by Durjoy Datta
‘No, my father lives here. He’s very protective about me. He’s the worst. He doesn’t even let me talk to guys. The last boyfriend I had, was punched in the face by my father,’ she says as a means to ward off the gay boy.
‘Oh. Are you liking Delhi then? Do you like to party?’ he says as if he didn’t just listen to what she said. ‘Delhi has quite a few sick places. I can take you to some. My friends are party organizers here and I can get you in easily. Even your friends can come if they want to.’
That’s it. That’s so DELHI. Over-indulgent, curious, a shady approach. A boy you just met asks where you live, asks if you want to party, then casually drops a few names and plans out an evening even without asking you.
‘No, thank you,’ she says and gets back to filling her form. ‘As I said, my father is real protective. He’s the honour killing types.’
The guy returns to his form.
Soon after, their forms are collected and there are three-hour-long lectures on teamwork and its importance, the airline industry, expected HR practices and so on. As soon as the last session gets over, the room suddenly gets noisy and there are certain pockets busy with activity. She sees people exchanging numbers and BlackBerry PINs and making plans to come to the office together. A few guys ask her too, but she brushes them off.
She leaves the hall and the building and starts looking for an auto.
It takes her fifteen minutes to find an auto and soon Avanti drifts off. Despite the corpse-fair boys and the discomfort of being in a sea of beautiful women, she didn’t mind the day at all and she knew the next six weeks would pass in a heartbeat too.
She can’t wait to start flying and see the world. Midway through the auto ride she gets up to check if Devrat has replied to any of the twenty mails, but he hasn’t, so she goes back to sleep.
Six
devrat
Devrat is on a couch tired, spent and rich. The gig at The Music Factory, College Street, a new club that had opened just a week back went well and he was richer by ten thousand rupees. It’s his third performance in three weeks and everyone knows that’s a huge achievement for someone his age. Needless to say, there are other musicians in the circuit, more experienced and talented than him, who are disgusted by the music he plays and the following, no matter how little and limited, he commands.
They are in the back room of the club and Sumit tells Devrat that it was an awesome performance. Sumit uploads a picture of the event on his page. ‘You look rather good in this,’ he remarks. Devrat takes the laptop from him and checks his mail.
‘Who are you replying to?’ asks Sumit, curious.
‘Some of my listeners,’ answers Devrat.
‘They write to you?’ asks Sumit.
‘Yeah. There are these twenty people who keep mailing me every time I upload something. Sometimes, it feels like they are the only people who really like what I do. Most of them are from Dehradun and they have asked me quite a few times to come over.’
‘That’s awesome. I’m glad you’re replying to them. It helps build your base. Just a random question—are any of those girls?’
‘Never checked,’ he answers. A cursory glance on the names shows a skewed ratio towards girls, a demographic he has always been a little hit with. He’s cute. And he’s damaged. Girls love a lost puppy.
Most of his songs are half-baked self-composed songs about lost love and girls love it! Though writing them is a hard process. He has to sit in a corner and keep poking at his heart-wrenching break-up to write such lyrics.
Devrat knows his music is not pure rock, or pure pop or pure blues or pure jazz. His music is a mix inspired from whoever catches his fancy. Though he never sings songs written by others, he doesn’t particularly mind singing a Justin Bieber in his rough, broken-down voice. Or Himesh Reshammiya. It’s music after all. It’s how you interpret it.
He is too young to figure out the music he makes and he doesn’t want to rush or stick to rules and paths laid down by the ones before him. And it’s working for him partially. He must be doing something right, he figures.
Tonight, too, he is involved in the same conversation. After his gig, he was invited to the table of a local, upcoming rock band (some fusion bullshit), which was yet to land their first gig and was looking to get Sumit’s attention. Since they couldn’t get hold of Sumit, they thought of chatting up Sumit’s wonder kid, Devrat. And Devrat, as a rule, never turns down free alcohol and cigarettes. Five drinks down, the band forgot how much they hated Devrat and invited him over to one of the band members’ houses where he lives alone. It was slightly better that Devrat’s flat and a lot cleaner.
