by Farahad Zama
To his surprise, Ricky found out that Shaan had gone to a college in London and now worked for a small non-governmental charity connected to Aids-related projects.
“But you can easily get a much higher-paying job in a multinational company,” Ricky said.
Shaan shrugged. “I am very open about liking men rather than women,” he said. “My employer is a European charity and they don’t let my preference in partners override everything else about me.”
Ricky had always hidden his sexuality. His teenage years had been a secret torment while he tried to figure out why he couldn’t understand, really truly understand, his friends’ motivations when it came to girls. It had taken him a long time to admit to himself that he was gay. He had, of course, told nobody about it and frequently used humour to deflect any suspicion. He was sure that his family did not know, because they were constantly pestering him to get married.
“What do your parents say?” he asked.
“My mother still keeps in touch,” Shaan said. “My father…” He shrugged.
“It must have taken guts to face up to them.”
Shaan shrugged. “Be brave, be true. That’s my motto. I am what I am. What’s the point of hiding it?”
Before Ricky could reply, Rambo came rushing over. “Run,” he said. “Police raid.”
As Rambo disappeared into the gloom, Shaan jumped up, grabbing Ricky’s hand. “Come on, let’s go.”
He led Ricky away from the Gateway of India towards some construction material lying on the side of the road, guiding him between a stack of bricks and a mound of sand. They crouched behind a row of black drums that had once held tar but were now empty. Behind them lay the sea. No escape that way; they would just have to stay hidden until the police left. Whistles sounded and bright pinpricks of light flashed about, carried by unseen hands. There was a lot of confusion as people ran in all directions.
“Surround the area,” came a loud voice of authority. “Don’t let any queers escape.”
Another voice, “I’ve got a couple here. Help me.”
Ricky’s heart started thudding. Would he be found and arrested? What would happen if a journalist got hold of the news? How would he face his colleagues? He might lose his job!
The noises continued in the dark. “I’ve got another one. Who’s got the handcuffs? Aargh! The fairy’s scratched me. Take that, you b – ”
Biff…Thud…
Ricky closed his eyes and buried his head in his arms. What a stupid drama to get involved in.
Shaan reached out and gripped his arm. “It’s OK,” he said. “Relax.”
Ricky shook his head. “I have a bad feeling about this.”
“They won’t find us here. We are past their cordon,” said Shaan.
Ricky hoped so and looked up again as the action unfolded. The confusion seemed to be resolving itself. Groups of men were dragged to one spot by police constables and made to sit on the dusty ground with their hands on their heads. A van with barricaded windows was driven close and its lights were switched on, illuminating the scene. One of the policemen was rubbing his arm and cuffed his prisoner, before shoving him roughly into the huddle of captives. Ricky saw that the prisoner was Manek, the Queen, looking ragged. His make-up was smeared and his hair hung wildly around his face. He couldn’t see Rambo among the prisoners.
A stray dog with pendulous teats strolled up to Ricky and Shaan, baring her teeth in a snarl. That’s all we need, thought Ricky. They were probably infringing on its territory. Ricky waved at it to go away but the dog stood her ground. Shaan scrabbled in the dust. Picking up a stone, he tossed it lightly in the air and caught it again in his hand. The dog backed away with her tail rigid. Ricky let out a sigh of relief.
When he looked in front of him again, the handcuffed Manek was standing in front of the inspector saying something. A few moments later, the officer, Manek and a constable marched straight towards their hiding place. The constable shone his torch and beat his lathi against one of the drums. The iron-banded bamboo stick boomed loudly against the black metal.
“Come out,” he shouted. “We know you are there.”
Ricky and Shaan rose slowly. Instinctively, they held up their hands at shoulder height. Manek’s face twisted with malice. Shaan looked sanguine but Ricky felt terrified of sharing a cell with Manek overnight. He was sure that Manek wouldn’t leave him alone – there would be some incident.
