Jasmine and roses

He smiled to himself wearily as she approached him, with the customary tray of teacups and oily savouries. Under carefully lowered eyes, he saw that she was wearing a bright crimson shade of expensive silk, which rustled faintly as she moved. Her mother motioned for her to keep the tray on the table and the unnatural silence that had fallen on the small room was temporarily broken, providing a cue to the small gathering to resume their small chatter. She seated herself beside her mother, coyly glancing in his direction, and then, when she thought nobody was looking, noted his broad forehead and his expensive looking rimless spectacles. He sat between his parents: his father, a distinguished lawyer, and his mother a full-time charity worker. From the way he was stationed, it was obvious that he was their only son. His finely tailored suit which sat comfortably on him, and the classy slim gold watch on his left wrist looked too good to be Indian. He looked quite academic, thought Anitha; will I be able to keep up with him? Maybe he isn't as academically inclined as he looks… maybe that's just a facade… maybe he's scared of this really 'Indian' Indian family… and thus lost in her reverie, she hardly realized when Appa asked her to show Vivek around the house.

'Holy Christ!' thought Vivek to himself, not another boring walk around the place, having been witness in the short span of the past three days, to horrendously long and boring stories about how ten-year-old dogs had breathed their last at a particular place, and how the girl in question had hid for four long hours in the oh-so-old-looking antique cupboard. Ever since he had landed in India with the express purpose of finding a mate before the month ran out, he had been subject to the same ritual, but this time, he felt it was different. Maybe the girl, maybe the house, but it sure felt… definitive? And as Anitha led the way to the lush green lawn, invitingly visible from the large French windows of the drawing room, he breathed a sigh of relief -- and the sweet scent of country roses. Anitha moved about lithely, looking almost as pretty as the crimson roses themselves, as they silently made their way on the soft and crunchy green grass. The setting sun provided the most perfect setting, reflecting gold while bouncing off the leaves and the tall coconut swayed gently, as if charmed by the old midget of a sun.

Feeling every bit of the awkward 'prospective' groom, Vivek coughed a little to add a human element to the beautiful natural setting, and Anitha chuckled to herself. Realizing his awkwardness, she pointed to the nearest rose bush, and rattled off its history -- both domestic and botanical, after overcoming a bout of sudden tongue-tiedness.

Vivek listened to her and nodded. His interest in plants was restricted to the 1-800 FLOWERS florist under his office, whose services he availed of to hand his aging secretary, Ms. Bertie an occasional rose. Anitha took him to various plants and bushes, and patiently explained the history of each bush, and each time she moved, Vivek caught a whiff of the fragrant jasmine string in her hair, which looked stunning against her silky long tresses. Before he knew it, the jasmine mingled with the country roses, and seemed to pervade each molecule of his being in a way that seemed to shock him. And when they were finally called in to re-discuss, he didn't want to leave Anitha's side at all. He prolonged the stipulated time, by sharing some of his disturbingly late night work schedule in New York with Anitha, almost apologetic for the fat paycheck that contributed to the golden Accord stationed outside. But what unnerved him was the way he seemed to relish the raw scent of the two flowers mingling together, touching him, like nothing ever had.

In all of his life in New York, he had been exposed to the most pungent and verdant smells, yet, nothing tickled his brains and moved his senses as much as this heady fragrance. It surpassed the expectant feel of the smell of rain on dry earth, the air of comfortable milkiness around a newborn child and the taste buds-tickling sense of fresh white butter on puffed rotis. He seemed to want nothing but Anitha and the roses encased in this ethereal perfume. The sweet pervasive smell seemed to cloud his brain into a rosy-hued oblivious mass -- much like the hangover of dark spirits and he felt… happy. It was in this joyous state of headiness that he parted ways with Anitha -- his father promising Anitha's father that he would let him know soon.

It was almost twenty-four hours since the meeting that Anitha's father received word from Vivek' s father. Vivek had said 'yes' to the marriage -- his only condition was that the marriage pandal be covered in jasmine and roses. (Jan 04, 2005)

Saroj, the Cook

Saroj had been with the Malhotra household for as long as he could remember. Having been inducted into one of Raipur's most illustrious family as first helper to the main cook when he was a slip of a boy, he now stayed with Bhaiya- Rahul Malhotra and his wife in their high rise apartment, a strapping man of twenty one. 'Keep him, beti', Rahul's mother had sighed over miles of ether- ensconsed in their palatial Raipur home- when Rahul's wife had complained about the lack of trusted servants in the city. Though Amma ji was reluctant to let him go first, the battle between crunchy puris and motherly love had been won by the latter.

And so, Saroj had arrived in Mumbai with a small duffel bag containing his three t shirts, three pairs of hand-me-down jeans and one grey towel and had gotten down to work soon thereafter.

After the long hours spent dusting the carved Saharanpuri wooden furniture and complying with the whims of the younger bahu, not to mention the inevitable cousin who would be an almost permanent fixture demanding his share of mango milk shake and a meal separate from the rest of the house, working in the Malhotra residence was a breeze. Though their apartment was almost five rooms, they were smaller than the Raipur ones and far less cluttered and it took him exactly half the time to dust them all. Cooking was another activity that Saroj started enjoying- there were just  two people to cook for, and though he had sometimes got the proportions wrong in the beginning, he was actually loving the variety he could cook up wihout any interference!

He loved haggling with a roadside vegetable vendor he had befriended, crunching on salty cucumber that he would cut up, for his Raipuri friend, while getting luscious tomatoes and ripe brinjals at half the price. Or, locating authentic anardaana in a small shop in a by-lane, run by an enthusiastic Gujarati family who would offer him khakra and chili pickle each time he went shopping.

