by Nillu Nasser
Soraya stood up. She’d paled compared to the woman in his memories, her skin a sickly sherbet colour in the dim light.
He wished he had kept his composure.
“Did you ever see her again?” said Soraya.
“Her father sent me away. It was too late.”
Soraya looked deep into his eyes, as if she were trying to capture his soul. “I never wanted your marriage to fail,” she said.
“Maybe it was you I should have married,” said Akash. Giving voice to the words were a betrayal of his wife. Even in death he abandoned Jaya. The gash on his cheek throbbed.
Soraya hesitated and he sensed she was holding something back, but she said, “We can’t change the past.”
He persevered, anxious to find out the information that mattered most to him. “Are you happy, Soraya? Is there a man in your life?”
“I have no need for a man, Akash. I have riches more than I need. I have a son and a granddaughter. I am content.”
“But are you happy?” He wondered if there was room for him in her life.
“Yes, I’m happy but there are always battles. Isn’t that the thrust of life? Rest now. We can speak in the morning.”
“I can stay here?” He thought of Tariq alone on the streets, but his body needed the rest. One night couldn’t hurt, especially after so long. In the morning, he could return to Tariq, accompanied by the ghost of his wife and the loves he had squandered. “I don’t deserve your kindness.”
“Perhaps my prayers have been answered,” she said. She held his gaze and for a delicious moment, Akash believed maybe he could be hers and she could be his again. “I will see you in the morning.” She turned and closed the door behind her, a sad smile nestling in the corners of her mouth.
He listened to the sound of her retreating footsteps, then stretched out gingerly on top of the bedcovers. He had longed for a reconciliation with Soraya, but unease crept forward from the edge of his consciousness. He drifted into a heavy sleep and encountered the familiar dream of Jaya with flames dancing above her head like lovers in a deathly embrace. When she turned around, he saw mournful eyes and flesh dripping from a charred face and realised it was not she, but Soraya who stood aflame before him.
Chapter 14
Akash woke aching and disoriented. His body appeared colourful in the warm light of the morning, with deep greens, inky blues and red splotches joining to form new horizons on his skin, a brand-new country. The door to the bedroom stood ajar, and he wondered who had checked on him while he slept.
Someone, perhaps Soraya, had left a pile of clean clothes in the bathroom. He showered, savouring the privacy that appeared miles away from washing in the sea or in a public bathroom. The hot water rushed over his body, stinging his open cuts, sweeping away dirt and dust. Once he finished, he wiped himself with a towel, eager not to leave stains on the plump white cloth. He dressed in clean clothes that hung on his frame, and bent over the sink to gargle and rub the sleep from his teeth with his index finger. The scent of coconut shampoo clung to hair thinner than it had been in his youth. The strands hung limp and long, swept across his forehead and curled over the collar of his borrowed shirt.
A rustle outside the bathroom indicated he was no longer alone. For a moment, he fought an impulse to stay quiet and hidden in the sanctity of the bathroom.
“Akash?”
Soraya’s voice jolted him into action. He fretted over what he should do with his soiled clothes and pushed them into a cupboard under the sink before opening the door.
She stood at the bedroom door, dressed in a salwar kameez the colour of over-ripe tangerines. The march of time had not stolen her beauty. A sweet smell of incense wafted around her as if she had just finished her morning prayers, but she had never been pious. She held a tray of steaming chai, papaya cut into small squares and fresh puri with mango chutney. He usually fended for himself. It humbled him that a woman would bring him food. She owed him nothing. The meal, laid out on elegant crockery, overwhelmed him.
“You look better. You found the clothes then?” she said.
“Yes, thank you.”
“Did you sleep well? I’ll apply more ointment to your wounds once you have eaten.”
“It wasn’t my injuries that disturbed my sleep,” he said.
He wanted to pull back the layers of their subterfuge, but she ignored him and pressed on. “You must be hungry.”
“Thank you for preparing this.”
“It was our maid, Geeta.”
He took the tray from her and sat on the bed, noticing the rumpled sheets and her nearness. He swallowed with difficulty, convinced she could hear every gulp. Salt from the puri found its way into the crease in the corner of his mouth and stung a cut nestled there.