Shaan lowered his hands. “An interesting sight, Inspector,” he said. “We were just watching you making the arrests and wondering what the hungama was.” Forcing himself to be calm, Ricky followed his example and brought his hands down as well.
“That’s not true,” shouted Manek. “They were both here before.” He pointed to Ricky and said, “That man propositioned me and I refused him.”
A hot response came to Ricky’s lips but he controlled himself in time. Instead, he said softly, “I don’t know what he means, Inspector. I’ve never seen him before.”
Manek tried to say something but the inspector flicked him with his service baton. “Shut up,” he said. “I can recognise a queer when I see one.”
Ricky racked his brains. Opening his wallet, he took out a few hundred-rupee notes. “Can’t we come to some arrangement, sir?” he said.
The policeman waved the money away. “Qeesay mein rakh,” he said. “Leave it in your pocket.”
Ricky emptied his entire wallet. He had over five thousand rupees. “Let’s just settle it here,” he said. “If we go to the station, more people will get involved and everybody will get less.”
The inspector looked a bit doubtful and seemed to be wavering. Seeing this, Manek screeched, “You can’t let him go. He’s the same as all of us.”
The officer’s face flushed red. “Did I ask you to talk, you fag?” he shouted and gestured to his junior colleague. The constable raised his lathi and brought it down on Manek’s buttocks.
“Oww!” screamed Manek and hopped up and down, clutching his behind. The stick was raised again, laying a second blow across Manek’s lower legs. Another constable rushed up and the inspector turned to him.
“Take this…this fairy away and if he utters even one word, shove your lathi down his throat.”
“Don’t worry, sir,” replied the constable. “He won’t talk if he knows what’s good for him.”
Manek was taken away and roughly propelled to the ground among the other prisoners.
The inspector addressed Ricky, who was still holding the money. “What shall we do with the two of you?” he said.
Ricky said, “Superintendent Khan in Bandra is a family friend but I don’t want to involve him in a delicate matter like this unnecessarily.”
“Oh, you know Khansaab. Why didn’t you say so right in the beginning?” He turned to the constable and made a sign.
The constable took the money from Ricky. Shaan reached over and extracted a five-hundred-rupee note from the policeman’s hand. “For a taxi home,” Shaan said.
The constable looked about to protest, but the inspector said, “Take their details and let them go.”
The constable took out a small notebook and a pen. Having got Shaan’s details, he turned to Ricky. “Name?”
“Er…Ricky.”
The inspector tapped Ricky’s shoulder with his baton. “Sir, you might have friends in high places, but please don’t insult our intelligence.”
Ricky gulped, feeling like a little schoolboy in front of a headmaster. “Umm…Dilawar Beg.”
Father’s name, address, date of birth. “Mother’s name?”
“Bilqis Bano.”
“Native place?”
“Vizag.”
By now, the police van had filled up with the prisoners. The constable got in and shut the door. The inspector stepped into the jeep. The vehicles made a three-point turn and sped away, leaving the two men alone.
“Ricky…or Dilawar?”
Dilawar blushed. “Sorry. I was too scared at first to use my re
al name.”
Shaan gave him back the five-hundred-rupee note and said, “You are so deep in the closet that you are actually standing in the next room.”
Dilawar’s face sagged, sure that he would lose this new-found friend. He looked at Shaan anxiously, but to his surprise, Shaan was smiling. “Be brave, my friend. By the way, do you really know Superintendant Khan of Bandra?”
“Of course not,” said Dilawar. “I saw his name in a newspaper article I was reading when you gave me your card in McDonald’s the other day. He had apparently given a speech at the local Rotary club about police courtesy and honesty.”
“Ha! That must have been a riot,” said Shaan.
Dilawar laughed with relief and clapped the beautiful youth on the shoulder.
Shaan said, “Your place or mine?”
