by Ranjit Lal
RANJIT LAL
For
Gayatri and Prakriti
CONTENTS
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
ONE
‘Mayday! Mayday! Mayday! Those were the last words uttered by Captain Mishra as he brought the single-engine Beechcraft down on the island’s beach, Rani… but the radio was out and there was no one to hear us… Hey, are you listening to me, girl?’
Gaurav Roy, lying lanky and loose-limbed on his bed, sunk his fingers into Rani’s silky fur and tickled her behind the ears. The beautiful black-and-tan Alsatian stretched out (illegally) beside him whined with pleasure and thumped her tail against his legs. Gaurav stared at the ceiling, his intense black eyes half closed, shaggy eyebrows almost meeting, and brushed back the lock of hair that fell across his eyes and irritated the piss out of his father.
‘So you see, Rani, he got the plane down safely, with the undercarriage lowered, though she slewed and bounced wildly around the beach, flinging sand everywhere as he fought for control. And then, when she finally stopped, Captain Mishra slumped in his seat and died; the heart attack had been fatal. And then it was just you, me, Zara and Mihi on this empty island, with the sea hushing and sighing as the rollers swept in. We staggered out in a daze, Zara carrying Mihi in her arms, you bounding about on the beach like this was a picnic. Little did we know we would be stuck here for the next six months.’
Gaurav closed his eyes and tried imagining being stranded on an uninhabited tropical island with Mihika, Rani and the gorgeous Zara (in a hot red miniskirt and black halter, no less, which her mother had forbidden her to wear) for six months. He sighed. Zara was in Bombay while he was in Delhi, a pompous, lal-batti hick town. It sucked.
‘And then finally, six months later, that fateful evening arrived when we turned the aircraft around so she was facing the length of the beach; she looked pretty good, despite the dings and dents in her fuselage from the landing. We opened and cleaned out her engine – her air intakes had been choked with sand – and checked her flaps and rudder. Then Zara and I walked down the length of the beach checking for rocks on what would be our runway.
‘You see, Rani, it was vital that we took off at the earliest. Mihi was not well and the monsoon was due – we’d never be able to take off once it hit. As it is we had been stranded for six months and there was no reason why we had to stay. We’d seen no ship or boat for months and obviously everyone thought us to be dead and had given up. Besides, we were sick of eating fish and coconuts and drinking coconut water, right?’
There was a perfunctory knock on the bedroom door and Mariamma, his baby sister’s maid, poked her head around it, her crinkled walnut face looking worried.
‘Baba, I have to phone madam,’ she said.
‘Uff!’ he grunted, then waved. ‘Okay, go ahead.’
Gaurav half closed his eyes again. ‘So there we were the next morning, me in the pilot’s seat, Zara beside me with Mihi in her lap and you panting and drooling behind us… Would the engine fire? She did and then we were racing down the beach, the rocks and coconut trees at the far end getting bigger and bigger. And then I pulled the stick back and she lifted off… like this.’ He made a plane with his hand and took off smoothly.
‘“How do you know in which direction to fly?” Zara asked me. “I don’t; if we just fly east we are sure to hit the mainland sooner or later. We’ve got more than half a tank of fuel; I just hope it’s enough. We can land on a road or something.”’
He stroked the dog. ‘We didn’t know it, but it was a Sunday and Derby day in Bombay. Of course, papa and mama had gone – you know how papa loves the races. Besides, they were still trying to get over the loss of us six months ago in the plane crash.’
Gaurav’s eyes gleamed. ‘And you know what happens, Rani? Unknown to us, I’ve set the course dead straight to Bombay. And there we are, just coming over the mosque at Haji Ali, flying at about 200 feet, when the engine begins to sputter and smoke. I have to put her down, and soon. And there ahead of me is Mahalaxmi Race Course, with its flags fluttering and stands jammed… Hey, girl, do you think I’m laying it on a bit thick, too much mayonnaise? Anyway, there’s the race course and I come down lower and circle around it as thousands of faces look up and the horses begin to rear and panic. In the stands, papa trains his binoculars on our little white Beechcraft and his jaw drops open. There are flames jetting out of the engine cowling, and a trail of evil black smoke behind us. All the TV cameras covering the race are now trained on us – we’re being beamed live all over the country, imagine! I line her up and bring… Mariamma – now what?’ He looked up irritably.
