Battle for Bittora

by Anuja Chauhan

  Wow. What a political induction.

  A tiny baby crawled up to her just then, caught hold of her massive, cliff-like midriff, pushed itself up, and stood, beaming proudly with the triumphant air of one who has scaled Mount Everest. It had an unnaturally distended belly, mosquito bitten arms and hollow dark eyes, and its head was still a little unsteady upon its neck, but the smile it bobbed at both of us was extremely sociable.

  Hasina Behenji said, 'Pata hai, didi, this little one is HIV-positive, such a sweet baby, na?'

  There was something challenging in her kind eyes and in her tone, almost as if she were daring me to touch the baby. But hello, I was a woman who had just held a hideous, disembodied, rubber-smelling, condom-encased wooden penis in front of five hundred people! What was one tiny HIV-positive baby?

  I swung the little girl? boy? - I sneaked a peek under the loose shift it was wearing - boy, into my lap and gave him a wet smacking kiss on the cheek. He chuckled at me in a good-humoured, gummy way, drooling and clutching at my hair with tiny, sticky brown fingers. 'Yes, Hasina Behenji,' I agreed, my voice a little squeaky because the baby's fingers were now gripping my nose and squeezing thoroughly. 'Such a sweet baby!'

  Suddenly, she reached out and grabbed my arm. 'Didi, can I talk to you?'

  I looked at her blankly, as the baby's tiny hands yanked at my hair. Weren't we already talking?

  'Zain bhai's people were here two days ago,' she said. 'They were very nice, I suppose. Gave money for the school and all. But the ladies here, they don't like the nawabzada's family. Especially his father. So this is what I want to say to you...'

  She paused while I wondered where this was going. Meanwhile, the baby stuck a finger up my left nostril and rotated it anti-clockwise.

  'I am saying that our hearts are with you, didi! And with Pushpa jiji. You understand us, you will look after us. So we will vote for you.'

  'Thank you!' I said, genuinely moved.

  Hasina Behenji reached out, grabbed both my hands in her hefty ones, looked deep into my eyes and said earnestly, 'Didi, they gave us two lakhs for the school. But on the twenty-third, I swear to you, all of us will go and put our finger on the Finger!'

  'Thank you,' I said again, even more gratefully. The baby hit the top of my head vigorously and grinned. My eyes watered.

  'But please understand, didi,' she said, 'don't mind, but can you also give us two lakhs?'

  ***

  8

  'Duuuuude! Don't you wish you were where I am?'

  I sighed. I was inside a bumpy, rattling vehicle. I had just promised Hasina Behenji two lakhs for a guaranteed lead in Tanki Bazaar. There was a line of fire around my midriff, where the naada of my sari petticoat was chafing against my skin. I was longing to pull the damn thing off, burn it and never wear one again. I so did not need this conversation.

  'No, Rumi,' I snapped. 'I do not wish to be at a smoky bar, sipping sour white wine and speculating about the sexuality of the people around me.'

  'Dry, Jinni,' he said above a lot of humming and crackling. 'The word is dry - not sour.'

  'I can barely hear you,' I said crabbily. 'The signal sucks.'

  'I know!' he yelled. 'This place has practically no network! I had to climb up to a crumbling balcony to call you.'

  'Where are you?' I asked incuriously.

  'I'm in Buttora,' he shouted.

  'Bittora.,' I said, irritated. 'I've told you a hundred times, it's - wait, hang on, you're where?'

  Rumi chuckled happily. 'I'm at Dugguji's haveli. At a dinner party with my bro Nauzer. You met him, I heard?'

  'Rumi, slow down,' I said. 'What are you doing here? And why are you there? That's the enemy camp!'

  'Be civilized, Jinni,' he drawled. He obviously had a lake of sour white wine sloshing inside him. 'Frenemy camp. They invited Nauzer and I piled on! Besides, speak for yourself - my political affiliations are my own.'

  'Is Nulwallah, like, your partner?' I asked, momentarily diverted.

  'Is your mind, like, a sink?' he retorted. 'He's my friend, Jinni. My buddy. My bro.'

  'Hmmm....' I said sceptically, massaging my raw, burning midriff. 'Watch out, you're sounding almost macho, Rumi!'

  'No way, darling.' Here, Rumi lowered his voice confidingly. I could practically smell the wine fumes. ''Coz I just met the opposition. And he's hot.'

  My heart gave a sickening lurch.

  'Zain's there?'

  'Yeah, and we've just shared a deep meaningful conversation. About poetry. He loves my namesake's work.'