♦
By eight-thirty in the morning, Mr Ali could not wait any more. He had finished his breakfast of vada – spicy lentil doughnuts – an hour earlier. In half an hour Aruna would join him and clients would start coming in. How was he expected to begin his day without a cup of tea? For forty years he had had his cuppa straight after breakfast. What was his wife doing that was more important than that?
He walked into the kitchen to find Mrs Ali squatting on the floor, holding a halved coconut shell against a metal scraper. As she turned the handle of the scraper with her other hand, tiny slivers of white copra fell in a pile on the fan-shaped, plaited-bamboo sieve underneath. Seeing him, she stopped scraping the coconut, dabbed the beads of sweat from her forehead with the end of her sari and looked up. “What do you want?” she asked.
“Where is my tea?”
“I am busy,” she said.
“I can see that. But what is so urgent about scraping the coconut now? I have been waiting for my tea for almost an hour.”
“Who am I doing this for?” said Mrs Ali. “Rehman’s left for the village, so the coconut chutney is just for you. I bet there won’t be any complaints about how much work I am doing when you sit down for lunch.”
“That’s not what I am saying,” said Mr Ali. “You just need to prioritise your tasks, that’s all. Lunch is not for hours while I want to have my tea now, before clients start coming.”
“Don’t talk to me as if this is your office – priorities and schedules and whatnot. I know perfectly well how to run the household without your help.”
She started turning the handle of the scraper rapidly. Its metal teeth must have run through the white flesh and into the shell because the snow-white pile was now dusted with brown shavings.
“Arre baba,” said Mr Ali in irritation. “Why are you taking the wrong meaning for everything? I want tea and I want it now. And move the coconut around because I want to eat the flesh of the coconut and not its shell.”
Mrs Ali dropped the coconut and stood up. “You will have to wait for your tea,” she said.
“Why?”
“You would know why if you paid any attention to what is happening around the house. You have your business, your clients and your post, and my voice is just background chatter to you. As long as your meals are regularly on the table and clean clothes are in your wardrobe, you don’t listen to anything I say. You must be thinking: it’s just the madwoman; if I ignore her, she will crawl back into her kitchen and I can get on with my work.” Mrs Ali started walking out of the door.
“My tea…”
“Forget your tea. Have you seen the sink?”
Mr Ali took a quick peek at it before following his wife. “It looks normal to me. It’s full of dishes.”
Mrs Ali’s voice rose. “It is not normal for the sink to be full of dishes at this time, as you would know if you paid any attention to what goes on in the house. They should have been washed ages ago.”
“So why – ”
“It is because of that Swaroop woman on the second floor next door.”
Mr Ali almost said, “I don’t understand,” but stopped himself just in time, recognising that it was the wrong thing to say. He remained mute.
“Leela always came to our house first in the morning to clean the dishes and sweep our house. But now that witch insists that Leela go to her flat first. See, she still hasn’t come. How can I make tea if the dishes are all dirty and the maid hasn’t been?”
Mr Ali refrained from uttering the first thought that came to his mind – that his wife could wash the tea-kettle herself. He knew that was the wrong thing to say too.
“All right,” he said finally. “I’ll wait for my tea. It is not that urgent.”
Mrs Ali sighed. “You go and do your work. I’ll see what I can do.”
Five
Rehman got off the bus by the teashop and slung his cotton bag over his shoulder. It was around eleven in the morning and the sun was hot on his back. A line of old men sat under the teashop’s awning of thatched palm leaves, talking listlessly.
He had finally reached the village, having stayed a couple of extra days in town in case Pari needed any help. Unable at first to understand her moods – alternating between gloom and carefree giddiness – he had finally figured out that the loss of her job had been totally unexpected, leaving Pari feeling shocked and a little humiliated. His parents, and especially his mother, had taken Pari under their wing while he had taken charge of Vasu, arranging for the official copy of the adoption certificate to be issued and using it to enrol him in a school. On the day that they bought all the textbooks and exercise books, together with a rucksack with a picture of a cartoon character on it, Vasu had been so excited that Pari had to shout at the boy to make him go to bed.
