Mumbai Noir (15 page)

She’s got such a gentle heart; I really like her personality. Such a pity Juneja wanted her trained to attack. But then he was paying a lot—me, as well as the Karjat farm. So we were training her to attack strangers whenever we let out a low whistle. In another day or two, she would have been ready to be handed back to Juneja.

But now he’s just abandoned Mini. I tried to convince him but he’s refusing to take her back. He’s got a new Doberman apparently. The farm is feeding Mini at my expense.

I’ve been calling my clients but it doesn’t seem like anyone has room for a hound in this city. My last resort was Daddy. The house is biggish and there’s Juhu beach for exercise. I told him I would take care of the grooming and so on. Everything could work out. But he is refusing to take in a dog, saying Anwar will object.

I’m glad Mom isn’t around to watch this. Daddy’s priorities are so warped. He’s more bothered about the driver’s religious beliefs than my happiness. And Anwar doesn’t really mind. I talked to him about Montu and my work and he even helped me fetch a dog in a basket last week, while Daddy was asleep.

But Daddy’s decided to be difficult right now. The mess in the house makes everything worse since he cannot think straight when things aren’t in order. He’s fired the maid, accusing her of stealing rice and milk cartons. I tried to tell him he was mistaken, that he’s never known how much rice there was in the kitchen at any point. But he insists there’s some hanky-panky going on. The latest thing is that there’s a dangerous man hanging around. Daddy thinks someone’s planning a burglary and the maid is in on it. He’s afraid she is poisoning the food as well.

When he told me, I just rolled my eyes and called Anwar. I asked, “Do you feel ill when you eat lunch here?”

Anwar said, “Of course not.”

Then I shook my head at Daddy. He seemed sort of frightened. But that doesn’t stop him from being bull-headed, does it? He still won’t agree to take in Mini.

She wasn’t at the airport, arrivals or departures. She doesn’t take the train back home these days. I waited last evening at the station from six, right up to half past two when the last train arrived. I even went to her father’s place. I put on my old watchman’s uniform and stood outside the building. But there was no sign of her.

She could have gone out of town for work. I don’t know where though. This is a disturbing thought—I don’t know where she goes, who she meets. It isn’t right.

I even thought of going up to her father’s flat, but in my watchman’s uniform it was not a good idea. Nobody would tell me anything.

I spotted the man myself. Daddy took me to the window and pointed him out. I was exasperated. I said, “He’s a watchman, Daddy! Of course he hangs around; that’s what he is paid to do.”

But my father wasn’t convinced. He kept muttering that the fellow is always looking at the house. “Directly here. He knows an old man lives alone.”

Daddy was still suspicious about the food. He was hardly eating. It’s like he had an extra sense, though nothing changed except that he was sleeping two hours in the afternoon and another hour at night. He felt more tired, that’s all. No other side effects.

I took him for a check-up anyway. Doc said it was just age and told him to eat better. Daddy began to complain to the doc about the maid and the planned burglary. Me and the doc exchanged a look. I rolled my eyes. Then I offered to cook and keep food stocked in the fridge whenever I visited. Doc turned to Daddy and asked, “Happy? That’s what you wanted, right?”

Since then I’ve been visiting every other day. When I cook, he eats better. But sometimes when I am watching TV or waiting for Anwar to return from some pointless errand, I glance up and find Daddy staring at me. He looks piteous, like a scared kitten.

I usually smile vaguely and leave soon after. Sometimes he calls at night, asks how I am doing. Then I ask if he is okay. He keeps asking what Mira Road is like. I keep telling him he could see for himself, but he refuses. With a great, pretend shudder, he says, “Never! It is on the other side of the world. It is night to Mumbai’s day.”

She came back to Mira Road last night. I knew because I saw her father’s car parked outside her building, and the driver waiting for her. She didn’t stay long though. She left with a big bag. Seemed to be in a big hurry.

It is time to move to the next level. Trust cannot be stretched this far. I let her go out at all times. I let her do whatever she does, without asking questions. But every girl has to understand that there are limits. She has to take some responsibility too.