The bed and food made him think of Tariq, alone on the streets. He turned to Soraya. “I appreciate all this.” He gestured to the food, the room. “There is nothing I’d like better than to speak to you, but first, I need to check on my friend. Just a few hours. He’ll be worried about me not being back.” He picked up the cup and hurriedly drank his tea.
“My driver can take you to your friend later, don’t worry,” Soraya assured him.
His voice grew firm. “No, it has to be now. I’m sorry. We’ve only had each other. Tariq will think the worst. It’s not far. I’ll go on foot.” He put the cup down and the chai sloshed over the edge, staining the bedclothes. He mumbled an apology, worried he seemed ill-mannered or, worse, ungrateful. He didn’t want her to think any less of him, or for her welcome to shrink to nothing. He hesitated. “Can I come back to see you?”
“Of course. I’ll tell the guards to let you come and go as you wish. I have one request, though.” She pushed her hand through her hair. “Stay out of Arjun’s way. He’s still upset about yesterday. I’ll talk to him.”
Jaya tucked her nephew into bed, pulling the sheets up to his neck, and left a soft kiss on his forehead. At ten years old, he grumbled at the fussing from his aunt, but she treasured these moments of borrowed motherhood. Downstairs, Ruhi had placed some chai and sweet treats on the table.
“I heard him beg you for another story. Is he asleep now?”
“He will be soon. Love him. You don’t know how lucky you are,” said Jaya.
“Yes, I do. I think maybe when you have two, or three or four, you take it for granted. But with one, every moment is something to be treasured, because you don’t get to do it again,” said Ruhi.
“You could do it again you know.”
Ruhi laughed. “Nah. All those sleepless nights? I need my beauty sleep. Besides, it was hard enough trying to get into my dance costumes after one pregnancy. You know what Maa says—you gain a fist on your waist with every child.”
Jaya sank into a chair and swept up some imaginary crumbs from the smooth surface of the table. She enjoyed being in Ruhi’s apartment; it was more modern than the house she shared with her parents. “She always tells me I turned her into a whale. Of course, she was a ballerina when she was expecting you.”
“Ah Jaya, you’re in each other’s pockets all the time. You know she tries to wind you up. Papa’s getting weaker by the day. I really see his age now. Were they offended you came here?” Ruhi broke a corner of a caramelised almond square and placed it in her mouth. It crunched as she chewed.
“Oh, they’re re-watching an old classic. They’ll be fine tonight.” Jaya recognised how easy it would have been for their sisterly bond to fall victim to their mother’s petty attempts to play them off against each other. She didn’t want to waste their evening talking about their mother. Just as she didn’t want to fill in her sister about Soraya and the man she suspected to be Akash’s son. The knowledge sat uncomfortably on the cusp of her tongue, like a paper cut on the fleshy part of a thumb.
Ruhi chattered on, oblivious to Jaya’s train of thought. “They’ll sulk later, though,” she said. She brightened up. “Still, it’s not often we get to do this. I like having you to myself.”
Spending time with Ruhi always lifted Jaya’s spirits. However much she loved her nephew and her brother-in-law, she treasured these rare moments of Ruhi’s undivided attention. She didn’t have to pretend in their relationship. There was immediate intimacy; it was liberating to disengage from the polite dances of social need. Here, there were no storms to weather, just acceptance, and she loved Ruhi fiercely for it.
She liked to think that even if she and Akash had survived, their heterosexual marriage would have come secondary to this sisterly bond, that somehow, her relationship with Ruhi would remain pure, beyond corruption. It struck her as infinitely sad when women erased their common history over a perceived slight or out of sync expectations. It gladdened Jaya that she and Ruhi had been strong enough to withstand petty jealousies, that they had created room in their relationship for differing points of view and personalities. Over the years, she had determined that she and Ruhi shared a profound love story of their own, one that orbited above the drama and betrayal of romantic relationships.
That was why she blurted the words out without meaning to, an ejection of truth when she had intended to keep her paranoia secret. “I had a shock the other day. I’ve been meaning to tell you. I saw Soraya.”
