by Aabid Surti
There was a big brawl the day her husband had brought a whore into the house for the first time. Now, Mrs Dutt had learned to ignore it, though her anguish did not remain hidden from Kiran.
She was suffering silently. She was shriveling up, turning weaker day after day. Finally, she was so weak that it became difficult for her to breathe. These were her last days, and the beginning of Kiran's youth and college days.
Before her death, Mrs Dutt called her husband and placing Kiran's hand in his hand, made a last request, “You may not have accepted this girl as your daughter, but she calls you papa. It’s your responsibility to take care of her after my death. It’s your duty also to find a young man of her liking and get her married after she completes her studies.”
Mr Dutt released Kiran's hand to hold Mrs Dutt's and said, “I’d have done the same, even if you hadn’t reminded me of my duty.”
When Mrs Dutt closed her eyes for the last time, there was a smile on her face, tears in Kiran's eyes and gloom in the house.
Stillness descended on the eight-room bungalow. Wind started ricocheting on the empty walls. The curtains on the doors and windows swayed. Kiran could not sleep that night.
Kiran could not sleep peacefully even after that night. She was not used to sleeping alone. At times, she used to wake up with a start after midnight and stare wide-eyed at the empty walls, listening to the sound of wagons being shunted. Her room overlooked a railway siding.
One night when she was staring blankly at the ceiling trying hard to sleep, suddenly the door of her room opened with a bang. She sat up with a thumping heart. Mr Dutt was standing in the middle of the doorframe. Today, he had come after midnight, but all alone.
Watching Kiran gazing at him, he asked casually, “Are you still awake?”
“I’ve been feeling uneasy here ever since mom died.”
“Then come to my room.”
“Where will you sleep, papa?”
“My bed is so large that three persons can comfortably sleep on it.”
Kiran paused for a while before answering, “I’ll sleep here tonight. Tomorrow, I’ll make arrangements to sleep in the guest room.”
He was quiet. When the silence got sufficiently ripened, he asked, “Don't you trust me?” The wagons clashed with a bang.
She was taken aback. “What did you say?”
“Precisely what has been going on in your mind.”
“No, papa, I just don't want to bother you,” she said, honestly, as she was afraid to interfere in his private life.
“Have I ever brought any other woman home after your mother died?” Kiran did not reply. He ordered, “Come, get up.”
She stared at him. There were rattlesnakes swarming in Mr. Dutt's eyes. Without giving Kiran a chance to think any further, he bolted the door and drew the curtains to close out the night. The hunter had trapped the bird in her own room. The bird fluttered and screamed; but to no avail. Outside, the shunting went on at intervals. Clatter, clatter, bang, bang.
This sequence continued nonstop for a month. The hunter would lock the cage before leaving for the factory only to return home late in the night in a drunken state to open it.
Kiran was rattled and shaken to the core. She prayed every night – the night should not have a sequel, no tomorrow.
She desperately wanted to escape from this prison. The problem was where to go? The last resort was to hang herself, but she did not believe in suicide. She considered women who committed suicide to be cowards.
Difficulty arose for Mr Dutt when she became pregnant. It became imperative to take the bird out of the cage for an abortion.
The next week, he made secret arrangements with a doctor and took her to a nursing home. The very next day after the abortion, Kiran escaped quietly.
She did not have any cash. However, she had a gold necklace and an expensive Favre Leuba watch. She sold both, bought a ticket for Bombay and boarded the Frontier Mail.
A woman with flowing breasts was traveling with her on the same train. Had Kiran known that the woman was neck-deep involved in the flesh trade, she would not have gone to her place on arrival in Bombay. She would not have fallen prey to this racket, believing it to be her destiny. She would also not have become the top call girl of India. In that case, she would also not have met Iqbal. It was a stroke of luck, of chance; and what we call coincidences, are really God’s fingerprints – so it is said.
After the food was ready, Kiran emerged from the kitchen and came up to the door of the balcony. Iqbal was still standing there.
“Hey!”
He turned. Kiran's face was beaming. She said wittily, “Hope your life is insured.”
“Is the food poisoned?”
“I’m a flop cook and yet you’ve accepted my invitation with a smile. So, it’s obligatory on my part to warn you about the risk involved,” she smiled.
Heading towards the bedroom with her, Iqbal said, “I think… I heard you saying that you would be serving me the best Chinese food.”
“That you’ll know only after tasting it. You still have time to turn back! It’s still not late.”
They were bantering with each other discovering a great deal of common ground.
Iqbal realised, that like a chameleon, Kiran had taken on the colour of a city called Bombay. Hers had been almost a rural upbringing where the nights were divorced from day and filled with pools of silence. But Bombay never slept. She could hear the long hooting of ships in the sea and in the distance.