  He would, I thought in disgust. The poetry of Rumi. Bloody pseudo.

  'And the host is one of your old buddies, Bunty something. A rather dull, homophobic human bhatura who doesn't seem to have even heard of the amendment to Article 377 of the Indian Penal Code. Anyway, he wants you to come over--'

  'Why's he a bhatura?' I interrupted.

  'Because he looks like one,' Rumi explained. 'Fried and fair and swollen-up-tight-and-asking-to-be-burst. So, will you come?'

  'No, thanks,' I said hastily. 'I'm totally exhausted. It's late. And besides, I have nothing to wear.'

  'Oh, yes you do,' said Rumi. 'I got your Mango jeans and Bizzare blouse.'

  'You didn't? I said, genuinely moved. 'That's really sweet of you, Rumi.'

  Then I added, just to be sure, 'It was on sale, na?'

  'Yes, you cow. Forty per cent off. Now come.'

  'But Rumi, I...'

  'Bunty's dying to meet you!' he interrupted, suddenly upping the gushiness by a notch. 'Oh, look, here he comes! Talk to him!'

  'Don't you dare put him on the line, Rumi, you bastard!' I hissed.

  But of course he handed over the phone to bloody Bunty Sisodia. I could've killed him!

  'Hello, Jeanie?' said a fruity, over-friendly voice. 'Kahan ho, yaar? Come over, na.'

  I rolled my eyes. 'Hi, Bunty,' I said awkwardly, inwardly groaning. 'Sorry, ya, but I'm on the road, bahut late ho jayega...'

  'Where are you?' he asked, in an irritating I'm-taking-charge manner. 'Let me talk to your driver.'

  'He's driving,' I said evasively. 'There are cops on the road. We're near the Durguja turnoff, I think.'

  'Fantastic! That's five minutes from my place. I'll come and pick you up!'

  Oh god, what was this?

  'I'm really tired, Bunty... some other time, okay?'

  'No way,' he said, all bossy bonhomie, 'we're childhood friends! Just pull over, I'm coming there right now.'

  Bloody! Why was he being so overfamiliar? I couldn't stand the guy. All he'd done when we were kids was sneak Zain away from me to bowl to him.

  He must've handed the phone back to Rumi, because the next thing I heard was Rumi's voice, hissing like a temptress in an old Bollywood flick: 'Jinni... they have AC. And power backup.'

  I sat there in my damp, sweaty sari, in my rattling hot iron box, wiped my grimy face and sighed with pure longing. He'd known exactly which button to press.

  And besides, who was I kidding? Zain was there. I was desperate to see him again.

  'Tell Bunty I'm waiting at the turnoff,' I said and hung up.

  Bunty drove up self-importantly, about ten minutes later, in a white pyjama and an orange T-shirt, all fair and fried and silver earringed. He wasn't content for me just to follow his car but insisted I get out, embrace him and get into his car, which smelled strongly of Pan Parag and Drakkar Noir.

  I hate Drakkar Noir.

  I told the Sumo driver to follow and let Bunty drive me to the haveli, feeling rather disoriented.

  'Great to meet up, ya,' grinned the bhatura from Bittora, his silver balis flashing. And you're looking so good, ya!'

  Sitting this close to him, I noticed that his T-shirt had MOJITO ERGO SUM - I drink, therefore I am - emblazoned across the front.

  Dad sending him abroad to work had been the making of him, he informed me as he drove us down the muddy road, which was flanked by tall snake grass on both sides. 'Dad told me ki sitting here, doing
nothing, tu bhi Manu Sharma, Sanjeev Nanda ban jayega. Go work, stand on your own two feet...'

  I let him prattle on, but when he tried to hustle me into the drawing room as soon as we reached, I dug my heels in. 'Bunty, I'm sorry, I need to have a bath first.'

  He looked a little taken aback, then looked me over carefully and nodded. 'Actually, you do,' he said with a grin. 'So of course ya, no formality, please have bath, shower... have,' he laughed expansively, 'everything!' Then he bustled me into a massive room with a fancy loo. The mattress looked so plump and inviting I almost wept.

  He stood around, kicking the edge of the bed coyly with a Gucci sandalled foot, and then said, with awkward gallantry, 'I wish you could also stay with us during your campaigning, Jeanie. After all, you are my childhood friend too, it's just that...'

  'Zain is closer,' I said, as I edged him towards the door. 'It's cool, Bunty, I'm happy with just the bathroom, believe me!'

