An Extraordinary Destiny

by Shekhar Paleja

  Somewhere on Marine Drive, Anush was lost in thought when Paresh yelled, “Anush, slow down!” That’s when Anush noticed a policeman just thirty feet ahead on the road, waving for them to stop. But Anush noticed him so late that he had to slam on the brakes. The Fiat screeched to a halt only inches from the police officer.

  It was the same moustachioed police officer who had caught him speeding before. He whacked the ground with a cane that all Bombay Traffic Police carried.

  Paresh was petrified. Between gulping deep breaths he managed to say, “Just do as he says. There’s no fucking way I’m going to an Indian jail.”

  The officer thrust himself in Anush’s face and shouted, “I remember you! Do you know how fast you were going? I can smell liquor!”

  Anush was nearly paralyzed with fear but he knew he couldn’t let it show, otherwise the officer would know he had the upper hand and could do whatever he wanted—throw them in jail, torment them for hours, or god knows what else, and milk them or, rather, the old man, for an exorbitant amount of bribe money for their release. Remaining calm, Anush said, “Sorry, brother, a thousand pardons.”

  “You two are coming to the station!” the officer said, clearly in no mood to be magnanimous, and whacked the pavement again with his cane for the boys to get out of the car. Once they were in a police station they’d be held all night and thrown in a maggot-infested cell with street criminals. Paresh begged for forgiveness in English, tried to convince the officer that it was Anush’s first time driving, but the officer, if he understood much English, wasn’t falling for that. If anything, Anush suspected it only offended him that Paresh was speaking English. The officer was an indigenous Maharastrian and there’d been such a hubbub in the city of late to repatriate street names and signage from English to Hindi. Maharastrians already referred to the city as Mumbai, the original name before the Portuguese and British had colonized. While the legacy of colonial rule was mostly unwanted, Hindu nationalist organizations such as the Shiv Sena used it as political leverage and some felt the name change was steeped in blood from the riots just a few years ago. The city was in an identity crisis.

  Anush thought about fleeing but noticed the officer had his Honda 500 parked just a few feet away. Even though Anush knew the streets well, the officer could probably outmanoeuvre them on his motorbike.

  “Driving recklessly, endangering the life of a police officer, driving under the influence of alcohol—these are serious charges,” the officer said.

  With tears in his eyes, Paresh put his palms together and begged for grace in broken Hindi with an English accent, which only made the officer snicker. Anush wasn’t sure what was more pathetic: the fact that Paresh could no longer speak Hindi without sounding like a foreigner or the fact that he didn’t realize he was only making their predicament worse by speaking in his coconut Anglo-accented Hindi. Either way, it only proved to the officer they were spoiled rich kids who could be used as leverage to milk more bribe money. They’d be thrown in jail and the old man would be woken up with a phone call in the middle of the night to collect them from the station with a hefty fine. Even if the newspapers didn’t catch a whiff of it, this would be the end of Anush’s life. The shop, the car—the old man would take it all away in a second. A scandal in the papers was the last thing Varoon wanted since he was in deep with the BJP and the election was near.

  The officer rapped on the hood of the car, “Come on, this is your last warning. Out of the car!”

  Anush could feel all the muscles in his arms contract as he clenched his fists. He couldn’t get enough air into his lungs and his breathing became shallower.

  “The police wagon is on its way,” the officer said with a smile that showed his crimson betel-nut-stained teeth.

  With each moment that passed, jail became an inevitability, which made Paresh plea with more intensity. “Please, sir, I beg you, please—”

  The officer slapped the pavement with his cane again and rapped on the hood of the car harder with his knuckles. “Failure to comply with a police officer is also a separate charge,” the officer said. A large wave broke on the seawall, sending a spray of water high into the air before it dispersed into the humid breeze.

  Suddenly a memory Anush had long forgotten came rushing to him. He was five years old, with his parents. They were taking a horse carriage ride on a Sunday night along this very stretch of Marine Drive. The waves were high that evening and broke over the seawall with more force each time, sending up larger and larger sprays of mist that showered over the three of them in the open carriage. He remembered the clip-clop of the horse, of feeling anxious but also comforted because he was safely wedged between his parents. He remembered thinking what if the next wave would be much larger, crest above the seawall, and swallow them back into the sea with it? He remembered clutching his mother, she pulling him close to her, the scent of coconut oil in her hair. He imagined her giving birth to him the night of the storm, his father returning drenched with the good news of their son’s kundali—it all allayed his anxiety.

