He looked up, grinning and held out his hand.
'Chuck me the striker.'
I threw it at him, rolling my eyes.
He caught it rather cockily, placed it on the board, and started aligning the black for the last shot, whistling tunelessly between his teeth.
I waited until he had actually hit the shot and then, as the striker began its slide across the board I leapt up, knocked the board over, and ran into the garden, laughing expecting him to follow me.
But he didn't.
Instead, he stacked all the pieces back into the box, put away the board neatly and went home.
Leaving me with no option but to come racing out and stand in front of his cycle as he wheeled it out of the driveway.
'Hey!' I gasped.
He stopped. Was he relieved? I couldn't tell.
'What?'he asked.
'Don't you want to... I mean, where are you... I mean, are you going?'
He put the bike on its stand and said slowly, like he was talking to a moron, 'Yes, I am going.'
'But don't you want to...' My voice trailed away.
He leaned forward, a little pulse jumping at the base of his throat. 'Don't I want to what?'
'Uh... play another game?' I said lamely.
He glared at me. Then he took the bike off the stand and started wheeling it out again.
'Don't you want to kiss me?'
I said it in a rush, my cheeks flaming hot.
He dropped the bike.
It just keeled over and fell on the cemented drive with an awful clatter. There was a bunch of CDs hanging off it, hard rock compilations that Zain has spent ages recording and they rolled about everywhere, adding to the pandemonium.
I started giggling at once, and now he was the one rolling his eyes and shushing me as we ran back into my room, slamming the door shut behind us. He pushed me gently against the wall, one hand on either side of me, almost as if he expected me to run away again. Then he lifted my chin and looked into my eyes, his own dark and stormy and very, very intense.
'Yes. I want to kiss you, Jinni. I want to kiss you very much.'
We were still kissing a good five minutes later, when Amma's car drove up and she stormed into the house, cursing her tailor loudly. Apparently, he hadn't even started work on the six silk sari blouses she'd planned to wear over the next two weeks.
Zain and I looked at each other in total panic.
Amma and Ma had both become very weird about Zain and me being home alone during these holidays, now that we were both sixteen and 'haarmoanal'. I bundled Zain into the cupboard and he let me shut him in, still grinning, his eyes dancing, pressing his finger against my lips, going shhhhhhhh dramatically just before he vanished from sight. I bolted it shut hurriedly just before Ma and Amma came into my room. Amma then proceeded to sit on my bed and hold forth blisteringly on Master Kamruddin of Saheli Boutique.
She began by saying that it was her own fault for trusting a Muslim. She should have known better - all Muslims are dirty, stupid, constantly breeding, election rigging, Pakistani-cricket-team-cheering rapist-murderers who should be packed off to Pakistan. She said that Master Kamruddin with his 'perfect fit, ready whenever you want it' claim, should be given a perfect kick in his circumcized crotch.
Then she changed gears and started holding forth on the carnage in Godhra, saying that what the IJP was doing to the Muslims there was absolutely right. They had totally asked for it. Instead of being grateful that we let them live here at all, they had started all the trouble. They had set the rail carriage on fire and now it served them right that they were being butchered in thousands. She said the chief minister of Gujarat was a genius, and that she would make him prime minister of India if she could. She bemoaned the lack of such brilliant people in her own party and said it was a shame that her party was saddled with this stupid idealistic secular agenda that nobody believed in anyway.
Then she said, 'You can't really blame the Muslims actually, look at the example they are set! Zaffar Ali Khan, the so-called ruler of these parts, is a lecher and a waster and a drunkard-- half the village brats have kanji-kanji eyes, just like him! 'She snorted loudly and continued. 'In fact, he is truly secular, he has left no pretty girl, Muslim, Hindu, Sikh, achhoot, bhangi, chamaar alone! Everyone knows that Zain's young mother almost died of shame when she found out where-where, in which-which dirty garage Zaffar had been parking his car! She never let him near her -- that boy, Zain, everybody knows he is not his father's son, but his grandfather's son! Bhai, it is a fact. Everybody knows! It is not a big secret, Sarojini, why are you hushing and shushing and telling us to be quiet be quiet be quiet, again and again and again!?'
I had tears of helplessness in my eyes by then. Somehow, I managed to hustle them both out of my room, telling Amma to look in Ma's cupboards, perhaps she would find some blouses there to wear with her new silk saris.