Bhabhi-ji was expecting their first child and often had strange cravings. Like one day, she instructed him to make mattar ki kachori- he was slightly surprised because Bhabhi- ji was always very health conscious and never allowed more then two small dollops of ghee on her rotis. Then, when he brought the fragrant kachoris lying on a bed of absorbent tissue to her,she refused to touch them for a good twenty minutes. It was only when Bhaiya ji coaxed her that she took a small bite. She said the smell made her retch.

Saroj had adapted himself to Mumbai fairly well. He knew no one in the city save Zari Ram, Bhabhi ji's driver with whom his exchanges were related to a perfunctory nod when he took the car keys in the morning, besides his vegetable vendor friend and the Gujarati Uncle who used to keep a fresh batch of khus khus seeds for him each week. In a way, Saroj loved the anonymity the city offered- the ability to blend into ignominy- one of the hordes of migrants who had made Mumbai their home. In Raipur, he was identified through the Malhotras- and he sometimes wished people would have less expectations of him than a perfectly roasted chicken keema or melt-in-the-mouth Galouti kababs.

His best pastime was either playing games on his cellphone (a recent acquisition to keep track of his whereabouts after he had stopped to have pani puri on the way and got late while buying vegetables while Bhabhi-ji wondered if he had been kidnapped, or looted, or both) or taking long walks in the park adjoining the residence. He often spotted small tv celebrities and reported them with equal enthusiasm back home to his mother (who was still employed in Bhaiya ji's house)

Minimal cleaning, reduced cooking- and the small thrills of daily gossip- such was the bliss of a metro life for Saroj till Bhabhi ji took up a microwave cooking class. Now Bhabhiji was employed in some private sector firm and he used to admire the way she carried herself to work. Why, he himself used to pack her tiffin everyday- two stuffed parathas, mango pickle and a sipper full of lassi with two besan laddoos for dessert. Sometimes he would make Chinese rice or noodles- and Bhabhi ji would relish her food and give him compliments.

Since she was pregnant Bhabhi ji was staying at home. Rather than waste her time, she signed up for microwave cooking classes, and Saroj's life turned into a nightmare. For she would insist on trying each recipe that she learned in her class- and Saroj missed the freedom he had earlier. Their kitchen could comfortably accomodate only one, and he felt stifled with the amount of chopping and cleaning he had to do- especially after trails of maida and the smell of eggs permanently hung about his kitchen. Not that Bhabhi ji meant any wrong, he was quick to chastise himself, but in his heart of hearts he also secretly missed the attention and praise that Bhaiya ji lavished on him after a particularly tender plate of reshmi kababs or a cup of well made elaichi tea. In fact, he even wondered if he would be rendered jobless because now there was a electric cook in the house!

Slowly he attuned himself to the silver monster that was the microwave- often feeling wasted because Bhabhi ji and Bhaiya ji would invariably eat off the microwave and he would either taste a bit or make fat rotis for himself. His real joy lay in cooking- in watching curls of onions turn golden  brown like swirling whisky in his kadhai or the puff of well fried puris or even the smooth spiciness of punjabi chole. Roasting and watching spices melt into the meat or vegetable attributed to the 'real' taste of food- not the artificial flavour he tasted when he ate the microwaved food.

Microwaves were meant only for English cooking and he hated both.

One day, Bhaiya-ji had invited some people from office and Bhabhi-ji tried making a cake besides several other 'dips' and 'casseroles'. She accidentally set the timer of the microwave to three minutes more than the prescribed and out came a biscuit- severely baked on top and spongy on the bottom. Bhabhi-ji had refused to eat any dinner that night. How the rest of the people managed on 'garlic bread' and chicken casserole was beyond him. How could a party be complete without keema, butter chicken, kabab? Not to mention roomali rotis?

Saroj began to spend more time away from the kitchen, even though Bhabhi-ji endevaoured to teach him some recipes. But he steadfastly refused to budge beyond papad making and rice cooking. He loved the taste of the gas cooking better. Then, one day, in the middle of cooking kadhai paneer (though how the microwave could roast the spices together was out of his understanding)  the microwave blew a fuse. Along with the microwave, Bhabhi-ji also blew a similar fuse. She knew better than to get it repaired locally, hence had to resort to Saroj for dinner. Saroj was delighted and his in his enthusiasm, made an exceptionally delicious Kadhai Paneer. Bhaiya ji licked his fingers till the very end.

From that day onwards, Bhaiya-ji's inclination towards gas cooking returned, and Bhabhi-ji's fervour dampened a bit, when the microwave dealer told her that she would have to wait for a week to get the spare from overseas. Saroj had already decided to make the most wonderful meals of his life- as if it were an examination and only one week was left for the preparations- so he churned the most fragrant daal makhani, soft-as-silk dahi bade, succulent lamb chops and buttery prawns. And when, a week later, the microwave was repaired, he was overjoyed to see Bhabhi-ji's lost enthusiasm as she once again discussed the menu with him for normal cooking. He laid a lace cover over the microwave, bidding it adieu for a long time.

(June 28, 2009)  

Laxmi, the Maid

Laxmi, sweet, shy and docile Laxmi, had been with the Malhotra household for almost four years now. She had picked up this house- washing vessels and sweeping/mopping the floor when the nice Aunty-ji in the house opposite to the Malhotras had decided to sell off everything and live with her son in the US. “She’ll regret it,” Laxmi often used to tell others in her slum- the small shanty where she stayed with her husband and her five year old son- but it had been four years now, and she still hadn’t returned. And it was a good thing, Laxmi told herself- working for Sonia didi was a more pleasurable and lighter task than the rigorous cleaning routine she faced at Aunty-ji’s- however sweet Aunty-ji's demeanour was.