I’m taking Mini. I talked Daddy into it, saying it was the only way to make the house secure. He kept refusing, but I told him it was settled. I made sure we talked in front of Anwar. Daddy said, “He will quit; you wait and see.”

I looked at Anwar, who kept staring at the wall. I asked for the car keys then. I said, “Anwar doesn’t have to drive the dog around. I can do it myself.”

* * *

I followed as quickly as I could. It was a good thing it was after five. The traffic was slowing down and it gave me time to catch an auto.

She was driving the car herself. It felt strange to see her drive. I don’t know how I feel about it. I must talk to her. The highway is not easy. Big trucks. Bad drivers. It is avoidable for a woman to drive a car.

Smooth, smooth, smooth. Life is smooth as the highway today.

Daddy’s resigned to the idea of a watchdog. He even asked what kind I’d get. Not a very furry one, I promised.

Once Mini settles in, things will get better. I’ll keep the Mira Road property. It’s useful to have a second place. Daddy will be glad to have me back. Rent from the Mira Road flat will help when business is down.

It has been too long since I traveled. I had no idea how fast things move outside Mira Road, or how slow. The auto trundled on our roads slower than a tonga, and her car soon moved out of sight. But by the time we hit Ghodbunder, I realized I knew where she was going. I’ve seen envelopes in her trash, addressed from some farmhouse in Karjat. So I got out of the auto and took a bus to Panvel.

She has to come back via Panvel. Better not to talk to her in Mira Road. Nor Juhu. A midway place where people stop only a few minutes. Yes, Panvel would be a good spot.

He just came up out of nowhere. I was at the Panvel plaza, getting fuel, taking a bathroom break. Then I decided to get a samosa-pav.

I stood outside eating, keeping an eye on the car. I’d left the windows open a crack for Mini’s sake. That’s when I saw him, prowling around. I wanted to call out a warning. Because Mini can be really quiet and she has been trained to attack suddenly. But just then, the man turned and looked straight at me.

“Is that your car?” he asked.

I called out from afar, “Yes, why?”

He began walking toward me, saying there was a flat tire. I kept looking at his face; there was something familiar about it.

I’d had the tires checked barely two minutes ago, as I drove through the petrol pump. But I waited for him to walk up. He was smiling a bit, almost like he was familiar with me. I didn’t want to say anything yet, not until I remembered where we’d met.

He asked if I wanted help with changing the tire. I shook my head. He shrugged and said, “I’ll do it if you want.”

I said, “There’s a petrol pump right here.”

He began to chuckle softly. It was unnerving. Then he said, “That’s where I’m coming from, Petrol Pump.”

I glanced over at the pump. The fellow who checked my tire pressure was not in his place. I was certain this man was not the man who had checked my tires just two minutes ago. But he could be working at the same pump. Maybe I remembered his face from previous drives.

We both walked toward the car. I opened the trunk and got the spare tire out. While he changed it for me, I stood there, all the doors open, leaning against the backseat. He kept glancing at me. At one point he said, “So, you’re headed back to Mira Road now? Or to your father’s?”

Mini’s tongue found my hand and I let her lick it. She was just a black shadow in the car. Except for her pink tongue, you couldn’t see her at all. I patted her head, then stroked the side of her mouth. It was our signal for silence.

I asked, “How do you know?”

The man grinned. “We’ve met before. I own a house in Mira Road. Don’t you remember? At Ruff Ruff, the shop near Sheetal? We even shared an auto once. Don’t you remember me?”

I stared.

He was talking in short bursts, asking questions, “So what’s your business like? Mira Road is growing so fast, isn’t it? We never had people like you moving until a few years ago, but it is so advanced now …” And he kept saying, “Don’t you remember where we met? But don’t worry, it happens.”

He asked for tissue to wipe his hands. I handed him the box from the dashboard.

He wiped his hands and said, “I’m going back tonight. I would have taken the bus but since you don’t have any company, I can come with you. Anyway, it is not so good for a girl to be out alone at this time.”

I drew my breath in sharply. He laughed in my face, then said he’d make himself useful.

