When Aringdham heard her, felt her dedication, and evaluated the sacrifice of youth and beauty she was making for her cause, something broke in him. It was as if all that he and the others had discussed—all the plans, the policy making, and the global alliances—were insignificant. He felt a flame of respect for the young woman, and with it a stirring that the situation didn’t give him scope enough to analyze.
“Please be assured, Miss . . . ,” he fumbled, “that our association will do its best to understand. Send us a proposal of your requirements, and we will see how we can help.”
The next morning the telephone in his room rang. At first he couldn’t place the name, but the desk clerk said, “She says it’s urgent, something about children in Kashmir—you know about it.”
Aringdham was not a morning person—usually he was surly and incommunicative till the first cup of coffee had gone down—but that morning he found himself alert and edgy. He tried to feign an exuberant “hello,” while he searched his mind for a way to see her before he departed. Her voice—soft, deferential, and apologetic—sounded like a bell in a monastery. Sweet and exhilarating, that ringing voice worked better than coffee. He wondered whether he should sound more officious, but when she told him she’d stayed up all night to complete the proposal he melted. He agreed to see her at eight that evening.
Two hours after the call, Ritika did something she hadn’t done for some time: she bought a new outfit, exquisitely tailored and expensive. She told herself she was being ridiculous. She did not even know him, this Aringdham Banerjee. All she knew was that he was the founder of Banwagon, a big fashion-wear brand, a success story in its own right. She had seen his picture in the papers, read about him and the high-profile parties he attended in Bombay with models, fashion designers, hoteliers, social swingers, Bollywood stars, and the who’s who of corporate India. Ritika did not care for these tinsel town bashes; they belonged to a world far removed from hers, a world that was hollow and staged, unlike hers, which was real, so terrifyingly real that you could not afford to playact for a second. There were so many challenges, so many hurdles, when you were working with children affected by terrorism and poverty. Everything seemed to be against you: terrain, weather, public ignorance, governments, and life itself. She hoped to impress this on Aringdham. He looked like the sort who’d understand.
Before she met Aringdham, Ritika spent extra time at the mirror. She accentuated her hair, eyes, lips, and cheeks, and she added some silver jewelry to show that she could be interesting. She chided herself for being specific. For heaven’s sake, she told herself, you need to interest him in the project, not in yourself. And to reassure herself of her motivation she picked up her laptop, a hard copy of the proposal, a calculator, a pad, and hung a pen-on-a-chain around her neck. Yes, that looked professional enough, she thought.
They met in the lobby of the New Meridian. He looked dapper in a black T-shirt, black designer jeans, and an olive blazer. He wore mocha suede shoes and a belt to match, and this made him appear younger than at the convention, where he’d worn a suit.
They sat at a corner table in the cocktail lounge. It was early, so the lounge was empty. Ritika felt his eyes taking in her outfit, a mauve short-sleeve pantsuit, and she was glad to have taken such care over her appearance. With his trained bachelor eye, Aringdham continued to notice things about her while he spoke. He liked her subtle use of makeup, her unpolished nails on slim fingers unburdened by rings, and her hair, which fell persistently over her eyes and which she brushed back slowly, luxuriously, as if bracing herself to make a point. Unspoken, in silent appreciation of each other, an unplanned intimacy sprang between them; the heart and mind of each opened to what the other had to say. They expanded as two people who knew they were young and attractive and, if not that, then with some worthy business in mind.
He ordered the drinks—a Singapore sling for him, a strawberry daiquiri for her. She hoped it wouldn’t be strong; it was a while since she had indulged, and she wasn’t sure of her tolerance now.