Ruhi put her tea down with a clank. “The Soraya?”
“I’m sure of it. She owns a restaurant in Juhu. I recognised her straight away. And her son.”
“She’s married?”
“I don’t know. But, Ruhi, the son. He looked like Akash.”
Ruhi froze, and then she picked herself back up. “You can’t think that—”
“What else am I supposed to think?” Too often Jaya felt like the younger sister in this relationship, the clueless one, when she longed to be the guide, the lioness.
Ruhi pooh-poohed the suggestion with a wave of her hand. “You’ve been through a lot. It’s just your imagination working overtime, putting two and two together, making five. Just put it out of your mind, okay?”
She was right, of course. What good did it do to dwell? Akash had made his choice. However great the temptation to return to the restaurant, to follow the threads back to Akash, how could she force a man to stay with her if he didn’t want to be there?
A moment passed in silence.
Jaya watched her sister struggle to inject light-heartedness back into their conversation. Ruhi pushed stray bits of hair into her topknot. They escaped again immediately so she blew them off her face and picked up her tea. The mystery of Soraya and her son sat between them like an elephant in the room.
“So, tell me then? Who’s this Ravi I’ve heard you mention a few times?” said Ruhi, waggling her eyebrows up and down.
Jaya laughed. She couldn’t help herself. “You look ridiculous doing that.”
“Ha! You avoided the question. Now I know you’ve got something to hide!”
Jaya’s cheeks coloured. “He’s just someone from work. What are you talking about anyway? I’m forty-five years old. I’m hardly going to start looking for a Romeo now, am I?”
“Well you know how I feel about it. It’d be good for you to live a little, to have someone look after you for a change. Have some fun, yaar!”
“I’m not going to be throwing my knickers about, if that’s what you mean!”
“So he is more than a friend.” Ruhi’s face lit up with glee.
Jaya relented. “Maybe. But I ruined it.”
Ruhi waved her hands impatiently. “That can wait. What’s he like? Is he Hindu?”
“Yes. But young. And not that handsome. But kind.”
“Young? Go, sis! A little bit handsome then?” Ruhi beamed. “And kind, kind is good. Kind you can work with.”
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” said Jaya. “I’m still married.”
She watched Ruhi’s crinkled laughter lines disappear and solemnity steal into her eyes. “You deserve this. Forget about Akash. It does not have to be forever, but you deserve this. Take it, Jaya.”
Akash made his way through the twisting corridors out into the open. Being under an open sky again relieved him. He had found the luxury of Soraya’s house oppressive after years of living on the streets. How surreal to walk away from her just after they had found each other again. He wanted to sit down with her and unravel the years. That would have to wait. Tariq needed him. Their shared experiences made their bond stronger than biological ties or romantic love.
He resisted the urge to run past Soraya’s guards in their sheltered outpost. Yesterday he’d been an intruder; today, an invited guest. Still, his adrenalin surged as the men trained their eyes on him, disgruntled. The dogs growled. True to her word, Soraya had relayed her message. Akash passed them without incident, his heart hammering in his throat.
Once on the roadside, he glanced down at his too-big clothes, ran a finger through his freshly washed hair. Tariq wasn’t going to believe his luck. He skipped along feeling foolish, his step light, eager to spill his story to his friend. He stopped at the railway bridge first, where he had left Tariq the night before. He heard the raucous sound of men laughing before he turned the corner. Akash’s anxiety spiked. He recognised one man’s voice.
He sprinted toward them. Under the bridge, in between their scattered belongings, lay Tariq. Above him, with his foot poised to kick, stood Zahid Khan, his bald head gleaming. Behind him, making up a triangular formation, were workers from Zahid’s restaurant, who doubled as his henchmen when he was up to no good.
“Stop!” said Akash, pushing his feet hard off the pavement in his efforts to reach Tariq quicker.
It was not enough. Zahid’s kick exploded in Tariq’s face, hitting his cheekbone. Tariq groaned, and wrapped his arms around his head in an effort to protect himself. The henchmen pulled him to his feet, pinning his hands behind his back, leaving Tariq’s cheek to bleed freely.
