by Gabbar Singh
And when he didn’t see the boy at the dhabathe next day, he was buoyant. But when the store-owner grumbled about a boy running to the city with two months’ worth salary without working for even a week, Mr. Dopyaza lost to the city again.
Cities have always stolen from him. But he knew it weren’t those tall buildings and levelled roads. It was the greed. It was the weakness of his bonds. But somewhere in the crevices of his worn and weary memory, he remembered her. Gudiya. Those cream crackers they had shared on the front porch. Her frail fingers separated the cracker to get to the cream. Leaning back in his basket chair, he would peer out at the street. The little girl rested her head on the limb of the chair, crumbs in her handkerchief. The silence would wrap around them like a blanket. She would call him Chacha.An endearing preface, before she went on to describe the argu- ments in her house. How the doors would bang as if jumping out of their hinges. How the silence was consumed by whispered obscenities.
And Mr. Dopyaza had plenty of what she needed. Silence. An unspoken promise was what they had. That at the rise of dusk, when the people returned home they would return to each other and find solace in the quiet. And one day, when evening descended upon the town, Mr. Dopy- aza waited alone. A platter of biscuits on his lap. The empty house two streets down spoke volumes. And after that, nobody saw Mr. Dopyaza unless summoned.
After all these years of solitude, Mr. Dopyaza felt exhausted remember - ing those moments of unbridled companionship. And he didn’t know who could have sent the letter. In his deliberations, he couldn’t open the letter. Hadn’t touched it even. Hadn’t realized that the stars were peek- ing through the window, their eyes glittering with sorrow. Savita came in again to cook dinner.
“Sahib, you didn’t eat lunch?”
Mr. Dopyaza looked at the old woman and wondered how time passed by when one was stuck. He didn’t say anything.
“Sahib, are you all right?” Savita asked as she came inside his chamber. “I just don’t feel like eating.” He looked at his palms, wet with nervous- ness.
“Why , Sahib?” Savita came closer. Her eyes fell on the envelope. “The letter, Sahib. Is it worrying you?” Savita picked it off the table. “Sa- hib, don’t you want to know what is inside?”
The old man stared helplessly at Savita. “I’m scared to harbour too much hope. It has always crushed me.” His eyes glazed over, the hollows under them edging out.
“How would you know if you don’t take the leap?” With trembling hands, she tore open the envelope and took out the let - ter. Keeping it on his lap, her fingers trembled. Fisting them together, she walked out of the room.
Mr. Dopyaza looked at the letter, folded neatly. His trembling hands opened it. It was addressed to him.
So it was for him after all. He didn’t know how he would have felt if it wasn’t for him. Relief, devastation? He would never know.
And so, he took the leap. Savita was dicing the onion as she heard Mr. Dopyaza coming through the door. She dragged her folding chair and laid it out for him. “You know, I have a grandson.” Mr. Dopyaza stared dreamily into space. “Not my blood though.”
Savita looked at the stove where the water was boiling. “She was a girl who shared biscuits with me in the evening to escape the fighting and the shouting in her house. I wanted to escape the silence, and she the noise. Then suddenly, she disappeared. Her parents changed towns, or so I heard. The city has maddened many, destroyed many”.
“Her parents married her off before she could finish her studies. Her husband drove her out of the slums, unaware of the bud in her womb. And she watered the blossoming plant, remaining thirsty herself. She la- boured till she couldn’t help but collapsed so that her son could have the life he deserved. The little boy grew up to be a great young man who, when he heard of his mother’s life, wanted to change it, who wished to let her mother meet a man she considered her father.”
Taking a deep breath, he continued. “He came to meet me a few weeks ago.”
Savita wished that Sahib understood that the onion had gotten her eyes red, that the tears were due to the chopped pink vegetable on the platter. “I always thought where my lovely companion would be. Who was the blossom in my winter, the daughter I never had?”
Savita couldn’t hold the knife much longer. Her sobs filled in the si- lence.
“You never told me you brought the letter, Gudiya.”