‘What do you think you’re trying to achieve with your music?’ one of their senior band members asks Devrat. He doesn’t look very drunk and is still a little hostile.
‘I don’t get you,’ Devrat says and rolls his eyes as if he is drunk. He doesn’t want to get into the same conversation again. He fixes himself another drink in a transparent plastic glass and hopes the question will die down by the time he is finished.
‘You know what I mean. Your music is commercial and has no longevity. No one is going to listen to it after even five years. We don’t get into music to make something that wouldn’t even last our lifetime. We are into music so that we can contribute to it and add to its heritage, not spoil and distract people from real music. And it’s not just music, it’s books, it’s movies, it’s education, we are all looking for a shortcuts everywhere. Salman Khan! What’s that about? Another shortcut! There are some things that are sacred and they should be. Books and music being two of them,’ the old guy says and stops.
Devrat is pretty drunk by the time the monologue ends. He is just tired of the bullshit thrown his way for what he does and even though he has learned to be patient, sometimes the shit just hits the fan. And often, it’s when he is drunk.
‘I have a fully cogent argument in my head that I will present to you. . .’ His head starts to spin. ‘But I think I would need another drink for that.’ He makes another drink and gulps it down. ‘What I was saying was . . .’ He looks at the man purposefully, points a finger at him and he . . . he pukes. It’s not a normal puking-in-the-toilet-puke, it’s a waterfall. With lumps. And out of his mouth. And onto the old guy. Devrat is smiling. Although he knows he’s passing out and will probably be punched by the guy, he is smiling.
The punch doesn’t come.
‘Fuck you, man,’ the old man says and walks to the washroom, smelling of rotten food and bile and processed alcohol.
‘Fuck you, Devrat!’ the others raise their glasses, pour it down their throats and start laughing. Devrat joins in the laughter.
Soon, they lose track of time and pass out. Musicians never drink responsibly. Also writers. It’s goes against their nature. They drink to escape reality and they drink to pass out; they don’t drink to dance or have a good time or to party.
When he wakes up the next morning, his head drums steadily and he is wrapped around another guy with long hair. He’s still drunk.
He picks up his jacket and leaves the apartment. He enters the first coffee shop he can find and orders two strong filter coffees. His head is still bursting and his breath stinks like death. At least his pocket is full and he can buy a month’s worth of cigarettes. That’s good news. Life has taken a turn for the good in the last few weeks and he is finally thinking that he can get a hold on things. He has developed a new habit. Whenever he’s a little down, he opens his mailbox and reads the mails by that group of fans who really like his music and keep mailing him. That gives him the strength to move on. Sometimes he thinks that they are all part of some group who collectively like his music. It always makes him happy.
Smiling, he blows on the coffee and pours it down his throat. He does the same with the next one. His tongue is sandpaper now.
He pays the bill, picks up a packet of wafers and leaves
the shop.
Having just walked two blocks, he enters the cyber café and logs into his Facebook profile. A few more fans have liked the page, a few more of his pictures have been liked, videos have been recorded and shared, and his timeline has mentions of his stirring performances. Frankly, it feels slightly odd to be loved so much. Devrat’s more comfortable when he’s the underdog and he over-delivers, not the other way round.