Rehman had been taken aback by how much it all cost, but Pari insisted that money wasn’t a problem at all, even though she had been sacked. “My husband’s pension and my father’s money is enough to last my whole life even if I don’t earn a rupee myself,” she said.
When Rehman mentioned the amount to his mother after Pari and Vasu had gone home, Mrs Ali wasn’t so sure. “I know that money is not an immediate issue for Pari, but I think she is taking it far too lightly,” she said.
Rehman himself never worried about money. “What’s the problem?” he said. “Pari’s told me how much she has and I think she’s fine.”
“You know as much about money as a fish knows about spinach,” his father said, jumping into the conversation. “When are you going to get back into a job yourself instead of wandering from village to village like a dervish?”
“We are talking about Pari, not about me.”
Mrs Ali said, “You youngsters think that life will just continue on an even course. Pari doesn’t yet understand exactly how expensive kids are. She’s already spent thousands of rupees on the school fees, books and uniforms. This is just the start of the primary school. As he grows older, all these costs will go up and there will be many others. And, Pari, of all people, should know that things can go wrong at any time. She needs to set money aside for contingencies like illnesses and accidents.”
“Ammi, relax. Don’t worry about it.”
“No,” his mother said. “If you just sit and eat, even a mountain will be worn away. I am concerned.”
Rehman shook his head. His parents had lived too long counting every rupee for them to change their attitude now.
He started walking down the lane towards Mr Naidu’s house. Vasu had lived in this village not that long ago. Now that it looked as if Pari might remarry, Rehman wondered what would happen if she became a mother. Would she love her natural-born child more than her adopted son? Would she resent Vasu and neglect him? He was sure that Pari would not do that, but what about her new husband? How would Dilawar treat an eight-year-old boy to whom he had no ties of affection?
Rehman looked around him, before setting off down the main road to the village. Stretching from the highway to the river, it was an old, grey concrete ribbon, thick with dust and cracked in places. Rehman passed the market, empty now but crowded on Wednesdays. Just past the temple and behind it lay the only mult
i-storey house in the village, belonging to a rich landlord who also happened to be the president of the village council. A mango tree with a twisted trunk stood just inside the temple yard, making the boundary wall bulge outwards. This early in the year, the blossom was just turning into small fruits that would become ready to eat at the height of summer, if the village boys didn’t get to them first. Wild plants with purple and pink flowers abounded near a kink in the road where the sewer overflowed. Two young pigs were luxuriating in the resulting mud.
Rehman finally turned into Mr Naidu’s lane. He could see Mr Naidu’s house now – a one-room thatched hut. Next to it was a bigger, pukka building that belonged to Mr Naidu’s cousin. The cousin – also called Mr Naidu, because that was their caste name – had refused to look after Vasu after Mr Naidu passed away because he believed that Vasu brought misfortune on his guardians.
Rehman remembered what the cousin had said at that time: “Some people are just born at the wrong time, under a malevolent conjunction of planets, and misfortune stalks them all their lives. If they till a field, the rains will fail that year; if they need to cross a river, they’ll find it in spate; their wife might be barren or, if not, then their sons turn out uxorious and ungrateful to their parents.”
He had warned Rehman to be careful because, he said, ill-luck could strike just as easily in a town as in a village. Could Pari losing her job be due to Vasu’s influence? Could bad luck really dog a boy through his life, singling him out?
Rehman dismissed the thought as fanciful. He was an engineer, a rational man who believed in cause and effect. The idea that the stars that were visible in the sky at the birth of a person could influence what happened years later was surely ridiculous. But he knew that many people thought differently, preferring to believe in stars and astrology. It gave them some form of comfort, he supposed, though he didn’t know what kind of consolation could be obtained from imagining that you were a puppet and had no control over what happened to you.
♦
Aruna had been busy in the marriage bureau since first thing and by ten-thirty her throat was hoarse from all the talking to clients.
