Storywallah

by Neelesh Misra

He sat her down on the sofa and asked her over and over again if they were okay. He told her about what had happened after they left. She listened in silence as if none of it was about her. She wasn’t even sad, just numb. She remembered an evening . . . was it last January? The city had been tense then too. There had been some incidents of arson towards Lalbagh. Aarfa and Sharad had been returning from college when they had been surrounded by four or five men armed with pipes and sticks.

  ‘Name?’ one of them had put a stick on Sharad’s shoulder and asked. He had stood up cautiously, looking him in the eye, as if trying to determine what name would be safe to give. Aarfa was furious; she wanted to smash the face of that man and scream, My name is Arti Sharma, kill me now. But then she remembered Sharad. She needed to control her temper. She said, ‘Bhai jaan, my name is Aarfa Javed. Here is my PAN card. This is my husband.’ The man looked them over once and said, ‘Go straight home. You know how bad the times are.’

  Aarfa had wanted to laugh. The people who had ruined the times were complaining! A time when a name was only that—a name. At that moment, Sharad was also just a name for her.

  ‘You stay with us tonight. I’ll go and get Chachi and Bhabhi tomorrow,’ Sharad said.

  ‘So that your people can kill us all?’ Aarfa asked, her tone bitter.

  Your people! The words seemed to freeze in Aarfa’s mouth. She had lost; the people who had started the fire had won.

  A strange silence filled the room. Sharad who had been a friend felt like a criminal. What could he say to someone who had built a wall around herself? The night was deepening, but these days Aarfa felt safer at night than in the day. She went to the cupboard and started looking for Sahir’s medicine.

  ‘You’re leaving?’ Sharad asked as Aarfa headed towards the door. Instead of replying she covered her face with her dupatta and kept walking.

  ‘I’m sorry, Aaroo!’ Sharad said. It infuriated Aarfa.

  ‘Why? Why are you sorry? You didn’t kill Rafiq bhai.’ All her pent-up anger burst forth.

  Sharad answered calmly, ‘No, I didn’t kill him. I’m sorry because I wasn’t able to show you that we are your people.’

  Aarfa stared at him. Something began to melt inside her. She didn’t want to appear weak in front of him so she turned away. She opened the door and stepped out to see a small diya burning at the doorstep.

  ‘It’s Chhoti Diwali today. The house shouldn’t be dark on Diwali,’ Sharad said from behind her. Aarfa stopped where she was. She was a little girl again who had just moved into this locality. It was Diwali. Sharad’s mother had just stepped out of their house with a tray full of diyas. Sharad held the corner of her sari. Chachi was decorating her courtyard with lamps, lifting them off the tray one by one. Suddenly she noticed Aarfa. She smiled and Aarfa smiled back. She held one diya out to Aarfa and said, ‘The house shouldn’t be dark on Diwali.’ Since then they had celebrated Diwali together. They never felt that it wasn’t their festival. When the joy of lighting the lamps, the fun of making rangolis and the excitement of the fireworks were all hers, why had these people become strangers?

  ‘I’m going,’ she said. Sharad’s face fell.

  She smiled as she turned around, ‘How will I bring them back if I don’t go?’ The weight that had burdened her for days lifted. This house was hers, this neighbourhood was hers, these people were hers. It was election time in the city. Aarfa decided that she would choose love, not hatred. This time and every time.

  THE OVERCOAT

  Chhavi Nigam

  A drowsy morning was rising over Nainital. The streets still slept. A blanket of mist covered the lake and, behind it, the brown tips of the mountain were turning golden in the sun.

  Matching my steps to the sounds of the bells from the Naina Devi temple, I marched towards the stadium on the flats. I stopped a chai-wallah for some tea and sat down on the steps. Peace! Apart from the few children skating around there was no one to disturb me.

  I smiled as I relished the familiar taste of ginger and cardamom. I thought of my college in Delhi, and of Sashwat. He liked strong black coffee but would always have a sip of my tea that inevitably made him scrunch his face up in distaste. In return I always had a sip of his coffee and pulled an even worse face. Whenever he pushed a plate of sprouts in front of me I would stuff a bread pakora into his mouth.