There are sixty more people who have added him since yesterday. People really like these songs, he thinks and notes down the songs that people have most appreciated. He makes a mental note of writing more songs like that. But writing more songs about heartbreak and pain would mean thinking of Arundhati again, which he has been consciously avoiding. And just when he’s about to log out of his profile, there’s a notification that tells him that Arundhati has liked one of his pictures. He logs out. He’s sitting there staring at the computer screen, his legs shaking nervously, wondering what must have gone through Arundhati’s head before she decided to like his picture. It’s not accidental. She must have searched for him and then liked his picture. It’s a two-step process. He wonders if her fiancé knows that she still likes him. Maybe he should go and tell him about that because he’s sure Arundhati tells his fiancé everything about him. He had spent sleepless nights thinking about Arundhati and her fiancé sharing a bed, exhausted, talking about how much better her fiancé is in bed than Devrat. Obviously they talk about him. Why wouldn’t they? Devrat had talked and fussed about all the other boys Arundhati had kissed. Devrat’s sure Arundhati is telling her fiancé all about Devrat’s smoking habit, of how his mouth used to smell and how grubby and dirty his hands were. He’s sure they talk about all that. And if they do, why is Arundhati going about seeking him and liking his pictures, torturing him. What is this? Pity?
He walks out and calls Arundhati. It isn’t a well-thought decision and he doesn’t really know where he is going with this. Maybe to confront her fiancé and tell him that he’s better than him even though he doesn’t really feel it. For all the pain he has gone through this is the least he can do. He can confront the boy and tell him that his fiancée reached out to him. That’s going to be a big jolt for his ego, and should wear her fiancé down day by day for the rest of his life thinking about why his fiancée needed to talk to Devrat. That’s enough damage. That should do it. That’s just payback.
‘Hey,’ says Arundhati.
‘Hi.’
‘How are you, Devrat?’ asks Arundhati.
‘I’m fine. What are you doing?’ asks Devrat casually though he really wants to ask her why she is still checking his profile online. It’s JUST wrong.
‘I was about to leave to buy a few things for myself.’
‘Cool.’ Devrat cuts the call.
He’s pacing around the spot, running his hands over his head, now thinking that he should have never called her up. Everything comes rushing back to him. He thinks of Arundhati in her yellow summer dress waiting for the guy outside her apartment. He doesn’t know whether it’s the alcohol in his system or it’s the anger but thirty minutes later he’s outside her apartment building walking around in circles, waiting for her to come out. It isn’t long after when he spots a white, well-washed Toyota Corolla screech to a halt before the apartment building. It’s a face he has imagined with Arundhati a billion times before, a face he has imagined contorting while Arundhati and the boy . . .
The boy comes out, whips out his phone and calls a number. There’s a big smile on the boy’s face and the call ends with the boy saying that he is waiting outside. Devrat’s losing it, bit by bit. He’s not a big fighter, he never has been, but today he thinks he will get into one, and starts to imagine the boy’s head smashed into the headlight of the car after he tells him that Arundhati still misses Devrat.
At a distance, he sees Arundhati walk out of her apartment’s lobby. Instead of going to the boy, Devrat sneaks up behind her, trying to mask his anger.
‘Hey,’ says Devrat.
Arundhati jerks backwards, startled. ‘GOD! What are you doing here?’
‘I don’t know what I’m doing here.’
‘Devrat, you really need to go,’ says Arundhati as she takes a turn, away from the apartment gate outside which her fiancé is waiting.
‘Why?’
‘Because Arnab is waiting.’
‘Arnab? That’s his name?’ smirks Devrat. ‘Is that how people are choosing men for their daughters these days? With the same alphabet.’
‘Look, Devrat. I’m sorry whatever happened between us, but you need to move on!’ says Arundhati irritably. Devrat still thinks she looks beautiful and hates to think that Arnab has kissed that face.
‘I need to move on? I was doing fine until this morning when you decide to poke into my life. Why did you fucking like that picture?’ snaps Devrat, stonewalling his tears.
‘I was just happy that you had moved on. I was happy for you! Why can’t you just see that?’
‘I can’t see that because you walked out on me and our relationship and decided to get engaged to a guy within days. And you want to know why can’t I see that?’ fumed Devrat.
‘Our relationship? What was our relationship, Devrat? It was a constant stream of your negativity! All we did was to sit in your dingy flat and brood over your future! I was just a punching bag for your fears of what will happen to your career, your music, your engineering. That was our relationship! IT WAS ALL ABOUT YOU! IT WAS ALL ABOUT YOUR INSECURITIES AND YOUR FEAR OF FAILURE. Anyone, absolutely, anyone who tried to tell you that you were good and you could achieve things was bad in your eyes! Even SUMIT! As if we were all misleading you into something that’s not good for you. It was all about you, Devrat. It was all about you!’