10. The Girl Who Owned Castles
Giribala Joshi
Instead of collapsing on her bed after a long gruelling day, Manika was either emoting in front of a mirror, admiring how even her sad, scared, or scary face looked pretty; or was pirouetting in a tiny space which she had made by kicking shoes, bags and boxes under the bed. “I am going to be the queen bee,” she shouted, and felt an urge to declare it to the world on Twitter and Facebook, but refrained. It was too soon. All Manika had wanted in life was to become a film star, and today on the sets of BKBA, she had been offered a lead role by Dheeraj Rajawat, a filmmaker. Of course, it was for a Rajasthani film, but for Manika, who was only two fleeting roles old, it was a big leap towards stardom. Manika loved the story that Dheeraj had narrated. She liked him as well. Not only did he come across as a resourceful person, but also a complete gentleman. How she wished she had a boyfriend like Dheeraj, someone considerate, who would not be jealous, but genuinely happy for her successes.
It was 3:35 a.m. Manika badly needed someone to talk to. She fiddled with her phone and then dialled the number of Nidhi, her friend since childhood.
*** Nidhi panicked owing to the untimely call. She grabbed her phone and rushed out of the bedroom, leaving her grumbling husband and whining daughter behind.
“Is everything alright?” she asked. “Oh Nidhi, I got an awesome offer, a lead role, today. Pretty soon your friend is going to be a star. Love you, darling. Muah… “ “You brainless bimbo, don’t you have any sense of time? I hate you. Go to sleep now. We will talk about it tomorrow in detail. By the way, what is it about? Tell me, no.”
“It’s a Rajasthani movie. The filmmaker is also a struggler, but he says that together we can make it big. He has everything figured out and was looking for a female lead. Oh, and also, he is from Kota. He used to run a coaching institute there and has made a lot of money. Now he wants to explore his creative side.”
“Beware of casting couches, darling. I hope he is not the type to exploit vulnerable girls. Don’t you sleep with him, okay?”
“Aye, he is not like that. He has a very devoted girlfriend, his business partner. Don’t worry, I am safe.”
“Thank God he is not married. Married men are more dangerous. Did you tell him about your castles in Nepal?” “Of course I did, and about my royal connection as well.” ***
“Was that Manika?” asked Nidhi’s husband as he sensed her return.
“Yeah, it was her. She’s got a very good movie offer.”
“She is good for nothing. The slut might get minor roles if she keeps obliging the right men at the right time.” Bitch, he thought, would sleep around with anyone for her career, but when she had come to live with them, wouldn’t let him touch her. Once she even hit him hard on his ribs with her knuckles, and he was just be- ing affectionate! He went back to sleep with his hand sliding over Nidhi’s body while imagining Manika’s curves.
*** Nidhi, after a while, removed her husband’s hand off her body. He would become extremely effusive in front of Manika, and then call her names behind her back. Finally, she had had to ask Manika to look for another place to live.
Nidhi cared for Manika like an elder sister would, even though they were of the same age and friends since kindergarten. The girl had a tendency to get into trouble. She would often lie to her family and friends and then seek Nidhi’s help in covering her tracks. When they were eight, they made a pact that they would secretly remain best friends even if they found other best friends. Nidhi was a nerd who topped her class and also tutored Manika – let her copy her homework – while the latter w
ould devote all her time to extracurricular activities.
Manika was tall and slender, the kind who can carry themselves in style even if clothed in rags. Nidhi remembered her laughter--a sweet sound that stood out amidst the cacophony of the classroom. When they went out together, Manika was the one who did all the talking.
Manika’s family had migrated from Nepal. Her dad was the canteen man - ager at their school. As a result, Manika and her siblings got concession in tuition fees and got to study at one of the the most expensive schools in town. Her mother worked as a beautician. A bossy lady, she was al- ways seen around a bunch of young men or boys running errands for her. Her well-groomed daughters gave the conservative neighbourhood enough fodder for their lazy evening gossip. Eventually, except for the eldest daughter and Manika, four of her daughters married boys of their own choice, each creating ripples in the stagnant water of their neigh- bourhood.
