No Presents Please

by Jayant Kaikini

  ‘Basanti?’

  ‘My taxi’s name, saab.’

  ‘Where’s your house, Kunjbihari?’

  ‘Not a house, saab. Just a kholi – in Oshiwara. My wife and children are in UP. Only if I drive a taxi here will they be able to light a fire in the house.’

  Suddenly Santoshan asked, ‘Kunjbhai, does life seem to you like hell or like heaven?’

  ‘What a time to ask this question, saab!’ said Kunjbihari. ‘But look, how people are enjoying themselves even at this time – as though this was a fairground. Well, everything depends on how we think about it. If I think I’m happy, it’s happy I am. If I think I’m sad, then I’m sad. Isn’t that so, saab?’

  As if to say how simple and right the driver’s philosophy was, Santoshan raised his eyebrows at Chandrahas. Kunjbihari went on, ‘As someone said – it’s better to be happy in hell than unhappy in heaven.’ He settled down to eat a banana.

  On the radio, they could hear that all forms of transport – planes, trains, buses – had been cancelled. There were also these announcements:

  ‘For Pankaj, Shweta and Nobin who are stuck at Dadar TT, this special song … Kajra Re!’

  ‘On the request of Jyoti Patel and her friends stuck in a train between Ghatkopar and Vidyavihar stations for the past six hours, we’re playing Dil Chahta Hai.’

  Thus, even under pressure the city was sharing its songs.

  ‘Amma, I’m staying at my aunt’s house in Shivaji Park. Don’t worry about me, I’ll come home tomorrow. But don’t get angry with me – my school bag fell into a drain near Portuguese Church.’ When they heard this boy’s message, Santoshan breathed the word ‘Amma’.

  Something seemed to affect Chandrahas, who swallowed hard and then began to speak: ‘Sir, I must share this story with you. A couple, our close family friends, had two lovely children. Suddenly, three years ago, the husband died of an illness. The widow was trying hard to raise the children, but just four months ago her daughter died in an accident. Now she’s completely shattered. She thinks everyone she loves is likely to leave her. She’s afraid that if she loves her eight-year-old son too much, he’ll go away too. So she’s always cold and rude to him. One day this child says to her, “Amma, since Pepsi is supposed to have pesticide in it, why don’t you and I slowly drink two large bottles of it and kill ourselves?” How can an eight-year-old kid think of committing suicide? How can we reduce their pain, sir? Why should they experience such suffering?’

  It was past midnight. Throughout the city, the vehicles had come to a standstill. Those who were in buses and trains went to sleep in their seats. Those in offices, shops and kiosks, dozed where they sat. Those who had started walking, found that they couldn’t go any further, or couldn’t go back to their starting point either. Hotels kept their shutters open, allowing passers-by to come inside and sleep. Sardarjis had set up langars wherever possible, and served dal and roti to those who were stranded on the street. But the city’s feet were still submerged in water.

  Kunjbihari awoke. Opening the door on Santoshan’s side, he said, ‘Chacha, let’s go.’ Half asleep, the old man slowly got out of the car, and limped along because his feet had gone to sleep. Chandrahas followed them. In this strange, wet night with its intoxicating mixture of sleep and wakefulness, of water, light, fear, journeying and weariness, they walked as though in a dream. Between them was the feeling of an intimate fatigue, as if they had known each other for a long time. Guiding them through a few small gullies, Kunjbihari brought them to a tumbledown dwelling that seemed half-drowned in the water. A few children were trying to remove whatever water they could with buckets. The cot, a chair and cupboards were submerged. Standing in the middle of all this, a woman was slapping rotis onto a pan. On various nails hung the possessions of the house – a cloth bag, an umbrella, a clock and a sari or two.

  ‘Kaanchubehen, I’m Kunjbihari, a friend of Hasmukh Ali, who’s a friend of your husband Pyaremohan’s. I’ve never visited you all before. Today, when the entire city’s gone phut, we got stuck by Mahim Creek.’