Laxmi had been working for as long as she could remember- and always for something. For a new frock, for sweets, for dolls, for glass bangles on her wrist and then later, for rice and jaggery in her house. Her husband, Kishor, employed himself as an odd jobs man or a mason, depending on his temperament for the week- and earned in a week, what Laxmi earned in a month. Half his salary would go towards the upkeep of the shanty- and this monsoon, Laxmi was worried she would have to again ask for an old sheet from Sonia didi to keep Sunil- her son- dry.

Laxmi worked in three of the flats, including the Malhotras, in the high rise which was situated in a celeb-infested suburb. Each morning, she left home at exactly seven thirty, after preparing tea and dry rotis for Sunil and Kishor, and walked across to the bus stop which would take her to the Malhotras residence. She liked to finish the quirky Mrs. Gupta on 2nd floor first- though the construction of the flats was all the same, Laxmi often saw how different they looked because each lady had set it differently. While Sonia didi’s home was sparse and tastefully done with less, exclusive furniture, Mrs. Gupta’s was just the opposite- a reflection of her boisterous personality, echoed in the myriad hued rugs and floor cushions with heavy lamps and curtains- which took an awfully long time to clean. The third house where she worked, was occupied by two young men, who were either sleeping, or out of the house, and she used her own key to let herself in, clean the four precise dishes laid on the sink, settle a few cushions on the mattress-bed and wash their eight clothes- which took her all of twenty minutes.

But Sonia didi’s house was different.

Maybe it was the fact that Sonia didi was almost the same age as her, maybe it was because she was so cheerful all the time, or maybe the fact that there was less work for her ever since Sonia didi had got a cook from her in-laws place.

Or just that Laxmi saw an aspiration of herself- if she had been wealthy, she would be Sonia Malhotra.

Sonia didi loved wearing the latest designer clothes, and she would often discard a lot of them for Laxmi- not only clothes, but also handbags- by the dozen, and shoes! Oh- she could go on and on about shoes- for Sonia didi loved shoes- all colours, all kinds, graced the tall shoes closet that she had herself seen acquire storey after storey as the years progressed. Sonia didi’s shoes were kept immaculately- dirt brushed off them, the strappy ones stuffed with paper so that they didn’t become shapeless- all of them sanitized and sunned each week. Laxmi especially loved a green pair of simple slip ons- with diamonds that glittered like cat’s eyes in the dark- and though Laxmi didn’t have any outfit that she could match them with, she loved seeing Sonia didi’s white feet sit pretty in those slip ons.

Laxmi’s day made her tired even before it began. The strain of getting up at five, to fill water from the only municipal tap which serviced at least fifty homes like hers, wash clothes and vessels in small trickles of rationed water, give Sunil a bath, prepare breakfast and his tiffin left her worn. She would often fall asleep in the bus on the way to work- and once she had landed her head on the rail, with a thud so bad as the bus avoided a pothole, that her neck ached for days after that.

After finishing work in Sonia didi’s house (she reserved her for the last) she gossiped with some of the maids in the nearby houses (she preferred calling it 'exchange of news' instead of gossip- when Sonia didi had once caught her laughing about someone’s dog giving someone’s driver a good chase around the building) for a good half hour, before walking across again to the bus stop, to fetch Sunil from school. And after that, it was back to the dreariness of her shanty and all the associated problems which loomed larger and larger each day.

Her only solace to staying sane was that half hour of working at Sonia didi’s- admiring her shoes, her elegant taste in everything and if she was lucky, bringing home some delicious leftovers that Saroj, the cook, sometimes set aside for her.

Sonia didi was always nice to her- asking about Sunil, Kishor and her tiny home. Once a week, she would give Laxmi some sweets to take back for Sunil. Sometimes, she would pass on her husband’s old shirts for Kishor.

But of late, she had started seeing Sonia didi looking aloof and withdrawn. She almost stopped smiling and would still be in bed even when Laxmi had finished cleaning- normally, she would have just emerged from her bath, smelling of liles that reminded Laxmi of her village with the grassy banks- with her office clothes laid out on the bed- with matching shoes. Sometimes, just sometimes, Laxmi would suggest another pair of shoes, which Sonia didi readily accepted.  On those days, Laxmi would feel the twin forces of hope and sadness tear her apart as she silently compared her life to her mistress’.

Lately, however, she missed seeing Sonia didi dress up- looking every inch of the modern Indian woman- the poster of which Laxmi passed each day on her way to work- the one advertising female empowerment through a fairness cream- which she had once received from Sonia didi- which was preserved carefully in front of the small mirror she had in her shanty.

She wondered if all was well between didi and her husband- the quiet gentleman who spoke very little and was always on the phone- but there seemed to be no negative vibes between them. It was as if Sonia didi was retracting into a tiny shell around her- and refusing to let her, or even Saroj, enter.

Then, one day suddenly, Sonia didi returned to normal. She was dressed early- wearing her beautiful strappy black sandals with a matching lace salwar kameez- with a broad grin on her face.

“Sit with me, Laxmi”, she said, “and tell me how you are such a good mother to Sunil- because I am pregnant, and I wish I knew how to care for my family as much as you do”- Laxmi’s heart gave a large whoop of joy as she began discussing the intricacies of motherhood- for once- she, the aspiration and Sonia didi the eager disciple.

(July 16, 2009)        

Karim, the Hairdresser

Karim had been Sonia Malhotra's hair-stylist (he preferred being called that instead of a barber) for almost six years now- three years pre- marriage and three post. Sonia was one of his most regular and generous clients- often tipping him an extravagant hundred rupees even if it was just a trim. True- he had his other regulars like the beautiful Lavanya Shah with the creamy flawless complexion with whom he loved experimenting with hair colour and cuts as if she was a doll, and Gayatri Mehta, who seemed like she  lived in a tanning incubator all her life- and who loved cutting her hair short, short and shorter.