“Leave him alone!” called Akash, almost there.
“Your friend comes to your rescue again,” said Zahid. He tittered. “Or are you more than friends? I wouldn’t be surprised, dogs like you.” He raised his foot and took aim at Tariq’s crotch. Tariq doubled over in pain and the henchmen allowed him to crumple to the ground.
Akash ran to his friend’s aid, shoving the men away, using his own body as a barrier between Tariq and their aggressors.
“I was worried about you,” said Tariq faintly.
Akash felt for a weapon on the ground behind him. His fingers found the handle of a saucepan. He focused his attention on Zahid and let the other men fade into the periphery. He could not take them all on. The saucepan was a back-up plan, not a trump card.
“What are you punishing Tariq for?” said Akash. He turned to his guardian angel. Jaya, if you can hear me, help us.
Recently, the run ins with Zahid had escalated. They no longer happened after chance encounters. Zahid was above action and reaction. He no longer needed an excuse to seek out a human punch bag. He took pleasure from it. The beatings he dealt out came in the form of surprise attacks, always with his henchman in tow, armed with steel-capped shoes or an iron bar. Zahid did it for fun, for stress relief, to make himself feel stronger. Vagrants just happened to be an easy target.
Akash knew Zahid well enough by now. The other man had no sense of perspective; there would be no bargaining with him. He hoped to buy time for Tariq to get to his feet. Usually Akash placed more value on Tariq’s life than his own. Today, he noticed a change in himself, an extra alertness, a clenching in his own body that indicated he feared for his own safety, too. He could not jeopardise his life when he had just found Soraya. What would she think if he never went back to her?
“Do I have to have a reason to hit him?” said Zahid. “Don’t think you’re safe either. If the government won’t clean up the streets and remove filth like you, I’ll have to do it.” He crowed at his men. “In service of the community, you know.” They nodded, eager to please him. Zahid considered Akash, eyes narrowed. “What is it about you being a knight in shining armour anyway?” He swung back his
leg, and pretended to kick, then rooted both feet back to the ground, his portly frame wobbling. “You have a death wish?” He looked closer. He laughed. “I see you’ve already had someone else’s shoe in your face.”
Behind Akash, Tariq tried to get up. Akash signalled for him to stay where he was. The henchmen had lost interest in the protracted conversation. One in particular kept glancing away, keen to move on. Zahid must have sensed the stage was so longer entirely his.
He shrugged. “I’ve done my exercise for the day. Stay out of my way.” He drew his face close to Akash’s, his breath hot. “You know, you smell different. You look different. Don’t get above yourself, will you? Small men should know their place. Like women.”
Akash’s hand closed around the saucepan behind him, but this time it was Tariq who slowly unpeeled his friend’s fingers from the makeshift weapon.
Zahid sauntered out into the light without a second glance.
Tariq lifted himself up. “That was close. You weren’t going to attack him, were you? We would never have escaped. It’s better to just take it. They always let us go eventually.” He patted Akash’s shoulder then pulled him closer, leaning against him before pulling back to touch his bleeding cheek. “Thank Allah you showed up, or thank the stars, I don’t know.”
Tariq’s belief in Allah wavered, but was never entirely gone. It circled him. It ebbed and flowed in line with his despair and joys. Faith remained entwined with his upbringing. Tariq always mouthed a silent shukar before a morsel of food passed his lips.
Akash searched for a cloth in the disarray around him. He doused it with cooled, boiled water from a container they used. “What an arsehole,” he said, handing Tariq the cloth to hold to his face. “And those brutes of his, following him around like strays.”
“I’m just glad they left,” said Tariq. He flinched as he dabbed at his cheek.
Whatever beauty Tariq had once possessed had fled long ago. The streets brutalised a man; they were lucky to be alive. He and Tariq had survived by looking after each other. It pained Akash that he had very nearly failed to uphold his side of the bargain. He had failed Jaya because of Soraya. He had almost failed Tariq for the very same reason. How easily I forget, Jaya. What if he hadn’t come back in time? He resolved to do better.