It was odd, the way he stressed that he “owned” a house, then saying he was from Petrol Pump. For a moment, I wondered if he was telling the truth. Is it possible we’d met? Mira Road was a blank in my head. There’s the house, the train station, the bank, Ruff Ruff. I must have met vegetable sellers, salesmen, pet owners, watchmen, newspapermen, dairymen, plumbers. It is possible I met him and then completely forgot.

As I was putting it away in the trunk, I looked at the flat tire carefully. There was a three-inch gash, clearly made with a knife or a big piece of glass.

I got into the driver’s seat. I could say no and drive away. But he was going to follow me anyway. He’d take a bus and go to Mira Road. He’d be in the area and, who knows, share an auto with me another day.

He was leaning into the car now, returning the box of tissues to the dashboard, smiling at me.

But why did we share an auto? If he lives in Petrol Pump and I live in Sheetalnagar, why did we share the auto?

I turned the key in the ignition. Mini’s supplies of food, the rag-basket, a blanket, my training whistle, a doggie windbreaker, all were piled on the front passenger seat.

He was still leaning in at the car window. So I said, “Come, but you will have to sit in the back because I have so many things here.”

He got into the back at once. I took off at a roar before he had even shut the door. In the rearview mirror, I could see his face. He was grinning and his eyes were red like a demon’s, thanks to the reflection of the headlights on the highway. He hadn’t noticed Mini.

I knew her quiet, aggrieved breathing because I was listening for it. She’s a good, patient dog. The traffic thinned and we rode in silence until the creek approached. It was past midnight when he leaned forward, put an arm around my seat. His hand was nearly touching my cheek when he said, “I have been waiting to talk to you. All my life, I waited for someone to arrive …”

I recognized his face then. It was the man hanging around outside Daddy’s flat in a watchman’s uniform, the same as the one he wore at Ruff Ruff. I let out a low whistle.

She is a hard-working girl. Educated too. But I have a lot to teach her. She must see that it is only a question of changing. Night and day follow each other. This is fixed. As time moves through the sky, it moves through everything else as well. Prosperity follows struggle. Cities grow like wildflowers, they flourish like weeds and finally they are ruined. Calm follows storm. Love follows hate.

Her life will change soon. Mira Road, my house, her face, our worth in the world—all of it can change. But she must learn patience. She must hold her life, and mine, tightly like a rag doll. Grasp it around the middle, so she does not choke its mouth, nor leave its hands too free. In her hands, she will see life change and then she will lose the fear that it is slipping away from her.

TZP

BY
R. R
AJ
R
AO
Pasta Lane

F
or over a week now, two policemen have posted themselves on the street below my building, and keep looking up at my third-floor flat. I have stopped going to the balcony as a result. I hide behind the curtains of my living room and watch them. They patronize a cigarette stall, buying fags and guthkha, as well as a chai tapri a few feet away. As they finish drinking their tea, and roll tobacco on their palms with their thumbs and index fingers, the policemen look up again. Sometimes they talk to the others who hang out at the cigarette stall and the chai tapri
.
They glance up as they talk. I get the feeling they are asking these men if they know anything about me.

The policemen arrive in the morning, when the workday begins, and leave in the evening, shortly before dark. They are not there at night. I thus go down to buy provisions and such only after sunset. The college where I teach is closed for the holidays, so I don’t have to leave the flat during the day. Even so, I move around stealthily, stopping every now and then to make sure the cops aren’t hiding behind the row of parked cars that line the street. The presence of the policemen has made me so paranoid that I have started having nightmares. I woke up screaming one night as I dreamed they were strangling me with fingers that were really talons. They laughed demonically as they throttled me, their claws buried in my flesh, my blood streaming down my neck to soil my white shirt. I rose from bed, switched on the table lamp, and glanced at my watch. It was four a.m. I tried to go back to sleep, but couldn’t. So I went to the kitchen to fish out a cookie and make myself a cup of coffee. I then exercised for a bit. This is how I killed time till the newsboy rang my doorbell.

My flat is situated in Mangaldas Mansion, a five-floor building off Colaba Causeway. The street, Pasta Lane, is notorious for the pimps and rouge-smeared call girls in miniskirts who frequent it after-hours. It is said that call girls own half the flats in Pasta Lane.

If that’s the case, shouldn’t the policemen be keeping a watch on them rather than me?