But there was none like Sonia Malhotra- quiet, reclusive, almost to the point of being shy, with a rich white clear skin and strands of hair so fine that you could thread a needle with fifty of them. She loved taking care of her deep mahogany lustrous tresses and he often suggested advanced treatments for her, much before he introduced them to the rest of the salon. She was very receptive most of the time, and once, she had purchased a moisturizing treatment worth ten thousand rupees, almost his month’s salary, without batting an eyelid or asking for the fine print. He loved having clients like her- it was a joy to let his hands run through the mass of lustrous threads, styling and making them dance like wisps of feathers with his large volume hair dryer.

Karim worked in an upscale branded salon in a celebrity-infested suburb in Mumbai. Sonia Malhotra had been one of his first customers, when she, clad in a simple pair of blue jeans and white shirt had asked for a trim. He had suggested layering to her, and she accepted. She loved her hair and from then onwards, refused to let anyone else apart from Karim touch her hair.

Six years- and countless inches of hair been cut, countless rounds of moisturizing and deep conditioning treatments and countless numbers of highlights had been applied on her- and yet, she remained, recluse, sipping her coffee and playing with her cellphone- which became more and more expensive as the years went by.

Karim loved his job. He believed that all women were beautiful, and he was here to make them look stunningly beautiful with the right kind of hair cut. He spent all his free hours poring over fashion magazines, deciphering the latest trends and colours, and watching F TV. He especially loved the Hair & Make up special- for he could then see that hair could be worn as an accessory and not merely an adornment. Karim learnt the art of cutting from his father, himself a gifted barber, who ran his own small salon in far away Pune. On a lark, he had once taken leave from his salon, and spent twenty days in Pune, supervising hair cutting and administration, and quickly grown tired of it. "My creativity is being stifled”, he had complained to his father, who refused to see any creativity in a plain hair cut. For his father, hair was a nuisance, and he had been given the right to set it right.

Not that there was only Karim in the salon. There was the effervescent Molly, who had a string of tattoos on her arms and the shy Farida, who spoke in whispers and was preferred by the celebs. Karim- now he was different.

Each day, he arrived at dot half past nine on his well oiled bike, half an ageing relic from his school days. He parked it in the same parking spot behind the salon and smoked a leisurely cigarette before announcing his presence inside.

Mrs. Sharma-Sahay, who owned the franchise for the salon arrived in a crisp uniform each morning, trailing her lunchbox behind her. Her husband had passed away a few years ago and the salon was his surrogate. She depended on it for her livelihood and for financing the academic needs of her 2 children.

Then came the helpers- scraggly Vishnu and lean Ohri- who swept, dusted, disinfected and washed the salon each day.

The rest of the beauticians- Lici, with her Nepali looks and faint accent arrived from Borivali in an auto each day and complained bitterly about her back for the first half, and so did Saida- who always wore outrageous outfits and pestered Karim for a free hair cut every week. But the nicest of them was Shabana, who was a true professional, right down to wearing her lovely shoulder length hair in a bun and speaking very little to the customers, who invariably got late as her boyfriend dropped her off each day.

The salon hummed and hawed and clinked with life all day- and sometimes Karim was amazed at the lengths women would go to, to keep themselves attractive. He had seen jiggly housewives get ready for occasions- they, who had given up on everything in life, except jewellery and cosmetics, turn into princesses with nips and tucks and clever concealing- their cheekbones sought out and highlighted to perfection with layers of rouge and blush- eyelashes dripping with mascara to give them that just-had-a-bath look and skin so dewey that his fingers ached to touch. For then, after all the crimping was over, Karim was called to finish the masterpiece with a flourish- a chignon, French plait, swept up locks or severely curled hair- that one piece which made her irresistible to her middle-aged husband again and the talking point of the party. He loved the power he wielded over unruly locks, hairbrush and spritzer in hand, ready to take on the world’s army of disheveled women.

He had also seen hordes of women spend 3-4 hours in the salon, getting tweezed, waxed or lasered- right in the middle of this one haven on Earth which drew all the less attractive women like bees to a hive.

Nothing of this sort with Sonia.

She came in for a clean-up every fifteen days and a trim every month. She was so regular that Karim often joked that he could set his calendar by her visits.

Through the process of trimming her hair, he would offer her a cup of coffee- without sugar, which she readily accepted. He would then either proceed with a treatment or just watch her contentedly flicking through the latest magazines. She was beautiful and he was content just to watch her blossom even more after his handiwork.

Then, one day, her visits stopped just as suddenly they had begun initially.

At first, he dismissed it by brushing it aside- maybe she had simply forgotten- but he had been looking forward to her visit that day- because of the arrival of a special Schwarzkopf moisturizer from their head office which he wanted to test on her hair, knowing it would make it glow even more.

But then, when she missed her second visit also, he began to get worried. Though he didn’t expressly ask Mrs Sahay to call her, he paced up and down the small parking lot- wishing there was some way in which he could communicate with her without intruding on her privacy.

All his creativity and zest for hair styling lay with Sonia, and for the first time, he realized that he was dependant on her for his own good, rather than the other way around.

He also feared that she was lost to some other Karim in some other parlour.

Then, one wonderful day, after almost a month, Sonia walked into the salon again. Her face glowed like a thousand peaches had been bathed in cream and her hair looked glamorously soft and long.

‘Not the usual today, Karim’, she said, with a small shake of her head- ‘Can you cut me a fringe across my forehead? It’s something I’ve always wanted for a long time…and now that I am pregnant, this is the best time to experiment and get away with it’, she giggled, a tad nervously.

Mrs Sharma-Sahay looked up with a beaming smile across her face at Karim- who led her to her favourite chair and started imagining her with a beautiful fringe across her face- making her look like a true princess- relieved that his muse was a true woman, and was back with him, after all.

(July 15,2009)

Zari-Ram, the Driver

Zari-Ram, Rahul Malhotra's driver, had perfected the art of knowing Madam-ji's moods by the music she heard in their black Skoda.