Ritika began her presentation by showing him the conditions in which they found the children: burns, missing eyes, torn limbs, and mostly always paralyzed with shock. There were four workers at Sahayta who made up the rescue team; two were locals, not even trained social workers. They took turns: two would retrieve the children, while the other two stayed at the shelters. She rattled off statistics: the number of children orphaned every month, the number wounded, impaired, partially treated by hospitals and mistreated or unwanted by relatives who were themselves poor. She spoke of deaths—from tuberculosis and typhoid and often from malnutrition or frostbite. Those below the age of four were most vulnerable, and the babies, they hardly ever survived. Of course the newspapers never reported this. As she spoke Ritika noticed that Aringdham hadn’t touched his Singapore sling.
She showed him slides, but toward the end of her presentation her laptop stopped working. “It’s an old model,” she apologized.
“How old?” he asked, trying to gauge Ritika’s age.
“A 486,” she replied sheepishly.
“Well, that’s not too old,” he said generously, forgetting he owned a Pentium 4. He suggested she continue her presentation using the hard copy.
He heard her out. “It’s obvious clothing is not the only issue,” he said. “The problems are fundamental and persistent—food, shelter, clothing, and medicine. The unfortunate part is you can’t expect aid from the government. Everything is being diverted into security. Your organization’s size makes you all the more insignificant. So the aid has to come from a private source—and on a sustained basis.”
“Yes,” she said eagerly, understanding what made him a tycoon but seeing also the workings of a fine heart behind the quick, grasping mind. “Yes, sustainability is important. We do need a steady inflow of funds—to heal the children, to rehab them, to educate them, to teach them sports and real-life skills. Some therapy, too . . .” Her voice tapered off. She watched him taking in all this with his hands folded, cupped before his mouth. His fingers were long and articulate, like those of a saxophonist. His mouth, she decided, was firm, warm, and sensitive.
“You like this?” he asked suddenly. “This private war of your own?”
“What do you mean?” she replied, not sure whether he was being audacious or skeptical.
“Do you believe you can change these kids’ lives? Give them hope, a future, a bright and honest future?” he asked.
“I wouldn’t be telling you this if I didn’t. I wouldn’t have traveled from Srinagar—by bus,” she said.
“The best way to win a war is to become the side you are not,” he said. “Think yourself the winning side, think you have all the resources you need and that success is round the corner.”
“How do I do that?” she asked, incredulous and a little annoyed at his pat response. “Every moment we are dealing with realities. We are dependent on people’s kindnesses. We can barely afford to keep our heads above water.”
“I know,” he replied sympathetically. “I know. I’ve been in a war, too.”
Ordering a fresh round of drinks, he asked a few questions. How did they conduct rescue operations? What kind of terrain did they cover? Were there any paramedics for support? Not relief workers but trained paramedics who knew how to get in and get the victims out? What kind of doctors looked after the children? Was there any psychiatric help available? Round-the-clock nursing? What was the children’s routine? How were they schooled? How were they entertained? How was their progress monitored? She answered slowly, painstakingly, and all the time he scribbled on the pad he’d borrowed from her. He rested it on his lap, under the table, and she could see his hand move zigzag, zigzag, like he was marking charts, a flowchart. He stopped when his cell phone rang.
He excused himself and left the table to take the call. She wondered whether there was a girlfriend. Minutes passed. She felt an urge to see what he was scribbling. She could take a peek, but it would be embarrassing if
he were to walk in on her. Three times she fought the urge, but the fourth time she raised the flap and opened to the page he’d scribbled on. Staring back from the paper was a near likeness he had sketched of her. Just the face—with words such as “worry,” “fear,” “tension,” “anxiety,” and “obsession.” At “obsession” she fumed. So that’s what he thought of her, that she was a bundle of nerves. This talk and sympathy was one big joke. Her eyes filled with tears.
