Miss La Di Da and Other Stories

by Shobhaa De

  I desperately needed a little neighbourly help - but this woman was just so uncooperative. Granted, I was looking a bit scruffy these days… my hair was a shaggy shoulder length jungle cut without any styling or grooming products to control it. I had a cute stubble - or so I thought. And my limited wardrobe here at my parent’s home didn’t go beyond shorts and ganjis. But I had great legs - so why hide an asset? I had noticed her noticing them, when we met at the food truck that arrived at the gate every second day. I wanted to tell her the vendor did have far more interesting snacks than banana chips… but it was none of my business. Maybe her girls were addicted to banana chips. Weird!

  Something was a little odd in that set up, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. The husband was polite and ‘normal’. She was definitely a little off. The girls were so spontaneous and sweet. While I sipped the beer I didn’t really want, the girls asked whether they could come over and play with our cats later. We had three beautiful cats and the old folks loved to show them off. I looked around their home searching for clues… I was not getting something. What was that ‘something’? I thought of my parent’s home, and my own apartment - both places were neat and welcoming. This place was. . . I don’t know how to put it… but it lacked something. Something major. And the husband’s behaviour while being civil, was guarded and far from relaxed. Sterile and soulless - this house. Maybe their lives too. Except for the girls, who were natural and bouncy little things. Thank God my only child was a boy! What would I have done with a little girl? I’d seen the behaviour of these two over the past few weeks. Man… I would have messed up big time had I been stuck with a daughter!

  When the girls came over to meet the cats, my mother was nervous. So was my father - even more nervous. The girls were wearing masks and gloves and their nanny, too was well-protected. They had followed the protocol, sanitized their hands and were making sure to stay six feet away from us. Despite these precautions, my mother called me to the other room, next to the living room, and whispered, ‘These kids could be carriers… remember, we are very vulnerable, your father and I. Do you want us to get infected and die?’

  I was a bit surprised to hear her speak like this. It was out of character. Besides, my baba was so thrilled to have company, and the nannies were busy having their own party in the kitchen. Seeing that the old folks were getting jittery, I told the children to play in the porch. Maybe that was a huge mistake - now when I look back at what happened next.

  There we were, the bachchas and I, playing bat-ball in the narrow road, in front of the row of garages where our cars were generally parked. The security guards were relaxing on plastic chairs on either side, with checked handkerchiefs covering half their faces. All of a sudden, I spotted a biker turning in - one of the residents who had stepped out to get essentials. Nobody had noticed a small pool of oil on the rough ground, left by a car that had moved out of the garage for the first time in three months. Frankly, I am not at all sure - everything happened so swiftly. The biker slipped and swerved as his motorcycle skidded and came sliding to where I was playing with the three kids.

  I reacted swiftly - thank God! And hurled myself in front of the machine that was inches away from the three bachchas. The rider was flung off and I saw his helmet flying as if in slo-mo. All I know is, the bike fell over my left leg while I shoved the kids away with my right arm, using as much force as my squash toned biceps could muster. I heard the three of them scream… as the nannies came running out of the kitchen, their mouths full of food and Mummyji shouted for help as loudly as she could, given her frail health and the state of her lungs. The old man also hobbled out of his arm chair, forgetting his arthritis momentarily and called the watchmen on duty, gesturing to get me out from under that still purring, burning hot Royal Enfield. The rider was limping up to see if we were okay. My sweet little baba was jumping up and down in excitement and clapping wildly, along with the girls.

  Miss La Di Da rushed out at that precise moment, her abs gleaming and on full display in a cute crop top after a hard yoga session. She had forgotten to wear her mask in her hurry. Her mouth was luscious. It was the first time I was seeing it. Even in that condition, when I didn’t know whether or not my bones were broken, I wanted to tell her she looked hotter than Malaika. I think I gasped - not sure - but I definitely reacted like a moron. Miss La Di Da did not gasp. Nor did she smile. But her eyes softened momentarily. I noticed she did not rush to gather her girls and flounce off. She stayed. I grinned and said ‘Hey!’ She said ‘Hey!’ back. I knew home schooling was going to be fun from tomorrow.

  IN MALIBU MANSIONS

  I didn’t want Shuklaji’s ‘blessings’… you know what I mean? After all, what had I accomplished? Nothing all that remarkable. I hadn’t put my life on the line or anything. Nor had I ‘compromised’ the job I no longer had! All I had done is what I thought was the right thing at the time. It was an unplanned, spontaneous decision. By standing up for Shuklaji - the ‘go to’ guy in our sprawling building complex - I had stood up to pettiness. That’s it. I am not sure the other mute residents standing around felt ashamed of their own indifference. I didn’t see anybody cringe. At least, there was no visible evidence of that.