This time Mariamma had barged in without knocking, and Rani raised her head and thumped her tail harder. ‘Madam will talk to you,’ she said, handing the phone to Gaurav and wringing her hands.
‘Oh, what’s up? Hi, mom.’
At the other end, his mother cradled the phone to her shoulder and smiled apologetically at the receptionist in the office where she had come to be interviewed.
‘Listen, dear, Mariamma has to go to the hospital right away. Her daughter’s having a baby – twins by the sound of it. I won’t be back home for at least a couple of hours, so you’ll have to babysit Mihika.’
‘I have to babysit? You’ve got to be kidding me! Besides, I have to take Rani out for a walk.’
‘I know, beta, but missing the walk for a day won’t do her any harm.’
‘But you know how Rani sulks. She’ll be heaving and sighing all evening.’
‘I’ll be back as soon as I can. I’ve told Mariamma to feed and change Mihi before she goes. You can push her around in her pram in the balcony; she won’t be any trouble.’
‘What if she starts yelling?’
‘Oh, just lift her up and play with her a bit. Tickle her tummy, blow a raspberry on it – you know how she likes that! Besides, you have Rani to help you.’
That, he knew, was true. The whole family had been rather apprehensive about how the Alsatian would welcome this new – and extremely vocal – member of the family, who would demand and get more attention than she did. Gaurav remembered how he had led the dog into the drawing room, holding her by the collar, just after his father brought his mother and little Mihi home from the hospital. She had pricked up her ears and made eagerly for the crib on the sofa, where the scrawny pink monkey-like thing that was his baby sister lay fast asleep.
‘Good girl, Rani – that’s Mihika; she’s sleeping,’ his mother had said quite calmly, stroking the dog. Rani looked first at her and then at the baby with inquiring eyes; her tail started to wag, and she whined and gently nuzzled the baby. Finally, she settled down next to the sofa, patently on guard. After that, she appointed herself chief guardian of the baby. No one, except family and people she had known all her life, was permitted to come close to little Mihi. The first thing she did every morning was poke her head into the nursery and check on her, before being taken out by Gaurav.
‘Now give the phone to Mariamma,’ his mother said on the phone.
Gaurav did and swung his legs off the bed. ‘Well, Rani, too bad, girl, no walk today.’ He shrugged, as the big two-year-old Alsatian jumped off the bed gracefully and gazed at him. She had the most soulful brown eyes – almost as beautiful as Zara’s, which were black as the night sky and had the glow of obsidian. (When he told her this, she had burst out laughing and asked him what it was, and when he had showed her, ah…) He glanced at his bookshelf, his eyes resting briefly
on a tattered copy of The Fight of the Phoenix by Elleston Trevor, the story that had set him off on his own adventure (sort of Flight of the Phoenix meets Blue Lagoon; he knew Zara would tease him unmercifully if she knew he had been fantasizing like this) with Zara and Mihi and Rani and the Beechcraft. It was an old book about a bunch of men who had crashed in the Libyan Desert and rebuilt their plane. The movie hadn’t impressed him half as much. He sighed – Mihika and Rani were here; Zara was stuck in Bombay with her raucous Parsi ‘popsy’ and dusky Gujarati mom.
About two years ago, when the Roys were posted in Bombay, the Shroffs had advertised: ‘Pedigreed German shepherd pups for sale. Strictly to dog lovers only. For interview, contact…’ Gaurav’s parents had at last agreed to let him have a puppy for his birthday – on the written undertaking that he would be responsible for bathing, feeding and taking the pup out.