Once a while, Manika’s family would visit Nepal, their home country. On their return, Manika would elaborately describe to all her friends, details of her maternal uncle’s castles, which Manika said she would eventually inherit because her uncle was childless and she being his favourite niece.
Sometimes Manika’s tales involved sexual escapades. One friend was so scandalized with Manika’s stories of physical intimacy that she started to nag her boyfriend to do something, anything. They made even Nidhi envious. Long after the phone call, Nidhi remained awake reminiscing about her school days. Her reverie was broken, when daylight crept in through the window curtains. She got up to begin her morning chores. In the kitchen, she couldn’t find a clean pan to make tea. Not only the dishes, but the whole apartment was a dirtbag. This, even after excelling at school and at university. It’s good, she thought, that Manika was enjoy- ing her life. She rinsed a pan and put it on the stove for tea. In a while her husband arrived.
“So what has Manika bagged? A Yash Raj or a Karan Johar film?” he asked.
“You don’t need to worry about her.” ***
Dheeraj woke up after a strange dream. He was already sweating when the fan spluttered and died. He looked at Rinki who was spread over the bed like a lumpy sack of potatoes. Last night he had only to mention how expensive her spa visits were and she she had flown into a rage, throw- ing things around. Day after day, her outbursts were getting worse. She had become highly insecure and was keeping tabs on all his activities. He longed for the good old days. He missed his wife and children, but there was no going back. How could I have left my family and the coaching institute for this termagant? She must have done some black magic on me. He was now scared. He knew Rinki would kill him if she got even a whiff of his thoughts.
Back in Kota, she had been a teacher at his LLB coaching institute; both of them were graduates of law. For a while, he had had a good time with Rinki without any problem at home. But somehow his wife had found out about his relationship and started making a scene. Unable to cope with her harangues, one day he left Kota along with Rinki to pursue his dream of becoming a Bollywood star in Mumbai. Rinki also wanted to be an actor. However, she had put on so much weight of late that he thought no one would cast her even in the role of a buffalo.
Now he was the only one who was bringing home an income, a meager one though, by doing minor roles. They were barely able to scrape a living. To get out of the rut, they had decided to makefilms. They were going to begin with a Rajasthani movie, as Dheeraj had a friend who was in that business for many years.
Dheeraj and Rinki were on the lookout for fresh faces with deep pock - ets to cast in their movie. It was Dheeraj’s keen eye that spotted a rich Nepali girl, Manika Shah, on the sets of Badaun Ki Bhatakti Atmayein. Dheeraj played a news reporter in the movie. He thought it would take a lot of convincing to rope in Manika, but to his surprise, she jumped at the proposition. Dheeraj and Rinki offered to take Manika to meet their director-friend in Kota, where they planned to persuade the rich girl to invest in their movie. They were sure she would happily go along with their plan.
*** Rinki kept all the money stashed away from Dheeraj. She did not trust him. If he got hold of the money, she was almost certain he would run away to his family. They had collected 53,000 rupees from a bunch of aspiring actors. It was this money that funded their trip to Kota.
In Kota, they took refuge in Rinki’s dad’s house, who was away on work. Other than the dust and the foul smell of the stuffy house, it had all facilities.
The morning following their arrival, Dheeraj took both of them to meet his friend, Ralhan. Rinki was dressed conservatively in a salwar-kameez, afraid that she might run into some acquaintance. Manika, on the other hand, was dressed in tights and a low-cut top, towering over them all in high heels.
They met Ralhan at his home office. An air cooler buzzed from a win - dow, fluttering Ralhan’s carefully styled hennaed hair. His paan-stained teeth flashed as he spoke. Rinki did not like him at all, but put up with him. Ralhan explained the nitty-gritties of filmmaking in his high-pitched voice and gave rough estimates of expenses and returns from a lowbudget Rajasthani movie. Manika seemed impressed. Rinky and Dheeraj had not broached the topic of financing with Manika until now.
After meeting the director, they went for lunch in a restaurant, chosen intentionally by Dheeraj. Rinki was a tad jealous at the way Dheeraj treat- ed the young girl. Last night, she had warned him to keep away from Manika, and he hadn’t even reassured her like he used to earlier. Maybe, he will stop being such an ass once they squeeze the money out of her, thought Rinki.