He stopped abruptly on entering the bedroom. Hot appetising cuisines were lying in wait for him on the long coffee table. There was Chinese fried rice, sweet corn soup, Russian salad, three types of sauces and two glasses of Coca Cola. To make the foundation of love sound in his heart, Kiran had wisely made an offering to his stomach.
From the mouth-watering dressing of the food, Iqbal guessed that he would be compelled to wipe off all the plates. He pulled up a chair. Kiran sat on the edge of the bed. There was a T-poy between them. “To relish a good Chinese dish,” she said before Iqbal could start. “You must concentrate on the food. To savour the sweet aroma, it’s extremely essential.”
By now Iqbal had become really desperate to gobble up everything. As he pounced on the food saying, “Bismillah,” the telephone rang. Iqbal's hand froze over the plate of fried rice. Kiran extended her hand and lifted the receiver with some trepidation.
“Hello!”
It was Singh on the line. He was saying, “The boss wants you in the evening.”
The voice from the receiver was so clear that Iqbal could hear every word.
“I can't come today,” Kiran replied.
“Has anyone booked you?”
“No.”
“Then what’s the fuss about?” Singh frowned adding, “the boss is in a good mood today. I won't be surprised if he gifts you a diamond ring.”
“I won't be able to come, even if your boss gifts me the Kohinoor,” she declared before putting down the receiver. “I’m on a week's leave.”
Iqbal understood. “Why did you lie?” he asked, taking the first morsel.
“The time for telling the truth hasn’t yet arrived.”
“When will it come?”
“When you will accept me as your lawful wife.”
The truth in Kiran's words plunged him in deep thought.
Chapter 26
Suraiyya became panicky. “Aabid, marry me,” she stated loud and clear.
We were sitting in a restaurant on the top of the Hanging Gardens. One could survey the entire city from here, while relishing chocolate ice-cream.
Marriage was as simple a proposition for me as going to a temple and exchanging garlands in the presence of the deity. I simply needed to find a Muslim priest and accept Suraiyya as my lawful wife in the presence of two witnesses. But what about the other responsibilities?
I did not have a house where I could begin my married life with Suraiyya. My younger brother, my mother, my uncle and my grandmoth
er shared a single room in the Sultan Mansion on Dongri, where I lived…
On top of that, my uncle had partitioned the room after his marriage. My uncle and aunt occupied half of it; the remaining four members of the family slept in the other half. I started sleeping on the fifth floor terrace to escape from claustrophobia.
The problem was not just that of a home; but of money too. Whatever I earned from cartoons was enough only for me. Whatever remained after my pocket expenses was spent over the purchase of art materials. Under the circumstance, it would be impossible for me to fulfill my family obligations after marriage.
There was a reason behind Suraiyya's desperation for marriage. She could not go to Mombassa during the vacation after our first year in the arts school. In the second year, we had been to Nainital during the holidays. When she could not go to visit her family in the third year either, her mother, accompanied by her elder brother Abbas Ali, came to Bombay. Both of them were staying at the Oberoi Hotel.
Suraiyya joyfully said, “Aabid, we won’t get such a golden opportunity to introduce you to my mom.”
“How will you present me?” I asked after some thought.
“As a friend, philosopher and guide.”
“Will they not doubt?”
“What if they do?” She said boldly. “In any case, we are going to get married in the future, even if they like it or not; but it’s my duty to first introduce you to my family. It’s also necessary to mount pressure for marriage when the right time comes.”
“That's right.” I’d the potential ability to perceive. “But...”
“But what?”
“I don't know why I’m not mentally prepared to meet your mother.” It is a sure recipe for disaster, I wanted to add, but could not. These unuttered words stuck in my throat like a gag.
Suraiyya compelled me. This was her first mistake. Her mother and brother Abbas Ali were a seasoned lot. They immediately realized from Suraiyya's flushed face that there was more than a mere friendship between the two of us. On top of that, she was wearing a cherry pink churidar with big silver buttons covered by a transparent dupatta.
Abbas Ali's comment was pointed. “Suraiyya!” he said casually, “I’ve never seen such a glow on your face before.”
“Shouldn't I be happy?”
“I thought, your face would be dismal. You haven’t seen mom for the last two years!”
“That's true,” she replied easily, amicably, wisely. “My face perked up the moment I got the news about mom’s arrival.”
This was just the thin end of the wedge. I sat quietly, trying to read the expression on the faces of the guests. Suraiyya's mother had surveyed me from top to bottom in just a single glance. I am sure she must have also noticed one of my toes peeping out of my worn out canvas shoes.
Abbas Ali looked at me after the formalities got over. It was evident from the expression in his eyes that my presence was not required during some private discussion they were planning to have amongst them. Suraiyya too was aware of it. I didn’t care one way or the other.
“Abbas!” She said agitated, “Aabid isn’t a stranger. He has stood by me like a rock in this alien city. You need not feel shy in his presence.”