When he returned, she exploded. He hadn’t just fooled her but also the program, the children, their condition, their future—all that she stood for. He listened to her quietly. Meanwhile he noticed the movement of her lips and he wished that he could silence them by bringing his mouth upon hers. He would like to kiss her, just like that, without warning, while she was venting, and her lips twitched like a sweet little goldfish; he would like to show her how they could be in rhythm—her anger, his desire—and how fire could quench fire and transform it into a mutual collective yearning. He was surprised at himself and at her for inspiring this in him. At that moment he wanted her more than anything else, more than any goal or business ambition. He would remove everything unnecessary—her fear, concern, anger—all that interfered with her beauty, her inner sanctity. If only she would give him a chance to prove he could take control of her and her life.
He listened to her and spoke simply: “Will you give me time to change this picture? Once you are confident about survival, everything will change. Trust me.”
There was something about the way he said that. Something earnest. There was also a darting vulnerability in his eyes, which made her feel she was wrong to have doubted him. She’d worked long enough in harsh terrain to realize when the harshness was suspended; she was also intelligent enough to know when she had made a miscalculation. But desperation does make you thin-skinned, she reasoned, and she’d been out of mainstream society so long that maybe she’d lost her sense of humor. She drew in her breath and said weakly, “I don’t know, I really don’t know what to say.”
“Then don’t say anything!” he said, taking her hand.
She felt a load leave her, a spring uncoil in her heart. The blood rushed to her face and she wished he wouldn’t let go of her hand. He did so reluctantly, but the magic didn’t disappear. A connection had been made, and fears had been dispelled. Thereafter, she sipped her daiquiri and struggled with the uncanny attraction while he spoke of his work, his beliefs, his travels, his dreams, and his knowledge of programs in developing countries. She was impressed by his store of knowledge; rapt and relaxed, she allowed herself to get drunk. She also allowed herself to eat what he ordered, allowed herself to be coaxed into a nightcap and to be led out light, silly, and laughing on his arm. She was happier than ever, happier than she’d been in a long, long time, and less worried now.
In the morning she woke up beside him, very embarrassed and contrite. “Please, please don’t misunderstand,” she said. “I didn’t do this to win you to my cause. It’s not for the aid.”
“I should hope not,” he said sternly. “I should hope not, considering you’ve professed love at least ten times during the night, and wrenched a similar confession from me an equal number of times. I hope to God, Miss Trilok, that you don’t extend this liberty to all your donors.”
At that she had blushed and flung herself at him. His eyes shone, making him look like a boy on graduation day. She melted into his arms and forgot about guilt and responsibilities and matters of aid and sustenance. All was well. No, it was perfect. So complete she felt—and protected.
She spent the day with him. They made love before breakfast and after; they clung to each other in the shower and outside it. There was a meeting with the exports commissioner, which Aringdham almost canceled but later decided to attend because the industries minister was also going to be present.
He could barely concentrate at the meeting. His mind kept going back to Ritika, to her soft, melting body, her bath-fresh fragrance, her lissome, responsive form—soft, ethereal, almost unreal—which seemed to morph into something warm and engulfing, something to suggest that all barriers of time and distance were being removed, were being replaced with something wonderful in anticipation of better times to come.
That night Aringdham proposed. There was no point fighting it. He couldn’t live without her now that he’d found her. How was he to manage, though? With her tucked away in the Himalayas and him in Bombay?
“Why, with the help of my picture,” she replied. “Unless the face has changed.”
And they both laughed, realizing how ridiculous it had been in the first place. What could it have been—that outburst? Something like nervous energy, a sexual, chemical dread building up before release. Everything was fine now. Everything was acceptable. Everything made sense.
The next day they caught separate flights out, he to Bombay, she to Srinagar. Soon they reverted to their routines. His buyers visited, yet he found time to call once a day, when the lines were clear.
Three weeks later Aringdham called to say he was coming to Srinagar. He had some work in Delhi. She was ecstatic at first but turned nervous later. Would he mind the bare shelters, the sullen kids, the steel beds, the torn mattresses, the broken ceilings? Would he mind the meager meals, the chipped crockery, the toilets with poor drainage? She called him to ask whether she should book him into a hotel? “Heck, no! Not unless you are ashamed of me,” he said.