  The officer said, “Yes, enjoy the sea breeze now. In jail the only fresh thing you’ll smell is the shit inside the open hole in the ground with the flies that buzz around it all day. Or maybe the commanding officer will be unavailable to process you at the station, in which case I’ll have to take you to the Arthur Road jail for the night. Some of the country’s best criminals are housed there, you know. You two cute birds would make them very happy tonight!” He broke into laughter.

  Anush wanted to knock out the officer’s teeth, but instead he pulled a few hundred rupees from his pants pocket and discreetly offered it to the officer. “We’ll pay the fine to you right now.”

  But the officer shook his head, saying, “The police wagon will be here shortly.”

  A police wagon passed by the other side of the road. It would soon be making a U-turn several hundred feet up at the next break in the road and come to collect them. Anush hissed at Paresh for any money he had and Paresh pulled out a few American bills that the officer noticed with wide eyes and quickly snatched.

  They heard the police wagon squeal its brakes and come to a stop fifteen yards behind them. In the rear-view mirror they saw a couple of officers open their doors and saunter out with canes as another wave broke onto the breakwater, spraying the air with fine mist.

  The officer leaned into the Fiat window and whispered, “I think it’s in your fate to see the inside of a jail,” pocketing the American money before the two officers from the wagon got closer. Then he whispered, “But not tonight.”

  The moustachioed officer told the other two officers, “Everything’s fine. Just giving these two kids a warning.” Both Anush and Paresh breathed a sigh of relief. The two policemen got back into their wagon and the moustachioed officer sauntered back to his bike and sped away.

  Anush reached into the glove compartment and gulped a healthy swig of whisky before starting the car.

  - 13 -

  1998

  ANUSH LAUGHED AT PARESH. “BHAIN chod, you’ve only been in the country two hours and you’ve nearly shit yourself!”

  Paresh surreptitiously wiped a tear away and then punched Anush in the arm. “We were almost thrown in jail. You were just as scared!”

  Even though he was, Anush denied it by laughing louder at Paresh. “Too funny, yaar. You should see the look on your face!”

  As they drove down Marine Drive, Paresh tried to light a cigarette but his hands were too shaky.

  Anush had been relieved when the other two policemen arrived as it had cut short the first policeman’s time to extort more money from him and Paresh. It wasn’t a secret that men desperate for work were bribing their way into the city’s police force so they in turn could collect bribes from the public. In some neighbourhoods it could be very lucrative. “If I come across that policeman again, I’ll slap the maadar chod’s face clean off,” Anush said.

  “Yeah, right,” said Paresh.

  Anush would never h
ave the nerve, but he instinctively went on the offensive whenever he felt threatened—a habit from boarding school.

  It was nearly ten o’clock. A few beggars on the footpath were beginning to unfurl their sheets of cardboard to sleep on. A street dog scampered towards scraps of discarded food.

  Anush grabbed the whisky bottle from the glove compartment and took a swig before yelling, “Kuttay! Kaminay!” out the window at the street mutt, who flinched. Anush expected Paresh to join him in their favourite line from Sholay, their favourite film. It was what they’d yelled before dropping water balloons from the roof of Sea Face Terraces onto unsuspecting boys in the back courtyard. It’d been fifteen years but surely Paresh would remember the classic Bollywood line.

  Anush offered the whisky to Paresh, but he didn’t take a drink. Giving Paresh a friendly jab, Anush said, “Come on, yaar, have some fun.” But Paresh didn’t say anything. Anush couldn’t tell if he was just shaken up or if he had simply forgotten the film, forgotten they’d grown up best friends, playing together every day. Maybe Paresh had cast all that from his mind after moving to Canada. While he befriended white kids, maybe his childhood memories of India were replaced by the rules to ice hockey and grunge band lyrics.