‘And why shouldn’t it have been? Didn’t you do exactly what I had feared? The minute you saw that my career wasn’t going anywhere and I was doomed to be a shitty engineer, you walked out. Didn’t you do that? Didn’t you always want a guy who stands outside your house all the time and drives a pretty, little white car!’
‘Listen, Devrat!’ raged Arundhati and dug her index finger into his chest. ‘I was okay wherever you were. I never waited for you to be successful or anything. If I had it my way, we could have been stuck in your dingy flat, you could be a failed man and I would have still loved you! Devrat, the only thing that drew us apart was your insecurity that I would leave you and be with someone more successful. All your fears were unfounded.’
‘Unfounded? Who are you with now? Who’s that guy! I don’t think he lives in a one-room kitchen, does he? DOES HE?’ thundered Devrat.
‘It doesn’t matter. You have to understand that it wasn’t because of him. It was because of YOU,’ argues Arundhati. ‘If you, only you, would have looked at me and asked if I wanted what you think I wanted. If only you would have asked me this once, I would have told you that I didn’t care. Your fears were unwarranted and I had been listening for so many months but then I had had enough.’
Devrat doesn’t say anything. All he remembers is her disappointment in him, the constant niggling about which friend’s friend is going to the IIM, which friend’s boyfriend had found a job in the US and so forth. It was never for him, it was always for her.
‘Take care,’ says Arundhati.
Tears streak down his cheek and he can’t bring himself to let go of Arundhati’s hand. Arundhati jerks it out of his grip.
‘Do you love him?’ asks Devrat
‘I will learn to love him.’
‘That’s just shit, Arundhati.’
‘It’s all I have,’ says Arundhati.
‘Don’t you love me even a little bit now?’
‘I will not answer that. And even if I did, it would never work out between us. You will always be a child, Devrat, stuck in your world of fears and insecurities, always wanting someone to hang on to. I loved you but I’m not that nice
.’
Arundhati walks away. He watches her exit the gate, hug her fiancé, the man she will learn to love, and he drives away with her. Of course she was happier with me, she will seek me out again, she will realize I’m the one she needs to be with and that I’m the one she is in love with, Devrat tells himself and closes his eyes.
Seven
avanti
Avanti sits in the cab and thanks God it’s over. The three weeks of training where they learned everything about safety, service and first aid, were very strenuous. Getting up at six-thirty in the morning, dressing up in the blue and red uniform of the airlines, tying her hair up, putting on make-up, strutting unsurely on her heels, and looking for an auto was tough. By the time she reached the office, she had to do her hair and the make-up again. The day wouldn’t end by ten in the night.
It was only by eleven she would return at night. Her father would be awake but there was no conversation at the dinner table. One day she had walked in early from work and had seen her father cooking and she thought it was adorable but she didn’t know what to say to him. He’s still practically a stranger to her. The irony was Avanti spent days at aviation training learning to talk to people, a skill at which she was already great and only improving, but at home she had no idea how to broach a conversation with her father. Should she be angry? Should she tell him that it’s okay? Should she tell him that, frankly, nothing matters? She’s clueless about how to go about this. So she just shuts up every day when they are sitting at the table next to each other eating their breakfasts and dinners. There’s one thing though that she loves. It’s her father’s tea. It’s always perfect and she’s kind of getting addicted to it. She never told her father that but it’s kind of the only thing she looked forward to those days when chaos had taken over his life.
The instructors who took the lessons were ruthless and unforgiving. They were also wrinkled and old. Misses in the lipstick and the hair department were looked upon as cardinal sins, a creased uniform was like killing a puppy, and turning up late in the class was intolerable. But she’s glad it’s over.