  We were complete opposites. But our friendship was very successful. There were no impositions, no need to change oneself for the other and no expectations whatsoever. We enjoyed being together, and fought a lot, but there was no pressure to make up. It was all going along so well, until he went and spoiled it all the night of the farewell party.

  After dancing the salsa for hours, I was exhausted. But after dropping me back to the hostel, Sashwat lingered, refusing to leave. I said bye for the third time and turned to leave. He reached out and held my hand. I had never seen his brown eyes so serious.

  ‘I love you, Saavi,’ he said. I was stunned. Then I thought he was joking.

  ‘I’m serious. And I will wait for you forever.’

  Brushing him off, I said, ‘Oh come on! Don’t pull these dialogues on me. ‘Love’ and ‘forever’ . . . are they even real?’

  But for some reason I couldn’t meet his eyes.

  Sitting on the steps that cold morning a tremble ran through me as it had when Sashwat had held me close in his arms. I pulled the overcoat tighter around me. I could still hear the words he had whispered, ‘I believe in my kind of love. You figure yours out. And I am going to wait for you. The forever kind of waiting.’

  I didn’t know what to say. From then until I reached Nainital, I had been trying to figure out things, things between Sashwat and me. But in vain.

  I stood up, thrusting my hands into the pockets of my overcoat. Just thinking about love was making it all the more complicated.

  My footsteps slowed as I climbed the steep hill. It wasn’t that I didn’t like Sashwat, or that I was interested in a casual relationship—we got on so well together. But it was fine while we were just friends. All this love business, it was beyond me.

  I had been in boarding schools all my life; maybe that’s why married life didn’t appeal to me so much. My parents’ lives seemed sad and tedious and Chacha and Chachi’s full of arguments and bickering. I doubt Bua had ever been touched by the slightest sensation of love, ever. And Sumit and Kusum’s affairs and break-ups seemed like a game to me. What was the point in empty relationships like these?

  Sashwat’s friendship was the most beautiful thing in my life. I wouldn’t hurt him for the world. But how could I accept his proposal when I didn’t even believe in love?

  Tired, I leant against the trunk of a deodar tree. After a while, as I was starting to walk again I felt something brush against my fingers in one of the coat pockets. Intrigued, I felt around some more. The sewing of the inner lining was coming apart and there seemed to be things within. I pulled them out one by one and sat down on the grass to inspect the objects now spread on my lap.

  There were some coins, a button, a refill, a handkerchief and a crumpled, fraying piece of paper and a ring. As I straightened out the sheet I realized it was a letter. I tried to read the words. It was a poem by Shakespeare: ‘True Love’. There were more words underneath, but the letter was so stained that I struggled to make sense of the writing.

  Love you . . . shall wait forever . . . yours, P.

  The words sounded familiar. They reminded me of Sashwat. Hadn’t he said the same things to me?

  But this letter had been written by some P! To whom? What love was this about? Who was waiting forever? Waiting for whom? Whose tears had smudged the words?

  My mind raced as I held the ring and the letter in my hand. Maybe solving this mystery would help me find a solution; this thought took hold of my mind.

  I sat there for a while. A cold wind pushed against me, I pulled the overcoat tighter. This is how relationships should be, big enough to give you space, and there to hold you in a warm embr
ace when you needed it. Oh and pockets for the bits and pieces of feelings! But love can’t be like that. What use was a love that made you weak? The letter fluttered in the breeze. The letter and the other things must belong to the prior owner of the overcoat. Who could it have been?

  I tried to remember.

  When I had reached last night, everyone else was already there. While we ate there was the usual conversation and I had tried to dodge the usual questions that were always directed at me. I had tossed and turned the whole night wondering what to say to Sashwat. In the morning when I set out, I had found the coat hanging on the stand and had slipped into it. The coat could be anyone’s, and the letter?

