. ‘Because her boyfriend’s a sly Brahmin,’ I managed. Aakash laughed uproariously, then said, ‘He’s inviting us for a beer party at his flat today, can you get away?’ Looking down at me, he mouthed, ‘Is OK?’ ‘Yes, fine,’ I sighed. ‘Good, then it’s set,’ he informed us both. When he’d put the phone down, I asked why he called his girlfriend beev.
‘Short for beevi,’ he said, grinning; wife. Then hysterically happy, he added, ‘You’re really going to get a surprise, sir!’
Aakash and his girlfriend were due at seven that evening. A few minutes before, Shakti came in with the news that there had been a series of bomb blasts in the city. ‘So terrible what’s happened,’ he said with a morose smile. ‘Who would do such a thing?’ Then looking thoughtful for a moment, he added, ‘Baba, it must be God’s benevolence that I bought the samosas and beer for your guests before the blasts happened. He obviously does not wish me to go yet.’
‘What? There was a blast in Khan Market?’
‘Oh no, where would there be a blast in Khan Market? They were in Greater Kailash, in Gaffar Market, in Connaught Place and one little one in Sectorpur.’
‘Then what benevolence?’
‘Just,’ he smiled contentedly and slipped away, knowing perhaps the simple pleasure of being alive when others were recently dead.
I turned the television on. The blasts were the third in a string of recent attacks on major Indian cities. A group called Indian Musthavbin was claiming responsibility. They had labelled the attack Operation BAD and had used plaster of Paris Ganeshs, now abounding in the city, as their method of delivery. The screen was split in three: on the far left, a large intact pink Ganesh, riding on the back of a scooter; in the middle, the scene of the crime, a hole blown through a green ‘Keep Delhi Clean’ dustbin and a bright pool of blood amid chappals, garlands and handbags; on the far right, an expert talking about the difference between a high-intensity blast and a low-intensity blast. ‘In a high-intensity blast, the impact of the blast is high, in a low-intensity blast, the impact…’
I called Aakash.
‘Have you heard?’
‘Yes, man. I was there, beev and I were there. We were shopping in CP when it happened. I can’t tell you, if it hadn’t been for beev wanting Pizza Hut’s garlic butter sticks, we wouldn’t be here today. It’s a matter of fate, no?’ After a moment’s silence, he said, ‘Actually, no! Beev’s appetite saved our lives.’ At the cracking of this badly timed joke, I heard a howl of laughter in the background.
‘Is that beev?’ I asked.
‘Yes, man.’
‘Are you still coming?’
‘Of course, man. Keep the beer ready. Who can tell how many life has to spare?’
It was nearly dark now. I could hear a siren wail in the distance. The bell rang. I opened the door to see Aakash in a red turban. He wandered in past me with no explanation for the turban or beev’s absence
.
I followed him into the flat, where he flicked through the mail, picked a samosa off the tray Shakti brought in and drank half a glass of Cobra beer in one sip. Shakti looked adoringly at him, then shut the front door.
‘Where’s beev?’
The bell rang. Aakash bowed deeply and extended a hand. ‘The beev at your service.’
I opened the door; then I almost couldn’t look. In the light that fell from a single bulb, there stood a girl no taller than five feet in a red turban. She had one plump arm propped against the doorframe and was panting heavily. Beads of sweat glistened on her wet lips and pale face. She wore a baggy purple T-shirt which did nothing to conceal her vast breasts and stomach. The light, catching the grease on her face, shone dully on to the dark flesh that ringed her neck. Two diamond solitaires the size of boiled sweets gleamed in her ears. For some seconds, she didn’t look up, making a show of her breathlessness. I felt Aakash’s chin rest on my shoulder. ‘Your new bhabi,’ he whispered proudly, as if giving me the keys to a sports car.
She was quiet at first, smiling and watchful. She entered the flat timidly, brushing against the doorway and then the dining-room chairs. We walked in behind her, Aakash grinning and gaping at me, watching my every gesture for a reaction. When I showed none, he said, ‘Beev’s healthy, no?’ She heard, and slowly turning around, gave him a cautioning look. He bit his tongue, but was encouraged by the reaction. ‘And the funny thing is I’m her trainer. Beev, what an ad you are for me!’ At this provocation, she swung around and made a short charge, yelling, ‘Always making fun, twenty-four seven, seven eleven, making fun.’ Aakash took her in his arms and kissed her tenderly on the head. The kitchen door swung open and Shakti emerged with more samosas and beer. His expression changed from morose to ribald delight at the sight of them, both in their red turbans. Aakash and Megha joined Shakti in his brazen laughter and I was left feeling somehow that the joke was on me.