He’d made an appointment and landed up outside their rambling grey-stone house at Worli Sea Face. At the far end of the driveway, a dark-blue Mercedes-Benz dating back to the fifties and a classic tail-finned yellow Cadillac gleamed in the sun. There was a ‘Beware of Dogs’ board on the gate, though no sign of any dogs in the garden, nor was there anyone in the watchman’s hut. Must be a millionaire, Gaurav thought. He probably wanted a bomb for the pups. The rather brusque person on the phone had refused to quote a price; but Gaurav knew how much he was allowed to spend. He had just rung the bell outside the gate when the front door of the house was flung open and a huge red-faced man with shaggy eyebrows and a shock of wild silver hair virtually pushed out a couple of rotund sleazy-looking fellows, roaring, ‘You should never be allowed to keep dogs! Buggers! Arre haraamzaade, yeh koi dhanda thori hai! Is this a business? Just be grateful I didn’t set Rambo on you!’
The two scuttled down the driveway and disappeared.
The man glowered at Gaurav. ‘Yes?’ he asked truculently. ‘Now what do you want?’
‘I’ve come about the puppies,’ Gaurav stuttered, suddenly distracted by the girl who had appeared by the man’s side and was now staring at him. She was about his age – maybe sixteen, a head shorter, waif-like, and had a light butter-gold complexion, gigantic black eyes and the sweetest retrousse nose he had ever seen. She looked like she was trying hard not to giggle. Her hair, a cascade of jet-black curls, tumbled around her shoulders. She was wearing a spaghetti-strap black top with a fiery orange dragon emblazoned on the front, and fitted jeans. She was barefoot; her tiny toes glowed with cherry-red nail polish and a pair of silver toe-rings.
‘Err… may I come in?’ Gaurav asked.
Mr Shroff beckoned him with a gnarled finger. ‘Come in. Don’t stand there – I can’t hear you. Now what do you know about dogs, eh?’
‘Popsy,’ the girl piped up, ‘cool it, those awful men have gone.’ She smiled at Gaurav. ‘Hi,’ she said, ‘I’m Zara – come in…’
He followed her through a long dark corridor, full of dark polished furniture and antique clocks, into a large living room crammed with porcelain figurines and brass lamps.
‘You show him the pups, then I’ll talk to him,’ Mr Shroff grumbled, settling down in an armchair.
Zara paused before a door. ‘Wait here, let me see what Queenie is up to.’ She returned in two minutes. ‘Come along; the pups are here. It’s okay, Queenie’s locked in the kitchen.’
There were four fat pups tumbling over each other, and ripping up the newspaper on the floor. To Gaurav’s intense embarrassment, they ignored him and continued with their games.
‘Those three are boys and that’s the only girl,’ Zara pointed out. ‘Those fellows who had come wanted a pair to breed – from the same litter, can you imagine. That’s why papa was so furious.’ The female pup suddenly realized there was a newcomer in the room. She trundled over, looked up at Gaurav curiously, and promptly curled up between his feet and fell asleep.
‘I’ll take her,’ he said automatically. He didn’t dare pick her up for fear of unsettling her. Zara smiled – she had nice lips and even teeth – and bent down and picked up the pup, giving him the first heady whiff of her freshly shampooed curls. As well as his first tantalizing glimpse of the most wondrous breasts in the world, from which he quickly averted his gaze.
‘Here,’ she said, straightening up and handing over the squirming pup. That was the first time their hands touched.
‘You’re beautiful,’ Gaurav murmured, staring at the pup, and then his ears caught fire. Zara arched her eyebrows. ‘I meant the pup… But… but… of course… you… I mean…’ he stammered.
She burst out laughing. ‘It’s okay,’ she said easily. ‘I don’t mind! Now come on, you’ll have to talk to popsy before he lets you take her. He’s very particular.’
‘Umm… we’ve never had a puppy before, so can you give me some tips?’
‘Well, she’s six weeks old, she’ll have six feeds a day – I’ve got a printout of all the stuff you’ll need and will have to do: her medication and so on. Also, you’ll have to take her to the vet to get vaccinated.’
The ‘interview’ with Mr Shroff wasn’t half as bad as Gaurav had feared (‘Where do you live? How do you propose exercising her? Who will take her for walks? Will you get her professionally trained? I know a very good trainer and all German shepherds must be trained!’), though he was hopelessly distracted by the puppy in his arms.
‘Okay, you can have her,’ Mr Shroff said at last, squinting at the cheque that Gaurav’s mother had signed. ‘We’ll send you her papers as soon as we get them from the Kennel Club. She’s got a great bloodline. No health issues, strong bones. You have a champion here. Look after her well, or I’ll set her father on you!’ And he went back to his paper.