When I blundered back into the room and unlocked the cupboard Zain's eyes were like chips of stone. He stalked out of the room without saying a single word, picked up his bike and cycled home. He didn't answer my frantic phone calls for the rest of the evening. The next day, I left for Delhi to take my tenth class board exams, and then Ma and I moved to Canada. That was the last I saw of him, till I met him making galouti kebabs at a wedding, nine years later.
***
6
The next morning, I came down to breakfast after a night of the weirdest dreams. Rumi and I were being chased around the bottom of a dirty Indian-style potty by kitaanus with faces like the Top Brass and his minions. Meanwhile, Joline Bai was cooking a massive meal because Zain was coming for lunch. And the Rapist was asking my head to dance as it hung from a wall in the old Bittora Fort, mounted on a shield like something Zain's dad had shot dead with a gun.
Really sicko stuff.
Feeling slightly ill, I wandered into the verandah in my shorts and Spiderman ganji, collapsed on a wooden chauki, and dimly registered the fact that it was obscenely early in the morning. So early, in fact, that Joline Bai was in the driveway, talking to the milkman, who was doling out our daily quota of yucky buffalo milk.
Shuddering, I lay back on the chowki, rubbed my eyes and stretched. The verandah was very peaceful in the slanting early morning sunshine. The mali was watering the lawn and the air smelled of wet earth. Bees hummed among the sunflowers, a pleasant cawing of crows rose from the mango grove. There was the homely clatter of morning vessels being cleaned, and from a distance, way down Pandit MM Pande Road, came the sound of both azan and aarti.
I was relishing the early morning quiet, when a sudden hoarse shout from behind made me jump so hard I bit my tongue and yelped.
'Good morning, didi!' yelled Our Pappu in a loud, false, hearty voice from the gate. There were only about eighty-three people with him.
Swearing under my breath, I ducked back into the petal room.
When I emerged some fifteen minutes later, decently dressed, Our Pappu was still at the gate, waiting patiently. Again, in exactly the same false, hearty voice, he called out, 'Good morning, didi!'
'Uh, good morning!' I called back uncertainly.
'It ij a delegation of Muslims from the Jummabagh assembly area, we think so,' supplied Amma, who had just emerged from her room, resplendent in a dressing gown embroidered with red, turquoise and yellow tulips in Kashmiri crewelwork.
Obviously, Our Pappu, tired of us campaigning just in Begumbagh and Champapul, had taken matters into his own hands.
There was a loud chanting at the gate.
Jab se ayee Pushpa Pande,
Chud gayeen IJP ki gaande!
'Arrey bhai, somebody make Our Pappu understand,' said Amma austerely as I struggled to achieve a finks-like face. 'We are such a senior politician. We have saken hands with Hilary Rodham Clinton. Why ij Our Pappu alwayj putting aawar name in these crude, immodest slogans?'
It was almost like he'd heard her, because there was the sound of a hard slap, a smothered curse and a whimpered pr
otest. A whispered confabulation followed, and then the voices rose hoarsely in another slogan.
How should aawar leader be?
Just like Sarojiniji!
'Well, that's slightly better,' Amma sniffed. Then she covered her head with a random dupatta that clashed horribly with her dressing gown. 'Come,' she said resignedly.
We approached the gate warily, where Our Pappu was beaming at us, flushed, excited and visibly nervous. This was a pro-active initiative on his part and he was obviously worried that Amma might bite his head off and destroy his standing amongst his flock. He called out, in the same loud, fake voice, 'Jiji, maulvi saab has come to invite you for milad-un-nabi celebrations in Jummabagh.'
Amma smoothly switched on her gracious smile for the maulvi saab. I quickly switched on one of my own. The crowd regarded us with unblinking curiosity, peering through the bars in the gate.
Looking at Our Pappus uncertain, grinning, shiny-with-sweat face, I felt a pang of fellow-feeling. Motioning the guard to open the gate, I smiled and said, 'Pappu, call everyone in, give them some tea.'
Immediately, Our Pappu puffed up self-importantly to about twice his size and started shouting bossily, 'Come in, come in, didn't you hear? Come in and take tea.'
Amma smiled serenely as the motley crowd trooped in, and did not so much as raise an eyebrow when a large black-horned billy goat wandered past, attached by a thick jute rope to a gangly teenaged boy in a white lace cap and a shiny white kurta.