  When I emerged, scrubbed and tingling, twenty blissful minutes later, I found a Mango packet on the bed. I swooped down on it with delight and soon discovered that the Mango jeans did make my butt look peachy. And the crocheted blouse was gorgeous. My scruffy Champapuli chappals looked a bit strange with them but all I could do about that was go back into the loo and clean out the grime under my toenails scrupulously.

  Feeling quite high on my new gear, fresh soap and Ponds Dreamflower talc, I finger-combed my wet mop of hair and padded into the drawing room to Meet the Sisodias.

  It was a very imposing home. Huge, gilt-framed oil paintings hung on red walls. I walked down a corridor patterned with fading mustard yellow and green tiles and pushed open the door which Bunty had tried to hustle me through when we arrived.

  It opened into a large, beautifully lit, glass conservatory. There were about twelve people - Rumi, very much the political tourist in a crisp white kurta-pyjama with a massive Canon camera slung around his neck, Nauzer Nulwallah, Bunty, his dad Dugguji, a sexy, kohl-eyed girl in a hijab, some random bureaucratic types... and, of course, Zain, casually exuding gorgeousness in a worn Deep Purple T-shirt and faded jeans, talking intensely to some old dudes. My heart jerked upwards almost painfully, like a hooked fish, and then sank slowly into my scruffy Champapulis.

  Squaring my shoulders, I sketched a tiny hi to Rumi and walked over to greet old Dugguji.

  'Namaste, Duggu uncle,' I said. 'Thanks for inviting me to dinner!'

  'For dinner at least, you mean,' boomed Dugguji. 'We should have invited you to stay, but kya karen, this politics is drawing boundary lines across our heart!' (This, with a dramatic sawing gesture and a roguish look at the sexy girl in the hijab, who tapped his knuckles with her cocktail stirrer and said, 'Really, uncle!' in a husky, amused voice.)

  'Jinni!' chirrupped Rumi, bouncing up, looking hugely pleased with himself. 'You're so thinny!' He drew back a little and pursed his lips, considering me. 'And you've become as kaali as the "before" of a fairness cream ad, but we won't go into that.'

  'Hey, Gaiman Tagore,' I said grudgingly. 'I never thought I'd say this, but it's really nice to see you!'

  'Thanks.' He grinned.

  'So, how's everything at Pixel?'

  He pulled an expressive moue. 'Oh, the same...' He yanked at the neck of his T-shirt and peered down at his scrawny chest. 'Phew, this town is hot. I think I'm getting ghamoriyan.'

  'Who's getting gonorrhea?' asked Nulwallah, appearing at my elbow.

  'Ha ha,' said Rumi coldly. 'Okay, I'll catch you in a bit. I want to check out your rather cute opponent for loser stench.'

  Nulwallah looked intrigued. 'Loser stench? What's that?'

  Rumi instantly stopped looking haughty and started looking evangelical.

  'Oh, it's a foul, foul miasma,' he said earnestly. 'It hangs over losers, or losers-to-be. It's not discernable to the naked nose - but keen sniffers like me can sniff it out.'

  'What rubbish you talk, Rumi,' I said, laughing.

  'So, what does it smell like, then?' persisted Nulwallah the press hound. 'Loser stench? To the discerning sniffer, that is.'

  'Ah,' said Rumi solemnly. 'It smells like... an impotent mixture of disappointment, fear, rejection, urine, sweat and Indian cricket team.'

  'Do I have it?' I asked, fearful in spite of myself.

  He swooped in for a good long sniff, looked arch for a moment, and then shook his head. 'Nope,' he said. 'You're clean. Now lemme go sniff up six-pack Zak.'

  He bounded away, taking Nulwallah with him, while the sexy girl materialized by my side. She held out a long graceful hand and said, 'Jinni, pleasure to meet you, I'm the only Praggu at the party!'

  'Hi, err...' I shook her hand, a little taken aback.

  'Meet Pinky, Zak's cousin,' said Bunty, looking a little pink himself.

  'Hi, Pinky,' I said with a laugh. 'Wow, well done. You should try talking some sense into your friends!'

  She shook her head. 'Oh, that's impossible. These two are completely insane.'

  'We're not,' said Bunty, rocking on his heels. 'We're completely normal.' He threw a dark glance in Rumi's direction as he said this, which made me feel like hitting him.

  'Do you know,' Pinky said to me, ignoring Bunty completely, 'that whenever these two got fed up with the snooty society girls in England, they'd start speaking pidgin English, just to shake them off? It was so embarrassing!'

  'You-so-fair,' Bunty said, grinning. 'Touch-you-I?'

  'That's obnoxious, Bunty!' I said.