Mostly, though, she had a preference for English music- 'God knows what they wail or mumble!' was all he could offer by way of explanation to his wife at home, when he ate steaming hot rice and sweet-sour daal with tiny bits of crispy ginger, in their tiny one room home, after a hard day's driving around in the Mumbai madness. He could understand very little of what they wailed, his knowledge of English being restricted to that of a fifth grader in his native village near Patna.

Sometimes she would listen to FM Radio also- a rarity- when she was on her way to work- a combination of the latest hits and the women's hour on a popular channel- the RJ of which was her friend- he had recognised her through her voice when Madam-ji had asked him to drive her to the new sea-food restaurant, and she had picked up a fat woman with a shock of purple hair and lots of rings everywhere.

Madam-ji loved her Skoda. It was a Skoda Superb- the best and most expensive model. Shiny black, with all the accessories custom made to her taste. The interiors were a tad lighter than the normal beige- and with the sun roof and additional woofers he loved the car too. He loved showing it off to the other drivers- though he was careful never to let them take it even on a test spin. He knew how angry Madam-ji would get- she had appointed a special cleaner to wash the Skoda- and she loved keeping it new, and boasting about it to her friends.

Madam-ji worked in a tall glass building with lots of lifts- beautiful mirrored ones, with plush carpeting- in a colourful office- the security head of which belonged to his neighbouring village- and she was a ‘Manager’. Once he had confided to Zari Ram that Madam-ji was a senior manager, the most respected of the lot- having risen through the ranks, who knew her work inside out. Though why she needed to work, was also quite beyond him- Sir-ji worked in an office double that of Madam-ji’s and he was sure earned more than double of what she did- for he reported to a hotshot corporate man, whose face Zari Ram had seen often in the newspapers- and with whom he had seen Sir-ji once, when his own driver was unwell.

Sukhi was Sir-ji’s driver of the Honda SUV. Zari Ram stayed away from Sukhi. Sukhi belonged to a village in the Himachal and though he was easy-going, Zari Ram knew he was too easy going at times.

It was a fit life- reporting to the high rise of the Malhotras residence by half past eight in the morning and if he was lucky, he would get a cup of tea from the vendor on bicycle, else he would drive Madam-ji to her office by nine, and then do nothing in the Parking till one, which was his self-designated lunch time. Sometimes he would read a Hindi newspaper borrowed from one of the other drivers, after lunch, and then blissfully drift off to sleep by five- which was his tea time. Madam-ji normally left work by eight thirty, or sometimes nine, and he passed his time chatting with the other drivers or the security guards discussing Politics or film stars or cricket. There was a lot to occupy their talks- even though there was sordid talk about the others in Madam-ji’s office, not once did Zari Ram hear anything wrong about his Madam-ji. She worked harder than the men, and had proved herself over two years to be counted as one of the serious workers.

Madam-ji was good to Zari Ram- often giving him little bags of onions and potatoes which he would bring gleefully to his wife- and his latest acquisition- an old TV set which wasn't required in the Malhotra household anymore, was also a gesture of pure selflessness on Madam-ji’s part when she learnt of the homesickness of his wife.

This was his small world- he loved to return to the arms of his wife- his recent acquisition of almost five months- and who always smelled like roses and jasmine- not the sharp citrusy smell that Madam-ji so liberally spritzed on herself before stepping off. Phuloo- for that was his wife’s name, was a docile wife with large kohl-lined eyes and thin golden bangles. She had been his mother’s second choice after the beautiful Rani with the incandescent skin - who got married off to a clerk in the city- but who also had a mind of her own. But he was proud of Phuloo- never once did she complain of the lack of running water in their tiny room, or the fact that she had to put up with the giggles, smirks and cheap talk of the neighbouring women- so different from the spacious village existence.

Phuloo was a great wife- she made delicious parathas for him at breakfast with elaichi tea- and packed him his lunch- three fat chapattis with a sliver of onion or green chilli pickle, and cooked aromatic daal rice for dinner. Once a month, he would take her to the nearest cinema to watch the latest flick- the actors seeming magnified like giants as they sat in the first row- and later they would treat themselves to malai kulfi. Once in two months he also bought her a cotton saree, so that she would not have to keep washing and wearing her old ones. He liked to see Phuloo happy- especially at night when they would lie on their lumpy mattress and she would tell him of the day’s incidents in their chawl. Unknown to her, he was actually saving part of the seven thousand rupees salary that he got monthly, to buy her a pair of gold earrings. Three thousand five hundred went towards the rent of their home, and he gave her two thousand rupees to run the house. The rest went into a little clay pot filled with rice that he had gotten from his village- it was decorated with a kalash, and Pandit-ji had told him that his wealth would grow manifold if it was always full of money. His life ran smoothly according to Madam-ji’s timetable, and he was glad to have a set routine. Then one day, he noticed something strange in Madam-ji’s behavior. She didn’t once change the FM station to the English one, and neither did she ask him to drive fast. It seemed as if she was preoccupied with something- which he could not quite put a finger on. By now he was used to her routine in the car- sit in, change the channel, ask for the air conditioning to be turned on high, snap at him once to drive fast, and then dial her mother to chat with her for the forty five minutes it took to reach her office. Sometimes she would call her office and shout instructions- it was clear that she had a very tension-filled job- ‘You wouldn’t believe that so many abuses can stem out of her mouth when she’s on the phone with her office’, he said once, to Phuloo, when he was applying oil in his hair in the morning to slick it back, the way he’d seen in a Salman Khan poster. Her moods and the kind of troubles she was facing with her mother, or her office, or Sir-ji, was evident by the way she handled the music system remote and him. Though he had to give it to her- she worked as hard as the rest of the men in her office- sometimes more than them- and once he was envious of the top boss, who leisurely left at five, while Madam-ji left at eleven. The end of the month was when she would normally take longer to leave. That day, when she was silently brooding at the back, he was almost tempted to ask her if everything was ok- but it was a golden rule for a driver- never speak unless spoken to- and he followed that perfectly. That day, she left office early- and on the way back, behaved perfectly well, even when he accidently took the Skoda through a pothole. Zari Ram wondered if everything was alright between Madam-and Sir-ji. But wonder of wonders- next day, Sir-ji accompanied her to a famous hospital- the one he had seen Amitabh Bachchan stepping out of, and he began to get worried. Was she fine? Why didn’t she snap at him anymore? Was everything ok with Sir-ji? Why the hospital?