Two days before his arrival, a bomb went off near the shelter, shattering two of its windows. The explosion set a ration shop on fire. Worse, it snapped something in the head of eleven-year-old Altaf Hussain, who had lost his parents in a similar blast. Crying, he ran out into the street and fell to a burst of gunfire. Ritika, who rushed after him and held his shredded body, wept uncontrollably. She lost her will to eat and sleep and could barely concentrate on her work. A feeling of worthlessness, of waste, of the inane fallibility of life, began to dawn on her. When Aringdham arrived, she clung to him and cried, and this gave him the opportunity to speak about her taking a break, to persuade her to go with him to Bombay. Of course he knew enough of her to know she wouldn’t abandon the children; hence he made the aid the excuse. He had many ideas now on how they could rejuvenate Sahayta. He wanted to share them with her, wanted her to be part of the momentum that made it a reality. She thought it sounded too good to be true.
In Bombay he told her about a plan to start a trust and register it with the commissioner of charities. The commissioner was an old friend; he could be persuaded. She found that kind of thing shocking and told Aringdham so, but he shrugged and said, “Business realities—can’t be avoided.”
Contributing a sizeable amount himself, Aringdham convinced two friends—Sarabjit Nagpal, a pharmaceutical baron, and Arup Sen Gupta, an investment banker and financier—to invest in Sahayta. Both were ideally positioned to strengthen the trust. Nagpal provided the medicines and contributed a four-wheel-drive truck and a driver. Sen Gupta brought in a generous cash component and spread it out across low-risk interest schemes to make the trust self-reliant. Aringdham took on the costs of reinforcing the shelters and provided the clothing, blankets, beds, and boots. As part of the new thrust, as he called it, he added a laptop (a Pentium 4) and a cell phone with roaming. He also added funds to the budget for two extra staff members. “You are going to need them,” he told her. “I don’t plan to keep you single for long.”
The wedding was planned two months later. Using the excuse of the trust, Aringdham managed to hold Ritika back for three weeks. During this time she built up a high guilt load but admitted that for the first time in years she felt young and alive. Though she didn’t like the congestion of Bombay—its traffic, pollution, and hectic impatience with anything that wasn’t commerce, anything that didn’t smell of opportunity—she felt at home in its libraries, its theaters, and its bay-view restaurants, especially the Sea Lounge at the Taj.
To make sure she could take time off for the wedding, Aringdham hired a social wor
ker by the name of Lalitha Desai. She had ten years of experience and was a gold medallist from the Tata Institute of Social Sciences and passionate about giving damaged children a future. She had been through a bad marriage, was childless, did not have much money, and was looking to escape memories of the past. The job with Sahayta came as a boon. And Aringdham was not the kind to pinch pennies, especially if it freed time for his love.
Thus he cleverly and skillfully plotted his own happiness. He brought Ritika down to Bombay a month before the wedding and plunged her into a whirlwind of parties, dinners, and social engagements. It appeared that every evening someone wished to meet her or he’d want her to meet some friends, clients, people in the industry, or people in the ministry. After two weeks she wondered how he could keep this up, be his charming self night after night and work the next day. She wondered how he could see the same faces, endure their stories, their bragging, their repetitive jokes delivered with hearty aplomb. She missed her routine in the hills; she thought of the children and wondered if they missed her. The reports were encouraging. Lalitha Desai had taken well to the kids. She had introduced new games, made changes to the syllabus, was teaching them Hindustani music and yoga. Reconstruction on the shelters had started. The back portion was going to be extended, and once complete, it would house the social workers, who would no longer have to bunk with the kids. Ritika smiled. Good thought, but the kids wouldn’t sleep alone. They were babies at heart. The four-wheel-drive truck was a big hit: the children rode in it to the lakeside every evening, and this brought some color to their cheeks.
Breathless in Bombay Page 33