  No, it was impossible to forget certain things. Kuttay! Kaminay! had been their motto, their catchphrase. Was it possible that Paresh had become so Canadian, so politically correct, that shouting at street dogs was offensive all of a sudden? He did go by Parry now. People changed. Completely, after seven years. Maybe Paresh would embrace his roots by the end of his travels. Isn’t that why everyone came to India? To find themselves? Bullshit sandwich.

  Anush parked the car outside the Taj Hotel and Paresh followed him in through the posh marble lobby to the central outdoor courtyard, past the swimming pool and to the entrance of the 1900s nightclub where a queue of well-dressed young people stood.

  A sign was posted beside the large bouncer: Couples only. No single men. No Exceptions. Luckily, Anush knew the bouncer, who unhooked the velvet rope and let them in after Anush cupped him a hundred-rupee note. The nightclub had recently been renovated. It was impressively large, with centralized air conditioning, and was located in the city’s most expensive hotel, making it one of the most exclusive nightclubs. The dance floor was full while the circumference of the club was packed with beautiful people sipping exotic cocktails and European beers in booths.

  Anush was certain this was better than any nightclub in Calgary. Bombay had undergone enormous change since Paresh had left. Now there were world-class restaurants, nightclubs, and hotels popping up all over the place. The old India that Paresh supposedly didn’t remember and was hesitant of identifying with was now a vibrant, sexy place to be proud of.

  The DJ played a Spice Girls song, which brought even more people to the dance floor. Paresh followed Anush to the bar, where they ordered beer. The music was too loud to carry on a conversation, so they sipped their drinks with a seeming amount of indifference while casually checking everyone out. It was a skill that Anush had honed over the past few years at clubs like this, but lately the pretense of it was getting old. Young people trying to outdo each other with designer clothing while getting drunk and high, or blown, as the rich kids called it. Anush knew he wasn’t entirely above their vanity. He enjoyed some of the finer things in life, but he wanted interesting conversations rather than just gossip or vapid small talk, like when the new Versace cologne would be coming out.

  A stunning young woman on the dance floor caught Anush’s eye. She was wearing a black dress that clung to her curvaceous body, with her hair up. She had the most mesmerizing deep brown eyes. A game began between the two of them wherein they would catch each other’s eye and hold their gaze for a fraction of a second longer each time. She was dancing with a tall, broad-shouldered man who had his back to Anush, so she was able to continue flirting with Anush without the man noticing. Each time they locked eyes, Anush felt a surge of electricity.

  “Hey, Anush!” Two young men Anush had met recently were walking over. One was a popular VJ on MTV India and the other was a son of a famous Bollywood actor. They were sharply dressed and surrounded by a gaggle of college girls.

  The VJ said, “We just came from a party in a suite upstairs. Totally blown!”

  Anush sipped his beer and pretended to listen while making eyes with the stunning girl on the dance floor. The actor’s son said something amusing that made the college girls giggle. Paresh nudged Anush in the ribs for an introduction. Anush said, “This is my cousin, Paresh. From Canada.”

  “Parry,” he corrected Anush and shook hands with them all. “I just landed, like two hours ago.”

  “Your accent is so sweet,” one of the girls giggled.

  Anush still had his eyes on the girl on the dance floor while the two jackasses ordered a round of drinks for them all. The college girls demurred coyly, but after some playful encouragement from the two jackasses, and even Parry, they accepted.

  Anush whispered in the VJ’s ear, “Do you know that girl in the black dress on the dance floor?” But instead of keeping the conversation discreet, the VJ’s eyes went wide and he reported to the actor’s son, “Anush has the hots for Nasreen!” The two of them laughed in a way that suggested she was way out of his league.

  Anush wanted to reverse the clock ten seconds and not say anything.

  “I can talk to her for you,” the VJ said.

  “No no no,” Anush said. “Don’t say anything.”

  The VJ said something to the actor’s son, who laughed.

  Anush tried to excuse himself, but the VJ grabbed Anush’s arm and said, “Wait, yaar. Have a tequila shot.”

  Anush tried to break free of the seemingly friendly grip, but the VJ was strong. Reminding himself to spend more time at the gym lifting weights rather than in the eucalyptus-scented spa, Anush shot the VJ a hostile look. But the threat only made the VJ tighten his grip around Anush’s arm, and he taunted, “If you like her, tell her. Or are you chicken?”