He conveyed this to Phuloo the night he went to the hospital. ‘She’s probably not feeling too well…it happens…’, she said- and he agreed. True- she was looking a little paler than usual.

The next day, Madam-ji didn’t go to work. In the past year of his service, she had taken an off only once- the day her parents had arrived to spend a week with her- and she had been super snappy with him when he was driving her to the airport.

Now he was a bit more worried. What happened to her? Why wasn’t she going to work? She never missed a day at work- she was in love with her job! In fact, he secretly admired her- for her tough-as-nails exterior and ability to command so much respect at the workplace. He spent the entire day chatting with the security guard in the hope that she would come down and his familiar routine would re-start. Though once Phuloo had asked him if Madam-ji had any children, he had shrugged it off- she seemed too important for normal trivial tasks like child-bearing.

Next day, when Madam-ji appeared, she asked him to drive to the hospital. Again, she seemed worried. He glanced at her once in the rear view mirror and she seemed far away. He didn’t think it fit to disturb her.

While parking at the hospital, he glimpsed a famous dimpled actress. She had skin like his Rani’s- glowing like a bulb and lustrous tresses that were falling to her shoulders. Dressed in a pink track suit, she looked the vision of cherubic seduction. He was still thinking of her, when Madam-ji appeared and asked him to drive home.

Somehow he couldn’t bear to break Madam-ji’s reverie as she looked out of the window, unmindful of the news on the FM- he had tuned it to AIR- as he manouevred through the mid-morning traffic jam. Surprisingly, she didn’t call her mother or her office even once. She spent the whole day at home.

Next day, Sukhi didn’t turn up, and Zari Ram was asked to drive the SUV. Madam-ji was obviously resting at home, for she didn’t appear at all.

The day after that Sukhi conveyed that he was going home for a few days, and Zari Ram was asked to be Sir-ji’s driver for the time-being. Madam-ji was at home- though once Zari Ram had to go to the office to get her laptop and some files.

So Zari Ram started driving Rahul Malhotra around.

The fast paced sequence of events and the subsequent changes in his life made him forget Madam-ji temporarily. While Madam-ji’s life was staid and routine, Sir-ji’s life was just the opposite. A posse of lunch and dinner meetings at the city’s top hotels where he saw the best Bollywood beauties made for enough gossip with Phuloo at night. His life had become exciting, and he was superlatively star-struck, as he pointed out star after star on their TV set to Phuloo- describing their cars, their drivers and the way they looked in reality.

Sir-ji was liberal with over-time also, and Zari Ram earned almost half his salary in a few days for over-time. Surprisingly, Sir-ji was not brooding or busy like Madam-ji- he was completely fine- in fact, he seemed to be laughing and joking more than usual!

Then one day, exactly fifteen days after Sukhi had gone away, he saw Madam-ji. He was to drive her and Sir-ji to the hospital again. This time, Zari Ram made up his mind he would definitely ask what the problem was.

So when a jubilant Sir-ji and Madam-ji stepped back into the Skoda again, he turned around, unable to contain himself any longer. He saw Madam-ji’s face- and she looked beautiful. There were no worry lines creasing her beauty, her skin looked as though a thousand bulbs had been lit from within.

‘Congratulate us, Zari Ram’, beamed Sir-ji- ‘we are about to become proud parents!’ and in that one moment, Zari Ram thanked all the seventy two gods of his village, eager and happy in the knowledge that his Madam-ji was safe, and a normal woman.

(June 24,2009)    

The Invite

It sat on her screen- unblinking. Labelled simply as Wedding Invite- she clicked on it gingerly, her heart stopping for a minute as the screen refreshed. 

Yes, it was him. 

How many years had it been? Two, three, four? Four years and four months since that fateful day in her then- favourite restaurant, when, casually, over a cup of coffee, he had announced 'it wasn't working' with a soulful shake of his head.

She had stormed out, eyes hot with unshed tears which threatened to flow any minute- and she had let them, in the space of the rustic cab with its frayed velvet seats and glinting CD hung over the mirror- unmindful of the cab driver, unmindful of the curious bikers at traffic signals, too wrapped up in her private tragedy.

She had carefully built her own little world shortly after that- never letting a minute go waste- either working, or enjoying. She was a successful sales manager with a world renowned FMCG, member of an exclusive jazz enthusiasts club, and an avid traveller. She had been to London, Paris and Melbourne- with a select group of new acquaintances- who never asked too many questions and had no link with her turbulent past. She had started afresh and had drained her her old life away-alongwith the tears she had shed for him.

Until now.

She read the invitation- simple, crisp- just as he had been.

It announced his wedding to a girl who shared the same address as him, save a digit on the house number. Fate, she thought- and then read it again- it can't be- she thought...For he had once briefly mentioned a childhood friend, who 'skinny dipped in the same water tank' as him, on hot June afternoons, on the terrace of their apartment home, when he was eight, or wherabouts. All through their shared hostel life of two years, he had never mentioned her again, though he seemed keen on spending all holidays, even if they were a day-long respite, at home. The proximity of his home town to the hostel was God-sent, and while she savoured replicas of Holi & Diwali (her home being too far away to return too soon) with hostel-mates, he was always away on holidays- and the only time they spent together was the classroom and small bits of time snatched away from group meetings and projects.