‘Come, I’ll show you her parents,’ Zara said, lightly guiding Gaurav by the elbow.
He peered at the dogs through the kitchen porthole. They were absolutely huge and beautiful, pacing about like lions – they knew something was up. ‘God,’ Gaurav said, ‘they’re like Siberian wolves! They look like they’ll eat me alive!’
‘Something like that,’ Zara said happily; she’d come up to him again and was stroking the puppy in his arms, making cooing sounds. He couldn’t wait to take the little thing home but he didn’t want to take his eyes off this vision from heaven either.
Just then Zara’s mother waddled up to them – a plump lady with a circular face, whose eyes and complexion were just like Zara’s. ‘Please look after her well,’ she said, tears glimmering in her eyes. ‘She was my favourite.’
He nodded. ‘Yes, ma’am, I will. I promise.’
‘You can call Zara if you have a problem,’ Mr Shroff told him as Gaurav took his leave. ‘She knows everything.’
Zara saw him to the door. To his surprise, he noticed that she too was wiping away tears. ‘Sorry, I can’t help it. Now there are only three left, and they’ll be gone in a couple of days. I’m going to miss them.’
‘You can come over any time to see her,’ Gaurav offered, his heart pounding wildly. ‘Any time you like!’ Yeah, right, he thought bitterly; she probably spent all her time dancing in nightclubs and pubs with boyfriends who drove Porsches.
‘What are you going to call her?’ Zara asked, taking the pup from him and cradling her.
‘Since her mother is Queenie, I think I’ll call her Rani,’ he replied, deciding on the spot.
‘That’s a lovely name.’ She handed over the pup and looked at Gaurav. ‘How are you going to take her home?’
‘The car’s waiting outside.’
‘I’ll see you off’.’
Two days later, Gaurav called Zara desperately, convinced that there was something terribly wrong with the pup.
‘I don’t know what’s wrong with Rani – she pees about twenty times a day. Is that normal? I’m going nuts taking her outside all the time. Are you sure she doesn’t have a kidney problem or something?’
At the other end, Zara giggled. ‘Gaurav, this is normal. She’s a little puppy with a very small and excitable
bladder…’
‘Oh, thanks. I was so worried.’
‘How’s she doing, otherwise? I’m missing her terribly. All the pups have gone.’
‘She’s fine. Listen… would… would you like to come over and see her?’
That’s how it had begun. Gaurav called Zara practically every day to ask the silliest questions or simply tell her how Rani was doing and about her latest escapade. Zara came over to his place every weekend, to play with the pup and take her for walks with him.
She wanted to be an architect, she said. Sometimes they stopped before a block of flats and she animatedly pointed out what she thought was right or wrong with the building and why.
‘How about you?’ she asked as Gaurav stared, enchanted, at her bouncing curls. ‘What do you want to do?’
‘I like drawing. I’m pretty hopeless at everything else. I like drawing caricatures. I’ll probably do commercial art or something like that; I don’t know.’
‘So no flying planes like your dad?’
‘My mathematical abilities or lack thereof won’t let me.’
‘Have you drawn Rani?’
‘Yes.’ He had shown her his sketches; hilarious ones of the puppy playing, sleeping, sulking and running.
‘They’re really wacky!’ Zara crinkled her eyes suspiciously. ‘Have you done caricatures of me?’
‘You?’ Of course he had drawn her – from memory – but he wasn’t about to admit that just yet, let alone show them to her. ‘You haven’t posed for me.’
‘Oh.’ For a moment she held his gaze and then looked at Rani who was tugging away at her leash.
It was a shy, diffident friendship that developed between the two. Occasionally their fingers brushed as they walked beside the sea or her curls touched his cheek as they bent down together to remove a tick from Rani’s fur.
One Saturday afternoon, they were on their way back from the vet’s and were walking past Gaurav’s building when a pair of bronze-limbed girls in bikinis emerged from the dressing room of the swimming pool in the compound. Gaurav nudged Zara and let out a low whistle.