  Shuklaji had been working at ‘Malibu Mansions’ for as long as the oldest residents could remember. We were a part of the ‘original residents’, my husband Sajjid and I. These days, most of the young couples were ‘rented people’, as they were scornfully referred to by seniors. Which meant, they rented the apartments and nobody knew their antecedents. Nor did anybody care. They rented. They stayed for a couple of years. They moved on. Shuklaji was the one constant in our frenzied lives. A man with no known ‘job description’, but a man who did all the jobs - from plumbing, to carpentry to operating the lifts, to fixing fuses. Shuklaji was the one stop man all of us could count on during emergencies, big and small. He was so nondescript in his appearance, if you ask me even now to tell you what he looks like, I’d be scratching my head and wondering - he could be short, or of medium height or tall - God knows! Most of us had never ‘seen’ Shuklaji. You know how it is. . . We only see important people. And our family, our friends. Those who work for us, even in our homes, are often invisible. Just blurred shapes and blobs we dont pay attention to. Vague forms with voices. That’s it - he was just there! He existed! And thank heavens for that great blessing.

  If you ask me what exactly he did in our residential complex, I’d be blank. Shuklaji does everything! He has no designation, no uniform, no official duties. Maybe his salary is paid by all of us who live in ‘Malibu Mansions’, but I am not sure even about that. He lives in someone’s vacant garage. That’s all I know. Which is why we had Shuklaji’s services during the lockdown when no outside services were permitted. I don't even know how much Shuklaji earns.

  I asked my husband the other day, but Sajjid dismissed me with a wave of his hand saying, ‘Why do you want to know? You are not paying him out of your pocket, right? You stick to your work.’ Work! Ha! What work? I had recently lost my high profile, well paid media job as a news anchor. Sacked! Yup. Just like that… after putting in 22 years with the same company. It didn’t make me feel any better that so many of my colleagues and contemporaries had also been given the boot. One call from HRD… one short email… boom! It was over.

  A much junior reporter had been promoted overnight to headline the show that had my signature all over it. Yes, she was very attractive. She would do well in my old slot. I heard through the office grapevine that Ms. Upstart had taken a 70per cent salary cut to bag the vacated slot. I thought to myself, I am not that desperate. Let them pay her peanuts, and train a new monkey. I was so done.

  It was on that very morning of the unceremonious sacking that Shuklaji had been summoned to our flat on the fourteenth floor to check our clogged plumbing. The flush in the master bedroom was not working. And that can be so traumatic, right? Sajjid told Shuklaji to ‘fix the problem’. I didn’t like Sajjid’s bossy tone and told him so, whe
n Shuklaji was busy checking some defective valve in the loo.

  Sajjid looked up from his Apple and said, ‘Oh… so, you don’t like my tone? You think I spoke rudely to that man? Why don’t you make it up to him, then? Make him a cup of chai, give him a big slice of that salty cake you baked…’

  I somehow managed to halt my angry words and angry tears. You know why? I stopped myself in the nick of time. Just as I was about to explode and yell back at Sajjid, Shuklaji came out of the bathroom, with a look of triumph on his weather beaten face. ‘That man’ whose name my husband knew very well, but refused to use, had fixed the flush. Our shit was not going to float up and upset us after all!

  I went into the bedroom to find my handbag. I knew Sajjid would not bother to get up and give him a tip. He’d say, ‘What tip? That man is just doing his job! Does anybody tip you for yours? Do I get a tip for mine?’ That three letter word - J-O-B - had started to gnaw at my insides. I could think of nothing else! And ever since that cold, nasty call from that bitch in HRD, Sajjid had taken to throwing it at me non- stop - I thought it was most cruel and insensitive of him. Funnily enough, minutes before I got my marching orders, I had requested Shuklaji to come and help me fix the washing machine. With no dhobi, no laundry, no staff… and now the prospect of a conked-out washing machine! All this - and no job! Why was I being tested in such a harsh way?

  When I heard the doorbell, I was still absorbing the shock of being unemployed, and I didn’t hear it ring. Sajjid bellowed from his desk, which was a few feet from the front door, ‘Rehana… get the door! What’s wrong with you? Gone deaf or what?’ I wanted to yell and scream and cry and beat my chest. I wanted to fling a vase filled with ferns at Sajjid’s big head. I wanted to attack his face with scissors and blades and knives. I wanted to draw blood.

  I had tears streaming down my cheeks, which I’d forgotten to wipe with my dupatta, when I opened the door for Shuklaji. He must have noticed. He said nothing. He paused. And he paused some more. As if allowing me a little time to compose myself. He kept his eyes lowered and pretended to fix the sanitizer stand at our entrance. Sajjid hollered, ‘Rehana! Get that man to fix the washing machine fast… we are soon going to run out of fresh underwear and clean sheets. I have used the same towel four days running… please, pay attention to priorities. I am dealing with some fucked up delivery issues.’