So- this was what was happening all along- she thought, with a wry smile on her face. Like the time when he was unwell, and she decided to surprise him at his bachelor pad without informing anyone. She had spent ten minutes on deciding between the sunny yellow T-shirt which had been a gift from him, and the wafery white kaftan that he liked- before buying a crate of his favourite beer and lugging it up three storeys to find that he wasn't home- and wasn't answering his mobile either.

Or, when on a sudden whim, she decided to drop in on a Saturday night to pick him up for a confirmed media party at the happening new eatery in town- and later, stood holding a note which simply said 'have to leave- something urgent at home'- in the middle of his drawing room- dressed up in a short black skirt with crystal flowers in her hair and a pair of new stilletoes- with one of their mutual friends gallantly standing in for him.

And recently, even though she tried not to, sometimes he would manifest himself in unimaginable places- the glint of a steel cuff link (her birthday gift to him), a small-checked blue shirt (his graduation gift) or the unmistakable whiff of Davidoff- oh- why didn't they just stop making that perfume which made her long miserably for him?

Suddenly, his excuses, his behaviour, his attitude all made perfect sense and that one last missing piece in the puzzle fit itself. Silently, she wished him all the best, as she finally closed that painful chapter in her life, with a decisive click on the close and log-out button.

(April 6, 2009)

Smelly Shoes

It had been three months since Saubhagya and I got married amidst much fanfare in our hometown- Lucknow. Post that, our honeymoon had been a blur of butterflies and the serenity of the placid Kerela backwaters, where we had spent a blissful four days, while our bodies learnt those nooks of unbridled excitement that only seasoned lovers know.

We were acquaintances for a couple of months through common friends when we discovered a bond of love, and suddenly, all those long nights that I had tossed and turned in bed, haunted by images of my mother running towards me with a copy of the Matrimonial Times faded into blissful oblivion, replaced by dreams of Saubhagya- my knight in shining armour, who would rescue me from the dark dungeon of my self imposed pity. “Marry me, please, Simran,” he had proposed, over a lavish dinner- his eyes resembling those of my brown puppy dog I loved when I was young.

I was twenty four- just the correct age to be bundled off into Cinderella’s carriage riding off into the sunset, because, according to Ma, it was easy to find grooms below thirty, for girls who were this side of twenty five- once the girl crossed that magical threshold into twenty six, it was a tad difficult to bind her to conjugal bliss with likeminded (and like-aged) men. Age, wasn’t just a number anymore.

How lucky I was, I sighed to myself, for finding a perfect mate like Saubhagya, with his good looks, strong wit and loads of intelligence. He excelled in his chosen profession with Microsoft, and earned bagfuls of money- and respect, during his short stint of twenty-seven years on this earth. He also managed to woo me in style- we often dined at Marriott and gourmet Italian joints. He was kind, passionate, caring and a stickler for details,

Except for his shoes.

Saubhagya had an irritating habit of leaving his shoes under the bed, the chair, the sofa- wherever he sat to take them off. The large shoe rack that I had purchased stood at the entrance, like a beacon of hope in a lost island crowded, with my shoes, and none of his. And I found it disgustingly hard to pick up his shoes, floaters, chappals, slip ons, sneakers and what-have -you’s each time he came back into the house, and arrange them into the shoe rack. It couldn’t be that difficult to put them there himself, could it?

“I’m sorry”, was the first reply I had gotten when I had poked him specifically about it (in the midst of cooking white chicken for dinner- I now think it was the lure of the chicken that did it) He had then proceeded to empty the entire floor of his shoes, and arrange them neatly on the shoe rack with the cat-got-me expression on his face that I loved. I was satisfied. I hated such disregard for furniture- not to mention the dirt and germs he brought, strewing them all over with such gay abandon.

“Oops, I forgot”, was his second response when I had pointed out that his shoes were lying out again, a week later (this was when it was Saturday morning, and the maid had just cleaned the floor, and it was sparkling in the sunlight without a trace of dust). And he had again proceeded to pick them up, meekly, and deposit them with the rest of the other shoes in the rack, his actions reminding me of Mr. Bean when he had defaced Whistler’s mother.

“Oh come on, isn’t it better to just keep them under the bed- saves me a trip to the rack every time I want to put them on”, was his third line of defense when I had again scolded him with some exasperation in my voice (Maybe this was ill-timed- he had just returned home from work, and I could see he had a long day). Could he not get the picture? Besides, his shoes and socks always smelt of stale sweat- he never bothered to put the worn socks in the laundry bag, neither did he attempt to sun his shoes every week to get rid of the dank odour. That night, while we slept on opposite sides of the bed (for I was still so angry with him) I dreamed that a large pair of floaters had opened up their mouths to swallow me, all whole, and had licked their tongues tantalizingly after the feast. I took this to be a bad omen, and immediately sunned all his shoes and sprayed freshener all over the house the next morning, asking my maid to scrub extra hard under all the furniture to remove all signs of the dirty footwear, even though I was getting late for work.