This was her second gaffe. It confirmed whatever doubts they had regarding our relationship. And yet, they remained quiet.
“Now, tell me what’s the matter?” she asked, looking at both of them, breaking the silence. Her mother opened her purse and pulled out a photograph. Abbas Ali took it, forwarded it to Suraiyya. I noticed that it was the photograph of a young man. Attired in a suit, he was standing in the lobby of a hotel. All of a sudden, jealousy flared. It was a litmus test too.
“Who’s he?” Suraiyya looked at her mother after glancing at the photograph.
“He is the owner of a hotel in London.”
“So?”
“He has asked for your hand in marriage.”
The colour of her face instantly faded as if lightning had struck her. But, she recovered the very next moment and took charge of her emotions.
“I don't know him.”
“He knows you,” mother explained, “We had mailed your photograph along with some basic information about you. He gladly gave his consent. Since then, six months have passed. Every month he writes asking to confirm it. What should we tell him?”
Silence descended on all of us. Again, Suraiyya's mother looked at me. This time, her eyes were focused on the hole in my canvas shoes. I too did not try to hide by putting one leg behind the other. That hole, and the peeping toe, said volumes about me. That was my true introduction before the elders of a millionaire family. Unfortunately I looked small and shrewish when I needed to be tall and dignified.
“Please understand, mom!” Suraiyya came up with an excuse, “I don't want to think of marriage till I’m through with my studies.”
“Who’s asking you to get married now,” said her mother lightly, “We just need your consent. The marriage will be solemnized only when you are ready.”
“It’d be better if you ask him first if he is willing to wait for me for two years.”
“And, what if he agrees?”
“I’ll let you know my decision.”
“Don’t you forget, If he really consents to wait for you, then you won't have the moral right to refuse him.”
Her mother returned to Mombassa after staying in Bombay for a week. A void was created in our relationship. Repeated sledgehammer blows of warning about the impending doom started echoing in our ears. The fourth year's examinations were over when a letter came from Mombassa.
The candidate from London was prepared to wait not just for two but three years. He wanted that Suraiyya, after getting her diploma from Bombay, should spend one more year at London's Royal Academy of Arts. And yet...
We were free from worry till we were together. So long as Suraiyya was in Bombay, no one could separate the two of us. Despite this assurance, why was it that our hearts throbbed violently with fear? Why was Suraiyya getting desperate to marry me? Had her self-confidence been shaken? Or was it that she had envisaged what was to manifest in the near future?
“Suraiyya!” I said, withdrawing my attention from the aerial view of the city. “The question isn’t just about marriage, what after the marriage? I need at least a few months' time for preparation.”
“I’m not asking you to live together after marriage,” she suggested. “I’ll stay in the hostel and you stay in your house till all arrangements are complete.”
“Then, what’s the idea of such a marriage?”
Suraiyya did not have an answer. After thinking for a while, she asked, “All right, how much time do you need?”
“There are still eight months to go for the final examinations.”
“No!” She screamed, making regulars sitting in the restaurant lift their head and glance at us. “It will be too late!”
“Please, listen to me first!” I said, annoyed. “I’ll start looking for some extra work from today. My income will double or triple in a few months. I’ll arrange for a one-room-kitchen in a suburb with the help of my friends. But remember, after marriage you too will have to slog with me for at least a year or so.”
“And what after that?”
“On securing a diploma in the first class, I’ll get a five figure job in the art department with an international company like Air India.”
She put both her arms around my neck and kissed me on the mouth which was still full of chocolate ice-cream. By the way, that was our last, long, deep goodnight kiss, and that too in a public place.
There was no place for kisses in the love between Iqbal and Kiran. Seen from the point of view of the elders, theirs was a platonic love. At times, an emotional Kiran would put her head on his shoulders and Iqbal would caress her by way of consolation. The very idea of pulling Kiran from the waist and embracing her tightly was like sin to him.
The main reason for this could be Iqbal's total belief in religion! To view women a
s his mother or sister was part of his upbringing. A close study of Islam had further strengthened this idea.
Love had marched into his life, defying the very same religion and upbringing. Kiran was the first, and last, woman in his life who would enter his heart.
Kiran too was aware of it. She had a broad understanding of Iqbal's nature. He was not a sex-starved maniac like other men; had he so desired, Kiran would have unzipped gladly to offer herself.
For Iqbal, now there was more than one reason to accept the apartment gifted to him by DK. He had come to stay here alone. He had brought along with him his clothes and sundry things of daily use, as well as all his college books and notebooks.
He lived in his number one flat. Kiran lived on the same floor in flat number seven. A telephone was the common link between them. This phone was in Kiran's house and Iqbal used to receive all his messages there.
Another link between the two was lunch. Kiran used to prepare lunch every day, and would either call him over to her flat or, if he was busy, go to his apartment with crockery and dishes. Both would eat lunch together in an AC room.