  Shuklaji indicated with his eyes shutting and closing rapidly, and his head cocked to one side that it was okay… such things happened in all families … and that I should not feel bad if he had witnessed something harsh and horrible… a husband-wife tiff. I was filled with gratitude and wanted to express it in some form. A generous tip was all I could think of… I was not the only one financially hit by the lockdown. Surely, Shuklaji had his own money worries and problems.

  Sajjid yelled again. ‘Rehana put on your mask and gloves… that man is going to be in the house. God knows where he has come from… stop being so careless.’ Once again, Shuklaji and I had a brief, wordless exchange. Our eyes meeting in perfect understanding.

  Then, came the suicide.

  Imagine! A young woman allegedly jumped from the 20th floor of ‘Malibu Mansions’ and died instantly. Shuklaji was the one who found her body lying in the car park. He was also the last person to have interacted with her a couple of hours before she took her life. Sara had summoned Shuklaji to complain of a water leakage problem in her small balcony where she kept her potted plants. The same balcony she had supposedly leapt out of.

  Sara lived alone. She was one of the ‘rented people’. Sara’s world had collapsed during the lockdown. Without restaurants to review and chefs to skewer, what influence did a food influencer have? Besides, posting pictures of lavish feasts had become such a no no! Only insensitive idiots were merrily displaying images of laden tables groaning under gourmet fare. Sara had become redundant overnight. Her job description no longer existed during these bleak Covid times. But then who knows what the triggers were… does anybody ever know? Sara was gone. Poof! Gone!

  When the police arrived, it was Shuklaji they wanted to interrogate first. Sara stayed in a compact apartment in the adjoining tower. Ours was the sort of impersonal building society in which nobody interacted or made friends. Nothing much was known about Sara except that she was a popular food blogger and influencer. Sara used to be featured regularly in the media for being the It Girl of Eating Out. It was said she could make or break restaurants and chefs with a single post. Attractive, successful and always in a tearing hurry, I used to run into her at the gym downstairs and exchange high fives. That was it!

  I watched from our balcony as an ambulance drove in. The police were at it, questioning Shuklaji relentlessly. And he was answering calmly, given his inherent dignity. Sajjid joined me in the balcony and stared glumly at the small crowd that had gathered around the police van and ambulance. Social distancing had been temporarily forgotten, as I watched some of our neighbours crowding around, adding to the chaos.

  I decided to go downstairs and find out what was going on. Sajjid shouted out, ‘Rehana don’t get involved, okay? It is none of our business! We didn’t even know that woman.’ Again those deeply insulting terms - ‘that woman’, ‘that man’. I ignored Sajjid, pulled on my mask, wrapped a dupatta around my shoulders and waited for the elevator.

  As I walked towards the crowd, Shuklaji saw me approaching and greeted me with his usual ‘namastey’. When I reached him I noticed tears in his eyes. Tears! In Shuklaji’s eyes! But why?

  ‘Madam… do you know this man?’ the investigating officer asked brusquely.

  ‘Of course, I know Shuklaji. He has been working here for years and years,’ I said.

  ‘We need to question him… he was the last person to see Miss Sara alive. And he was also the first one to discover her body.’

  I removed my face mask briefly, to allow the officer to see my face clearly. His hands shot to his forehead, as he ‘salaamed’ me and said, ‘Sorry madam… I didn’t recognise you with the mask on. Madamji, please understand, we are only doing our job.’

  I told him I was ready to sign whatever statement he required about Shuklaji, and vouch for his character. The cop said, ‘Thank you, madam. I asked the other residents, including Miss Sara’s next door neighbour. They all said the same thing, “We don’t want to get into this police lafda. It could be a rape-murder chakkar… these days, you never know… people are desperate… there is so much danger… best not to let any unknown person enter the house”.’

  Unknown person? Shuklaji? Was he ‘unknown’? I looked at Shuklaji… once again we fell back on the language of the eyes we both understood so well.

  He stuttered, ‘Bas… aapki dua, Madamji… aur kuch nahi chahiye.’ Nobody likes lafdas. Even I hate lafdas. But this lafda involved Shuklaji. And I was prepared to fib that I was still working as an anchor for the television channel that had fired me. I would deal with Sajjid later.

  Shobhaa De is a widely read author and columnist. She is known for her outspoken, irreverent views, making her one of India’s most respected opinion shapers. Her writings have consistently chronicled her deeply felt socio-political-cultural concerns.

  First published in India by Simon & Schuster India, 2020

  A Viacom CBS company

  Copyright © Shobhaa Dé, 2020

  Cover Image Credits: Anandita Dé

  The right of Shobhaa Dé to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with Section 57 of the Copyright Act 1957.

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