  Papa and Mummy would never write a letter like that to each other. That a third person would have written it to either was too far-fetched. Then there was Bua. With her hair always in a tight bun, Bua was as stiff and stern as her starched saris. She taught in a school. She lived in the corner-most room of the large house. You only approached Bua if you were desperate. Who would invite total destruction by writing a letter like that to her?

  Next on my list of suspects were Chacha and Chachi. They had had a love marriage so they were the more likely candidates. But still it seemed unlikely. I was willing to bet anything Chacha didn’t even know that Chachi liked gajras. And I’m sure Chachi had no interest in Chacha’s obsession with Talat Mehmood. A third person? Impossible.

  That left me with Chacha and Chachi’s children, Sumit and Kusum. They were the WhatsApp and Facebook generation; why would they write a letter like that to anyone? And it was even more unlikely that anyone would write to them.

  So did the coat belong to some other relative? Or a guest? That would make my investigation even harder.

  On the walk back I decided that I would hang the coat on the stand and just wait to see who would claim it. I had come here to try and solve the Sashwat mystery but I was getting even more caught up in a whole other case.

  They were all up by the time I reached home and soon the kitchen was redolent with all the cooking. Sumit and Kusum wanted all my Delhi news, Papa and Chacha had gone down to the bazaar to buy things I liked to eat. Mummy was oiling my hair and Chachi was going through the magazines I had brought up with me. Bua had come up to the room a few times and, after hesitating at the door, had gone back. I only concentrated on that coat.

  Finally late in the evening I saw someone take the overcoat off the stand and put it on. I was astounded! It was Bua! She was now going down the stairs and out of the house wearing the coat!

  ‘Bua?’

  I said it out loud as if to convince myself that I had really seen her. How was it possible? I was finding it hard to believe that someone could be in love with her, write letters like that to her. And Bua? Did she love him too?

  For a while I stood there stunned. Then as the disbelief died, I realized how little I actually knew Bua. It wasn’t just me; no one in the house knew her at all.

  I remembered that when I was a child, Bua had been the only person who would give me a doll or a dress for my birthday, unlike everyone else who got me boxes of biscuits.

  And when I fooled around instead of studying, she would pull my ears really hard. I remember the perfume that came from her bag full of books as I walked holding her finger on the long, winding road to school.

  Bua had been the most intelligent person in our entire joint family, which often earned her Baba’s praise. ‘This is my most clever son!’ he would say proudly. And like a reliable son, slowly she had started taking over the responsibility of the whole household. She had forgotten about herself and her own dreams. All the marriages, everyone’s education, she had taken care of everything. No one noticed when the love they must have once felt for her turned into respect.

  Now when I thought about it, I realized that she had smothered her youth with her sense of duty. How did it happen that everyone got so caught up in their lives that they forgot all about her? Why had she become so grown up that no one thought to take some responsibility for her?

  Despite all this, in all my memories she smiled—that lovely smile that always lit up her eyes. And there was peace. In all those years I had never seen her angry or miserable.

  Suddenly, I felt like going to her room.

  The gallery across Bua’s room was darkening with the evening’s shadows. I couldn’t remember the last time I had gone to this part of the house. I only messaged her a thank you when I received the cheques she sent. And whenever I came home, if she saw me, she would ask, ‘How are you, Saavi?’ and I would say, ‘I’m fine,’ and turn to all the other people in the house. But today I wanted to see her through new eyes.

  As I neared her door, to my amazement, I heard her humming. ‘Bua?’ I called out softly.

  There was silence and then, with halting words, she said, ‘Is that you, Saavi? Come inside.’

  I went in and found that I couldn’t take my eyes off her. She looked completely different in a blue nightgown. There was something different about her face, a kind of peacefulness that glowed. She looked lovely.

  Undoing her bun, she asked, ‘Did you want something?’

  I tore my gaze from her cascading hair with difficulty and found myself looking at her eyes, unhidden behind glasses for the first time. They reminded me of thick deodars and blue clouds. A light shone in them. She asked again and I hesitated before replying, ‘No, I just wanted to meet you.’

  I think it may have been the first time someone had come just to see her. A few tears slipped from her eyes, caressing me as they fell.