  ‘Please sit down. Have some roti,’ said the woman, giving them each a plate with two rotis. They stood in the water and ate in that uncanny silence. The woman’s children held out cups of water to them. Chandrahas could not drink it. Santoshan gazed at his cup as if meditating, and then drank the water slowly sip by sip. Chandrahas felt both anxiety and surprise. As they thanked the woman and took their leave, Chandrahas whispered, ‘Should we give them something?’

  ‘No, no,’ said Kunjbihari. ‘Hasmukh Ali would kill me.’

  ‘Kaanchubehen,’ Kunjbihari addressed their host. ‘You husband was near Colaba this morning around ten a.m. There’s not much flooding there. I’m sure he’s been getting customers that side. Tomorrow, when the water goes down, he’ll come home. Don’t worry about him.’ Before they walked away, Kunjbihari quietly slipped some money into the children’s pockets.

  When they got back to Basanti in the midst of thousands of stalled vehicles, the rain was still coming down. Some volunteers were directing the walkers: ‘Go this way. Milan Subway is under water. And all the drains are open. Try to walk only on the roads.’ Others were handing bread and fruit to those stuck in their cars. Piercing through the stillness of the night, a train standing in the water would suddenly let out a whistle. Chandrahas felt very thirsty and couldn’t fall asleep. He went to a small grocery shop nearby. Almost everything was sold out. Chandrahas saw a crate of twelve bottles of Bisleri water. When Chandrahas asked the white-haired shopkeeper for water, he was handed one bottle.

  ‘We’re two of us,’ said Chandrahas. ‘One has to go back to Bangalore. We don’t know how long we’re going to be stuck here. Why don’t you sell me the entire crate? I’ll give you double.’

  The shopkeeper laughed sadly. ‘Do you think you’re the only one stuck on the road? Can’t you see? Women, children, old people – they’re all stuck. This is all I have. You’re a young man and look quite fit. Take just one bottle, and take one more for your friend. Is this a time to make money? Here, give me twenty rupees. That’s the printed price.’

  Chandrahas was filled with shame. Handing over the money, he took the two bottles and returned to the taxi.

  They sat for a long time in silence. Much after midnight, when the sound of human beings diminished, the men in the taxi felt as though they were hearing the waves of the sea, which wasn’t far. Around the streetlights one could see the drops of rain falling. Kunjbihari said, ‘Don’t worry, sir. I’ll pray that you get well soon. You’ll certainly be there for your granddaughter’s wedding. This is my dua for you this night.’

  Santoshan squeezed the driver’s shoulder, saying, ‘You know why I got this sickness? I was one of the first in this country to sell water. In the 1970s, I was the first to bottle water and sell it. My mind was telling me not to, but I did it all the same. You said earlier that money flows like hidden water, but I sold the water that was before my eyes. The happiness you get from doing what’s right is nothing compared to the unhappiness of doing something even while knowing it’s wrong. That’s a sin. That’s why I’ve fallen sick. It’s my body punishing me for not listening to myself. I now have to experience this – there’s no way out.’

  As Santoshan stared out of the window, an orange thrown by a volunteer fell into his lap, and he held it with both hands, laughing, like a kid taking a catch. ‘Kunjbhai, the rotis you got us today and the water we drank are the tastiest things I’ve eaten in my entire life. It was like amrit.’

  Old Hindi film songs wafted from the FM radio stations as did more messages. Every now and then, Santoshan kept stroking Chandrahas’s hand saying, ‘Don’t worry about Sarayu. She must have paid the loan instalment and got onto the local train. She’ll be fine, wherever she is. There can’t be a safer time than this.’