As soon as they were seated, Manika excused herself to go to the wash- room.
“When are you going to ask her for money?” Rinki scowled at Dheeraj. “Let’s get home. What’s the hurry?” Soft instrumental music played in the background, transporting Rinki to the old days when Dheeraj would take her out for dinner, ditching his home-food, after which they would go to her place to act out their daylong, pent-up passion. He had changed so much. Rinki let out a sigh, but immediately regained her posture.
Manika was back, all decked up, with retouched makeup and perfume. As if she were required to shoot, thought Rinki. They ordered food. Rinki could not help but eye Manika’s expensive accessories.
“This is an old Gucci,” said Manika, extending her wrist towards Rinki. “A gift from Uncle. He still wants me to marry some royal hunk and settle down in Nepal. He says, ‘Why do you have to work when you’ve got everything?’ But you know, it’s my hobby, and I would go crazy if I didn’t work. I don’t want to be famous for being famous, you know, like Paris Hilton.”
“You are so lucky,” said Rinki. “We will definitely film our next movie in one of your castles.”
“That would be awesome,” said Manika with a chuckle.
They reached home at around 4 o’clock in the afternoon. Rinki led them in. Manika rushed to her room upstairs.
“Don’t beat about the bush. Dheeraj, are you even listening?” Rinki muf- fled her voice when she saw Manika climb down the stairs.
“Manika,” Dheeraj said with a broad smile, “we want to discuss the fi- nances with you.”
“Sure, I won’t charge you much. You know this movie is, in a way, special to me.” Rinki was excited. She was imagining the day when they would film the muhuratshot of their movie. As a producer she would shoulder a lot of responsibilities and prove her mettle to gossipmongers and naysayers.
“We also want you to be a partner in our production. We are banking on you to fund half the budget.”
“Excuse me, where did this come from?” Manika tried to laugh away the proposition.
“It is our film. We thought it was understood when you agreed to do the movie.” Manika took a deep breath. Her smile vanished and her eyebrows curled. “I am sorry, I did not agree to fund the movie. Besides I don’t have that kind of money.”
“You may borrow from your parents,” suggested Rinki. “Not possible. My mom is a miser and I am not on good terms with them.” “How about your uncle?” asked Rin
ki. “He is an eccentric. He won’t agree either.”
There was an awkward silence. Manika’s replies were unexpected. Rinki, though slightly upset, was still hopeful. Dheeraj sat there as if it was none of his business. Coward, thought Rinki, he was not even trying. Now she had to act tough to get her talking.
“They will agree,” said Rinki with confidence. “Tell your parents that you have been kidnapped and ask them to deposit 25 lakhs rupees in your account.”
“I can’t do that.” “Take your time and think about it, dear. I am going to make tea. What you can or cannot do, we will decide after that,” so saying, Rinki moved towards the kitchen. Not finding tea there, she proceeded to the adjacent storeroom, contemplating on ways to persuade Manika. Her otherwise nimble mind was short of any ideas, until she unbolted the storeroom’s door. Right in front of her lay a piece of rope and a roll of niwar, cotton webbing. It didn’t take her long to come up with the master plan.
Rinki clanked utensils together to mimic the sound of making tea. She observed Manika from the corner of her eye. Maharani, thought Rinki, sitting there as if she had already become a superstar, and she, her atten- dant. Rinki called Dheeraj to help her and gave him the niwar. Fiddling with the rope, she said, “Let’s tie her up and then make her call her par- ents.” After the initial feeble attempts at resistance, Dheeraj gave in.
They proceeded to the drawing room, without a trace of having just cooked up a conspiracy. As soon as they were sufficiently near her, Dheeraj started to tie Manika to her chair with an unexpected swiftness. Manika didn’t shout or struggle, only shuffled a bit. It seemed as if she didn’t have the strength to resist: she was so slight and fragile. When Dheeraj reached the end of the niwar roll, he tied the ends together. Rinki then gave him the rope to tie her hands. Manika’s forearms looked like spatula handles.