  The actor’s son clinked his shot glass of tequila with Parry and the college girls and said, “Yeah, Anush.”

  Even Paresh agreed. “Yeah, dude.”

  The VJ had Anush’s arm in a vise-like grip. Anush could tell from the gleam in the VJ’s eye that he’d always been a bully. Being a bit short for his age, Anush had had to deal with his fair share of bullies, but he’d never had the guts to punch one in the face. Maybe the VJ was a good place to start. And so Anush swung hard.

  But the VJ was swift and dodged Anush’s punch.

  “Take it easy, yaar,” he laughed and tried to grab both of Anush’s arms. But Anush broke free.

  As he stormed off, he could hear the college girls giggling at something the VJ said, but Anush was already out of earshot.

  The marble-floored restroom was empty except for the attendant who stood by the sinks with clean linens. Anush splashed his face with cold water. Looking at himself in the mirror, he mouthed her name. Nasreen. Just his luck—a Muslim. The most beautiful girl he’d laid eyes on and she was Muslim. He mouthed it again. Nasreen. It flowed off the tongue gracefully like a waterfall. It sounded like a sublime invocation to a divine goddess. Nasreen.

  - 14 -

  1998

  ANUSH DECIDED TO SLINK OUTSIDE for a smoke while Paresh was getting on with his new friends and their swelling entourage at the bar.

  During the day the courtyard was full of hotel guests swimming in the pool or lounging on deck chairs, being served cocktails by waiters. But now it was deserted, dark. Green and blue underwater lights from the swimming pool made the courtyard seem otherworldly, almost celestial.

  The bass from the club thumped faintly as Anush lit a cigarette and looked up at the night sky. Barely a star could be seen because of the city lights—unlike his boarding school days when the sky was filled with them. Even though during those first few years at Bharat Academy he spent a large chunk of his time feeling homesick, on sleepless nights Anush would look
out the window from his top bunk at the stars with a vague sense of comfort, thinking they knew his destiny. He’d hear his mother singing:

  Kabhi kabhi, mere dil mein, khayaal aata hai . . .

  Sometimes, in my heart a feeling emanates . . .

  As he grew older he began to realize the song was more corny than esoteric, and began to doubt if stars millions of miles away had anything whatsoever to do with people on earth and how their lives unfolded, but he couldn’t quite shake the idea of his destiny being written up there. He imagined his mother existing up in the heavens, convinced she’d lived through enough incarnations as ants and insects and whatever else and achieved moksha, believing he’d liberated her soul at her cremation ceremony, ending her suffering and the repeated cycle of life and death that all Hindus were bound to. After his mother’s death he began to question reincarnation. Wasn’t it all just smoke and mirrors? A bunch of lies? Stupid superstition? A set of rules designed by the ones at the top to keep the lower castes in their place—with the only reward being in the next life? Wasn’t kundali rendering, like pagan priests gutting the bowels of a sacrificial animal to see which way the entrails would flow out to choose a new king? Or witches burning hair to select an augury from whatever direction the smoke blew? Was there actually any scientific proof that the stars shimmering above affected people on earth? It seemed too preposterous. However, on sleepless nights it still gave him some solace to think of her up there, ensconced permanently, instead of having burned her body on a pile of wood all those years ago to char and ashes.

  Standing by the pool now, Anush wondered if maybe she hadn’t achieved moksha, if she’d been reincarnated into another human being, if her soul or consciousness was still somewhere on earth. But then he quickly shook his head for being so sentimental. How many drinks had he had? A shot of Blue Label Reserve at home, a swig or two of whisky in the car, half a beer in the club. The altercation with the police officer had been too close. He reminded himself not to be so careless again. As Anush exhaled cigarette smoke at the night sky he wondered what he was doing with his life. And why had he been feeling so lonely? If he truly was extraordinary, he’d surely have a lot more friends, feel like he belonged in the world. Even at parties full of people he often felt detached. It didn’t help that most of the people at these parties were idiots like the jackasses at the bar who Paresh had befriended.