  'They didn't think so,' said Bunty stoutly. 'They couldn't get enough of us!'

  'They couldn't get enough of Zak, you mean!' Pinky pulled a face at him, then looked towards Zain.

  He was conversing with an old bureaucrat type, but he looked up just then and smiled, almost like he'd felt her eyes upon him. 'Hey, it's a free country, Pink!' he called out, obviously thinking we were talking about something else. 'You're welcome to vote for Jinni, if you like!'

  His dark eyes met mine for just a moment - Shall I kiss you, Jinni? - and just that tiniest of contacts was enough to make my heartbeat zoom.

  'Oh, I will!' Pinky called back. 'Don't worry'

  He rolled his eyes, shrugged good-naturedly and went back to his conversation with the prosy bureaucrat.

  I caught a few stray bits of it.

  'Missed calls were invented in India,' the old gent was saying. 'They're a completely free way to communicate. You dial a number, let it ring, then hang up before the other person picks it up, see? Just like a pager. You get the message across but you don't have to pay anything to do it!'

  'That's ingenious,' Zain was saying all politely, like he'd just got in from another planet so he didn't know what a missed call was.

  'Pakistan, Sri Lanka, Africa... all have started making missed calls now,' the gentleman continued. 'It is India's gift to the developing world!'

  Just then Dugguji started moaning about how Pinky had ripped him off while playing teen-patti earlier in the evening. 'Humko kahin ka na chhoda!' he said, sounding quite thrilled. 'Heart and sleep toh she had stolen already, now she has stolen our money also!'

  'You've become a Praggu campaign fund provider, uncle!' Pinky told him laughingly. 'Whether you like it or not!'

  Then Bunty hustled me over to the bar to make me a very elaborate mojito, in a fancy frosted glass. I watched him, my back to the other guests, and slowly my heartbeat climbed down to something remotely approaching normal.

  'Nice T-shirt by the way,' I told him. 'Are you a Descartes fan?'

  He looked at me blankly. 'Who?'

  I indicated the slogan on his tee.

  'Oh, that,' he said. 'It's a present from Zak. He knows I like mojitos.'

  'Oh, but it's--' I started to say but he looked beyond me and said hurriedly, 'Uh, excuse me, Jeanie...' and headed towards the door.

  Looking on curiously, I was a little appalled to discover the new arrival: Karan Sethie, a Rajya Sabha MP and a big noise in the IJP. He's a famous lawyer and one of the intellectual 'secular' fac
es of the rabidly right-wing party. You know, the ones whose main job is to keep the IJP from busting the modest green corset of secularism to reveal the heaving Hindutva breasts beneath.

  Bunty, after much bowing and scraping, ushered Karan Sethie to Dugguji's side and came back to the bar, looking self-important. Feeling rather flustered, I pretended not to recognize his very important guest and merely said, as Bunty handed me a surprisingly professional-looking cocktail, 'What is it with you guys, anyway? Zain makes kebabs and you make drinks?'

  Bunty put down his cocktail shaker in surprise. 'Arrey, how do you know?' he demanded. I looked at him blankly. 'Ke Zak is a solid kebabchi?'

  Uff. Me and my big mouth.

  'We met recently at a wedding in Delhi,' Zain's voice sounded easily from behind us. He strolled up, lithely straddled the barstool next to me, and said ruefully to Bunty, 'But Jinni didn't taste anything I cooked.'

  'How come?' demanded Bunty of me. 'He's fantastic, yaar, you should have had!'

  'Because...' said I to Bunty, cheeks very hot. 'Because... uh, because everything was over by the time I met him.'

  'How strange,' said Zain, continuing to address Bunty. 'I felt everything began when I met her.'

  'My memories of the evening are obviously very different from yours,' I threw at him tartly, as I reached for the last olive in the bowl.

  'Well, I hope yours are good,' he said carelessly, as he reached out and nicked the olive smoothly from under my fingers. 'Because mine,' he popped the olive into his mouth, chewed, and raised intimate dark eyes to meet mine, 'are incredible.'

  I choked. And suddenly remembered how, when we were eight, he'd spent ages teaching me how to blow bubblegum. I had been hopeless, making puffing noises, spewing out little bits of spit, producing pathetic little bubblets. Zain thought it was vastly entertaining. One day, blowing with rather too much enthusiasm, I dropped my pink wad of Boomer on the table. He laughed so hard his gum fell out too, and I, by mistake, picked up his wad and popped it into my mouth. Realizing what I'd done, I spat it out instantly, acting like I was fully grossed out. But I wasn't fully grossed out. Boomer is still my favourite gum ever.