'We want you to just touch the bakra once, jiji,' said the maulvi saab to Amma in impeccable Urdu. 'Then, when we feed him to the poor, your blessing will go to all the people in the area. And god will bless your granddaughter's candidature.'
'Haan haan... of course, kyun nahin!' said Amma. 'But pleaj sit down first. Arrey bhai, Sarojini, chai kahan hai?'
The maulvi saab sat down with rickety dignity on one of our moodha chairs, very careful with the creases of his achkan, and Amma sat down next to him. I had just opened the door to the passage to ask Joline Bai to bring the tea, saying smilingly to our guests, 'Tea is coming. Actually, the milk came just now, she must be boiling...' when a flash of gold streaked past me at lightning speed.
'Ponky--no!' I shouted, whirling around in panic, fearing the worst - that I would find the old maulvi saab's achkan branded with the Mark of Ponky - and sighed in relief when I saw the dapper gent still unmolested and uncrumpled, ensconced upon his moodha, chit-chatting with Amma in a statesman-like manner.
But then a busy clicking and a popping of flashbulbs alerted me to look elsewhere.
The bakra was loose.
And Ponky was chasing it, barking enthusiastically, huge tail wagging frantically.
They circled the lawn thrice, splashing through the sludgy duck pond, the bakra snorting and maai-eh-eh-eh-ing loudly. Ponky, in high spirits, leapt from here to there, lunging and retreating alternately.
Finally cornered, the bakra lowered his head and pawed the ground. Ponky charged, the elegant little carved tea table we'd placed before Amma and the maulvi saab went flying - and then, there it was, at centre stage, a sight that was truly mind-expanding.
Ponky, tongue lolling, eyes glazed over, idiot grin in place, was atop the sacrificial billy goat, thrusting away inaccurately but busily in the general erogenous zone, while the entire Jummabagh delegation, a perspiring Pappu, ecstatic press people and an appalled Amma watched in unqualified horror.
***
'Didi, coffee?'
I shuddered inwardly at the thick, sickly beige cupful of bhainscafe staring me in the face. It was being offered by a skinny child of indeterminate sex, with a cheerful smile and neatly oiled and combed hair, at the milad-un-nabi celebration in Jummabagh.
'Arrey, why did you make coffee?' I protested. I would have had Pepsi like everyone else!'
'Nahin, didi!' beamed a large woman from behind the child, her frilly pink burqa framing a plump, friendly face. 'We have done poora-ka-poora homework! We know ki aap coffee like karti hain!'
I smiled weakly and took the cup. 'Thanks, buddy,' I said solemnly to the child, who sped away, giggling, obviously thinking I was some kind of big city joke.
I touched the cup to my lips, then put it down sneakily without taking a sip, hoping no one would notice. Fat chance. I was sitting bang in the centre of a huge open courtyard, surrounded by a crowd of - if one were to believe Our Pappus claim - seventeen hundred prospective voters. I was perched on one end of a hideously carved bottle green velvet sofa, which, I had a nasty feeling, clashed horribly with my sky blue and orange sari. Elaborate strings of electric lights - pink, green, purple, yellow - much more elaborate than any I'd seen at Diwali, twinkled, whirled and dipped in complicated loops and series around me. There were laughing children, three rows deep, at my feet; very pretty children with delicate features, kohl-darkened eyes and shiny clothes. There were some babies too, hanging off burqa-clad hips or running around in squeaking shoes, bundled in the striped red-and-white knitted bonnets that babies wear, and sporting the inevitable runny noses. The men were seated a few feet away from my sofa, in a sea of green, blue, purple, all topped off by the same lacy white skullcaps. The maulvi saab, however, had taken an armchair right next to me. So had Our Pappu, who was beaming from ear to ear, relieved that the whole fracas with the bakra had ended without rioting or curfew or calling in the NSG. (The newspaper captions the next day had been bitingly wicked, though. And they had been national. The photographer who snapped the iconic shot went on to win some major awards for the picture later that year, with juries gushing about its honesty, the perfect capturing of the decisive moment, the open mouths of the onlookers, the consternation of Amma, the blush on the cheeks of the maulvi saab, the frank, crinkly-eyed, gap-toothed enjoyment of Jugatram, the virility of Ponky, the confusion of the bakra, and for the way in which the picture summed up the spirit of'The Times of India'.)