  ‘Yes, sir, there isn’t a safer place than this right now. This city never lets go of your hand. As Sarayu said, I’ll continue in my present job and stay in Bom
bay.’ Kunjbhai turned down the radio volume and tried to sleep with his head on the steering wheel. Suddenly, they heard a weird voice. A man pushing along a small bicycle was shouting, ‘Amitabh Bhaiyya zindabad, Amitabh Bhaiyya amar rahe, long live.’ Behind him were a dozen people also pushing cycles, flying colourful flags. They carried bags, a small bucket and a few other things tied to their cycles, giving the impression that they were on a long journey. Chandrahas and Kunjbihari got out of the vehicle and waited for the procession to go past. In the dead of night, in those waterlogged and weary streets, the man’s followers kept proclaiming the heroic journey’s purpose.

  ‘Our Gagan Bhaiyya has come all the way from Allahabad. He’s a born fan of Amitabh Bachchan. When he heard that his hero’s health is not good, he took a vow so that Bachchanji can get well again. Because of that vow, he’s brought water from the Ganga–Yamuna sangam, bringing it all the way on a bicycle. We believe that if a person drinks this water he’ll be cured of all ailments. But look at this magic! We bring the water all the way on a cycle for thousands of kilometres, and the moment we reach this city the skies break open! What a good omen. Move aside, let us pass! Amitabh Bhaiyya zindabad, long live! Amitabh Bhaiyya amar rahe!’ On Gagan Bhaiyya’s face there was supreme joy. The sangam water swished around in his little vessel. The movements of his limbs contained the swirl of this water. Kunjbihari called out, ‘Gagan Bhaiyya, go straight and turn left at Khar, and then go straight to Juhu. That’s where Amitabh Bhaiyya’s house is. Jai ho.’

  As the little vessel of sangam water brought for Gagan Bhaiyya’s hero went past in the last hour of the night, in this street filled with deep silence after this flood that had marooned lakhs of homes and lakhs of people, Santoshan felt he was witnessing a humble object becoming divine. He said to Chandrahas, ‘Come in and sleep a little. We’ve already spent fourteen hours here. Don’t know how much longer it’ll be.’

  As Chandrahas sat in the car he said to the driver, ‘Kunjbhai, you too should go to sleep. Good night.’

  Kunjbihari began to laugh. ‘Good night? It’s good morning already. Dekho.’ Slowly, it was becoming light. The pre-dawn glow from the east shone on the thousands of vehicles backed up on the road, giving the illusion that they might start moving any time.

  ‘Neeru’, 2006

  PARTNER

  As Roopak Rathod stood gripping the poles of the enormous Murphy Baby hoarding glistening blue, pink and purple in the weak sunlight near Nana Chowk, he felt he suddenly understood everything. Yes, his partner had been lying. He’d certainly got a big job of some kind. No doubt he’d managed to get a huge salary. But he can’t show off his happiness and his grand job in front of me, a useless temporary jobber. So he comes home with a long face. Slowly he’s escaping my gaze and moving up to another level alone, without a sound, without giving any inkling as to what he’s doing.

  With this sudden flash of knowledge, Roopak felt quite excited, standing on the traffic divider surrounded by vehicles. That whole year they had experienced a sort of semi-employed status, Roopak and his ‘partner’, his roommate in the ten square foot-room they rented. The partner was about five years older than Roopak, but gave the impression that he was younger because of his squeaky voice. He had never talked about his job or native town and did not ask Roopak about these things either. Half-jobs, one meal a day, some obvious lies, desires that seemed like the torn posters on the walls of the public park. In their daily lives, there wasn’t that much difference, or any secrets to be kept. There was no question of lending and borrowing money, since there was no money at all.