“I think you are over-reacting, just take it easy- I like my shoes in easy access- not in some far flung cupboard”, was his fourth reply when I had patiently explained to him that all that garbage stuck to the soles would only seek to spread diseases in the house, best tended to in the shoe rack, which was sanitized every week. Far flung? I looked at him in horror- we lived in a small two-bedroom apartment- and the shoe rack was right at the entrance- kept specifically for the purpose of submitting shoes. It wasn’t like our large homes in Lucknow, where one had to walk down or up a flight of stairs to reach the shoe cupboard. I was mystified by his answer, and even though we made up later that night, I dreamt fitfully of a vast expanse of marble flooring filled with shoes of every kind. The next day, over a coffee and cigarette break, I confessed the situation to my best pal at work, Nina. “How do I get him to understand, Nina? This is getting in the way of our life now…”, I had petered off while Nina puffed busily, watching the antics of the receptionist and the phone.. “Hmm…why don’t you leave your shoes out, for a change? Maybe he’ll see reason then,” and she sucked extra hard on her Marlboro, feeling happy with the suggestion she made, causing her to be enveloped in a bout of coughing, while I gave her a sip of my coffee. Nina meant well and although I never valued her suggestions (ever since I had seen her ‘inner om’ sparked by smoking, perming her ramrod beautiful tresses and grey contact lenses) she was my best hope in this situation. “See, I knew you’d see reason in leaving shoes in easy access, Simran”, was Saubhagya’s delightful fifth rejoinder (the very night when I returned from work and decided to follow Nina’s suggestion on a lark). He was ecstatic with the fact that I, the wayward disciplinarian had taken to adopting his approach. That night passed off in a wild passionate display of never seen before tenderness and secretly I was glad for a minute. But the thought of my stilettos under the bed, carrying the grime of all day work caused me to break into another bad dream, where I saw their pointed heels stabbing me repeatedly in the chest until I gave up, rivers of sweat pouring out of my body instead of blood. It has got to be something with this city, I chided myself. If we were somewhere else, except Bombay, we would have had a large house, I wouldn’t have minded the shoes all over, and the shoes themselves wouldn’t be so sweaty all the time. My mind wandered off again, and that evening, my mother detected a slight tension in my voice, over miles of ether. “What’s wrong, Simi?” using my childhood pet name, and that was enough to let loose the barrage of disappointed tears held at bay with the humdrum routine of everyday life. Between great sobs and gulps of air I explained the situation to her. “Arrey, its such a small matter, Simi…you should consider yourself lucky that you pick up your husband’s footwear after him. You’ll get many brownie points in Heaven…” she said, obviously disregarding the complete issue of cleanliness, as she launched into Guru Ramdev’s latest offering on TV. Why was she walking down this holier-than-thou track suddenly? For the first time in the four months that I had been married, I felt lonely.

Like I was the only woman on the earth…me and that huge army of wayward shoes marching in all directions, while I tried to restrain them, unsuccessfully.

And so it continued.

Saubhagya would untie his shoes wherever he sat, and leave them there. I would place them in the shoe rack. He saw me doing it once, and was so ashamed that he picked them up himself. Most times he would head straight for a shower after returning, so wouldn’t see me pick up the mess. I kept a straight face through all this, refusing to let the tension seep in my behaviour. I was, after all, the sacrificing woman (though what I was sacrificing here was questionable!).

A couple of months passed, and then another. I grew used to seeing shoes even when there weren’t any. I think I was getting paranoid about their presence. While Saubhagya’s shoes would rest in different places on different days, my shoes always rested in their black suede bags, inside the shoe cupboard. My dreams about shoes became infrequent as I got used to the idea of a pair of Red Tapes staring at me as I got dressed for work, or black Reebok joggers poking their laces at me while I applied mascara. In fact, I began to find their presence comforting. There they were- in lieu of Saubhagya sometimes in the evening, when I would come out of the bathroom dripping in my toweling robe; I would catch sight of his rubber slippers, and feel comforted- knowing that he would be home soon. When I would cook curry in the kitchen, I would glance out and spy his brown pumps under the sofa and it would seem like he was in the house somewhere. Often, I would slip into his cushioned slip ons and enjoy the feel of the soft velvet against my skin, sparking off memories that brought a faint blush to my cheeks. The world was a happier place as the time I spent fighting with Saubhagya earlier over shoes was translated to better use- and a better life. I was calmer than before, and all that calmness earned me good points at work. I was truly happy.

“See I told you”, exclaimed Nina in that nasal tone of hers she reserved for ticking off the canteen guy. “Now you can be happy…”,and she trailed off as she apprised me of the wonders of Art of Living.

And then suddenly, one day, Saubhagya decided to use the shoe rack. It happened just like that- I was surprised to see him bend and pick up his shoes – I thought he had surely dropped something- and that too, on a weekend, when time was running lazily out of the clock and into the TV. When I questioned him about it, he seemed a little hurt “Well, I am listening to you, Simi- aren’t you happy now?” as he surreptitiously angled his cheek towards me for a peck.

I was gladly astonished- and speechless for the entire evening as I watched him pick up all his shoes, empty them of socks, and proceed to arrange them diligently in the rack.

Next day at work, I surprised Nina by telling her of the marvelous phenomenon that was my husband. “Men”, she sighed, “who knows them?” she lit another cigarette- by the time we had finished dissecting his abnormal behaviour and I had been subject to Nina’s three failed relationships yet again, I looked forward to going home- a cleaner home without those obnoxious shoes- and for a moment, I was back to my former cleanliness goddess self.

As soon as I entered the house and switched on the hall light, I was struck by its emptiness. The floor looked so empty…so bereft…as if something was missing…the house exuded gloom to the core, and as I walked morosely to our bedroom to try and get some semblance of serenity, I realized it. When I stood at the door of the bathroom, I missed his big floaters staring at me- egging me on for a bath. When I came out, dripping in my robe, I missed his joggers sticking out their tongues. I gave myself a whack on the head- what was I? Some kind of psycho, probably, missing that one item which I had laboured to have removed from sight. As the evening wore on, and I started cooking, I missed the reassuring sight of those old brown pumps- worn at the sides- looking so old yet so sprightly- standing in for Saubhagya till he came in, cluttering the floor with a gracious dignity.

And when he finally returned and took off his shoes, I asked him to leave them just there- under the sofa.

(Aug 19, 2007)