Mindful of the watchful eye of the lady who'd organized the refreshments, I gritted my teeth and took a big gulp of the bhainscafe. Swallowing smilingly, I looked at the stage in front, wondering what the next act would be.
There had been a qawaali and a kathputhli puppet theatre already, plus a magic show for the kids (during which one of my stumpy thick-stemmed gold earrings was swallowed by a small boy and then recovered from his stomach, after his arm had been worked up and down like the handle of a waterpump). Amma left after that, pleading old age and fatigue, but when I made to follow, she made big-big eyes at me and said that I had to stay for dinner. 'And eat a lot!' she'd hissed. 'Nahin toh maulvi saab ko bad feel hoga!'
So now, I had to stay on for the finale and the biryani and jalebis and be dropped home by Our Pappu, who would, as usual, pin me with his hypnotic eyes and repeat his fervent, suspicious sounding offer of doing Anything! Anything! Whatever you wish! Just ask and see! Anything you desire!
There was a roar of jeep engines and a slight commotion from behind us, and I turned and looked at the scrum of gas-balloon and ice-cream sellers outside the gaily decorated gate, wondering who the latecomers were. Maybe Amma had come back, I thought hopefully, and I wouldn't have to eat large quantities of food by myself.
But when I saw who had entered the courtyard and was being warmly embraced by the maulvi saab, first to the left shoulder and then to the right, even as he looked around admiringly and exclaimed appreciatively at the rocking intezaam, I almost dropped my bhainscafe.
Actually, I wish I had dropped it, all over the wretched sofa, because that would have made what happened next impossible. Which was that after embracing just about every man in the courtyard, and flashing a rakish grin at the giggling women, Zain Altaf Khan trod lithely up the aisle to the garish bottle green sofa and, after the briefest of hesitations, dropped himself down right next to me!
I pretended not to notice, and stared at the stage intently, as if the dudes who were clearing away the magic show props were putting on the most interesting act in the world.
Zain leaned back a
little and a lean, muscular forearm, with a black thread tied tightly around the wrist, came into view. I shifted a little, picked up the printed programme that they had given me when we arrived, and pretended to read. But it was tough, especially since he was sitting the way he always sat - like he was waiting for someone (me! me!) to drop into his lap.
Rough velvet sounded caressingly in my ear. 'Um... that's Urdu.'
'I know,' I returned carelessly. 'Pretty, isn't it?'
'Oh?' He sounded amused. I could smell marigolds and attitude. 'So you're admiring the calligraphy? You once told me it looked like piles of rat droppings.'
I turned to face him. He was lounging back in the sofa, wearing faded jeans, the mandatory genda phool garland and a short white collarless kurta. A little white prayer cap was perched on his head. It was a sprawling, rather combative stance, rather in contrast to his disturbingly warm smile. I was hit again by how much taller and stronger and hotter he'd grown. Had he spent all these years drinking hormonally enhanced Horlicks?
'Well, I'm older now,' I told him witheringly, 'and I find that my tastes have changed. A lot.'
He looked at me. 'Really?' he said, sounding deeply sceptical.
'Yes!' I glared at him, thinking it was disgraceful how the V-neck of his kurta left the golden skin at the base of his throat freely visible to all. Didn't he realize it was blatantly soliciting kisses? 'And can't you go sit somewhere else?' I added. 'This is stupid.'
He grinned. 'No way,' he countered. 'People might say I lost my seat to you.'
'Well, they'll be saying that soon enough, anyway,' I returned sweetly.
His eyes glittered but he didn't react, just accepted a chilled glass of Pepsi from the child who'd handed me my coffee earlier, and thanked him solemnly.
Meanwhile, I sat there, seething. What did he think he was doing, barging in on what was clearly my event? Okay, so it was a public celebration and everyone was invited, but he could've showed up a bit later or earlier. That was just good manners. Especially after he had been so dismissive of me on Nauzer's show and so nasty about poor Amma, who had always been really nice to him when he was little. So what if she dissed his community just a little behind the closed doors of her home? How could he sit next to me so calmly, and try and make me feel unwanted at an event where I was the chief guest? Why the hell didn't he just go home and cuddle his mummy Bittora?
Battle for Bittora Page 14