  Under that demeanour of authority, how alone she really was! Tied down by her responsibilities. But still something had soothed that loneliness inside her. You could tell from the peace she exuded, from her smile that never faded.

  Slowly I began to understand. After finding the letter I understood her love for life. That thing we call love, that was the light that lit up her face. The words in that letter must be giving her courage. Despite her not committing to him, there was still someone waiting for her. Perhaps the calmness which came with knowing that was enough to live by.

  Something began to melt inside me. Is this the love that is enough to live your life by? Was this the waiting that Sashwat was willing to do for me? Through the tears that were filling my eyes I tried to understand this nameless bond.

  As I looked around her room through blurry eyes I noticed a beautiful card peeping out from behind her medals and books. I stood up. This time it was a poem by William Wordsworth. I wiped my eyes and read the name of the sender: Prashant.

  A memory suddenly flooded my mind. As I had held Bua’s finger and walked to school a person would join us somewhere along the way and walk with us. I had seen them look at each other and smile sometimes. Often he would recite poems as we walked. For Bua?

  Then suddenly I remembered his name. My jaw dropped.

  ‘This is the English teacher, isn’t it? Prashant sir?’

  I turned to look at Bua. She was blushing. I could read her now. I could see the love on her face. I didn’t need to ask any questions. Smiling, I left the room.

  It was dark now and Nainital twinkled in the night. It was getting cold so I put on a blue overcoat I found hanging on the stand and made my way down to Tallital. The boats glimmered like fireflies. The sound of the temple bells wafting in the breeze filled me with its serenity.

  In the course of that one day, I had grown up. I had learned something. A letter had taught me about love. A beautiful relationship had shown me how to understand all relationships a little better.

  After discovering Bua and Prashant sir’s love, love was no more just a word in a cheesy dialogue. It was real. It made me want to risk a forever like theirs.

  I wanted to talk to Sashwat. I decided that I would speak to him that very night. I felt at ease, content.

  A cold gust of wind teased me as it passed by. I pulled the overcoat around me tightly and slipped my hands into the pockets. The lining of this one was torn too! N
ow what secret was this blue overcoat waiting to unfold?

  TOGETHER

  Jamshed Qamar Siddiqui

  Abba would tell me of my grandfather, a lawyer in Lahore, and how strict he was about his morning walks. That was before the Partition. My father had inherited this habit from him. I’m old now but I do have faint memories of when we first shifted to Delhi after the Partition, and Abba would ask me to accompany him. But nothing would induce me to get out of bed until nine.

  An age has passed since then, and now, in my retirement, when I walk slowly from my apartment in the haze of the early morning, I miss Abba. I miss Rehana, my wife. She had died of hepatitis a few years before I retired.

  It was on my morning walks after Rehana’s death that I realized how important a companion is at this stage in life. The stage when the life you built so conscientiously starts to stare back at you, your body begins to abandon you and your children become impatient. I was at this age. I missed Rehana so much, her beautiful smiling face, the mole on her wrist, her heavy-framed glasses which were my responsibility to keep clean. Even in the middle of a fight she would suddenly hand me her glasses and I would carefully wipe them on the sleeve of my shirt and hand them back to her. For those few minutes hostilities would cease. Then as she put the glasses back on she would say, ‘Haan, what were you saying?’

  When Rehana died I had wanted to leave my job at the bank. But my son, Zaheer, advised me not to. ‘Abba I think it will be better for you to work, it will keep your mind occupied,’ he had said. I had changed my mind then, but sooner or later I had to retire. And now, in my retirement, I felt a strange emptiness. I won’t call it loneliness, I was not alone. My son, his Romanian wife, Aliyana, and my grandson, Amaan, lived with me in my Vasant Kunj flat. There were people around me, but nobody with me.

  But I had my walks.

  There was a park not far from my apartment block. I walked there twice a day, morning and evening. I spent more time there than at home. So much so that I could tell you exactly how many eucalyptus trees there were, and which spot on which particular bench caught the best breeze, and who came to the park at what time. The park had lots of regulars. I knew all the faces. Lately, though, I had become aware of a new face.