When we came into the drawing room, Aakash dropped himself on the sofa, his arms sprawling behind him. Megha sat on the edge of a chair, looking only at him. He closed his eyes and said, ‘Now, you guys talk. I’m going to sleep.’ But when I asked how near they had been to the blasts, he sprang up. ‘Man, you won’t believe it. The silence. Can you imagine an area as big as Connaught Place silent? It was amazing. For two seconds, you could hear the wind, you could hear a brown-paper bag scraping along the road. You know how in the movies when they have mute slow-motion scenes, exactly like that. But I tell you, it’s gone too far. Now something or the other has to be done. Bring back terrorist laws, have quick arrests, quick trials. I’m saying anyone there’s a doubt about, that’s it, straight in jail. It’s gone too far.’
Megha listened carefully.
I wasn’t in the mood for a political conversation. I said, ‘Maybe. But until now there have never been any real arrests, no real evidence. Without that, terrorist laws just become a way to keep the wrong people in jail.’
Aakash’s eyes hardened. ‘Then each one of them will have to go.’ He sighed. ‘The lot of them.’
‘Go where?’
‘I don’t know. Pakistan? Round them up in the Red Fort and blow them away? I don’t care, but this can’t go on.’
‘Come on, Ash-man. You don’t mean that. What about Zafar? Will he have to go?’
Aakash had met him once or twice and was fond of him. His face softened. ‘In so large an operation, a few good people end up sacrificed too. And by the way, I’m not saying just Muhammadans, the bad Hindus should go too.’
For that one moment, Aakash seemed to lose his particularity. I saw in his anger and his hunger a greater Indian rage and appetite; and in his face, the face of a mob.
Megha spoke to me only in English, and to Aakash only in Hindi, no matter how much either of us tried switching to the other. It positioned her at the centre of conversation and brought up a wall between Aakash and me that had never existed before. As she became comfortable, she began poking fun at my Hindi, embarrassing me for speaking well rather than for speaking badly. ‘Oh,’ she teased, when I used the Hindi word for election, ‘using such big words and all. Even I don’t know words like that.’
I became curious about when they’d met. Megha beamed, and resting a small, fleshy hand cluttered with diamonds on Aakash’s lime-green T-shirt, said, ‘What now, it must be six, running seven months?’
‘Seven months?’ I gasped.
It was nearly exactly as long as I had known Aakash. I suddenly remembered, and now understood, what the Begum of Sectorpur had been referring to all those months before.
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ I said.
Aakash, seeming to enjoy the deception, said, ‘I couldn’t have, man. It’s all been very secret. She came as a client. I was meant to make her lose weight so that her parents could find her a match, according to her caste, which, by the way, is much lower than mine.’
Megha nodded, apologetically adding, ‘We’re Aggarwals, the business caste.’
‘
And
,’ Aakash continued, ‘according to her financial status, which is much higher than mine. Her father’s not a lakhpati or crorepati, but an arabpati. He has three factories in Sectorpur, desi ghee, plastics, autoparts. Her brother went abroad for university; not that it did him any good.’
At this, the two of them eyed each other and laughed.
When their laughter died down, Megha explained, ‘He’s a homo.’
‘A homo?’
‘You know, homo?’ she said, then rattled off, ‘Homo, a gay, fajjot.’
‘Anyway,’ Aakash continued, ‘her financial status is very differ from mine. No one in her family knows anything about us. In fact, I think I can honestly say that if they found out, they would probably try and kill me.’
‘My brother suspects,’ Megha inserted, ‘maybe.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘The homo saw us leaving Junglee together,’ Aakash added quickly. ‘But what can he do? Zero.’ Aakash stressed this by making the numeral with his finger and thumb.
Megha felt some explanation was needed. ‘You know, money is status. That’s a fact of life, but me, I don’t believe in all of this. I can only marry a man whom I respect. Money comes and goes, but respect lasts. All the guys I meet in Delhi, they just want to work for their fathers and live off the family business. Only Aakash is someone I see who wants to make something of his own.’
Megha, as she became more energetic, had taken off her red turban and crumpled it in her lap. Her limp medium-length hair was streaked blonde in places; she had a nose ring. Without the turban, her features were thicker still, her head heavy and round.