  This partner who was never weighed down by words had for over a week now become tight-lipped. He had put a small lock on his suitcase. Sometimes he pretended to be in pain. He never told Roopak what his salary was. He only said it was enough for him to make do with. ‘Go and have your dinner, I’m not hungry now,’ he would say, and then go out very late, after the kala-khatta sherbet carts near Chowpatty Beach had packed up for the night, and come back after a large meal, chewing on a paan. Earlier, he would shave with the bathing soap, but now he had bought a tube of shaving cream. He’d also bought nice-smelling aftershave lotion to splash on his face after his bath. ‘You can use it if you like,’ he would say to Roopak, but never ‘Here, take this…’

  Yes, his partner’s world was changing. He seemed to be preparing himself for life on another planet. His sentences groped for new words. Earlier, he would speak roughly like they always did – ‘Tere ku’, ‘Mere ku’, ‘Teri maa ki’ – but not now, not in this new role. Roopak suddenly understood his partner’s plight. This understanding cast new light on the incident that had taken place just half an hour ago.

  Usually, his partner wore a shirt for three or four days, and a pair of pants for a week. Today, he came out of the bathroom, threw his clothes from the previous day into a corner, took out ironed clothes from their Times of India wrapping and put them on. When Roopak looked at him questioningly as though asking, ‘What’s going on?’ he suddenly shouted, ‘Arre, where has it gone? Where’s my watch?’ He started looking everywhere.

  Roopak felt that the partner wasn’t casting aspersions on him, but he still felt a strange twinge. He got up to help look, but the partner said, ‘Why are you searching? I’m the one who put down the watch. You’ve just come home from work. I don’t want to bother you. Go to sleep, go to sleep. My watch, my new watch.’ He crawled under the cot and began to pull out all the old papers from there. Caught in this strange space between familiarity and contempt, Roopak could not help feeling humiliated.

  ‘Why do you put a new watch here and there? You should have put it in your VIP suitcase,’ he mumbled.

  His partner raised his hands in a dramatic namaste, saying, ‘Achha, sorry.’ He put on his shoes, and went out shutting the door behind him.

  Unable to bear the silence in the room, Roopak went out and was now standing on the divider in the midst of the traffic, thinking of how funny and pitiable his partner’s actions were. Just yesterday, the partner had bought new hangers. Whenever he moved around the room, there was a perfume that wafted along with him. And yes, there were new white rubber slippers. The partner seemed to be hesitant to buy anything that Roopak did not have, but at the same time he appeared to be trying to overcome that hesitation. These white slippers created a storm in that small room. The partner wore them all the time – while washing his hands and feet in the mori or while taking a leak while half-asleep. When the slippers were wet they made a thick slapping sound. Roopak began to feel that his partner’s fierce attempt to shrink his world and his equally fierce pain were somehow out of place. He thought it best that he find another place. He had wanted to tell the partner this very evening that he was planning to leave.

  Climbing down from the divider, Roopak went into Goodluck Irani Café as usual, and had maska pao and two cups of tea. He then walked towards Chikalwadi where the kholi was. On the way, he stopped for a few seconds on Kennedy Bridge and looked down at the peak hour local trains and the first floor of the nearby building where the mujra dancers lived. The pink muslin curtains, the bolsters with their silk covers, the tablas covered with embroidered cloth, the sarangi with its ivory inlay – these lay quiet in the middle of the day. Someone must be dusting in those rooms, because the rising dust motes made the sunbeams brighter. Down in the street, some women were bargaining with the omelette seller. Two women were sitting on the steps, picking lice from each other’s hair. These same women paint their lips pink, and dance every night. Roopak and his partner had often come over this bridge, and stopped to stare at the pink curtains. As they listened to the fragments of familiar songs from Pakeezah, Muqaddar Ka Sikandar or Umrao Jaan, the partner would say, ‘To go in there, we need lots of money in our pockets. For now, we’ll listen from here.’ Sometimes he even seemed to forget Roopak who was standing beside him, and stare entranced at the curtains. Seeing them standing there, others too would stop. Nothing could be seen. But each man imagined things.
Ears pricked to hear the scraps of song, they stood as though lost to the world. But now everything looked different – like their relationship which didn’t have any clear definition.

  Roopak saw the door of the room open and was startled. He ran up and went inside, and saw the partner lying on the bed in his ironed clothes, clutching his stomach.

  ‘What happened?’ asked Roopak, approaching him.

  ‘No, don’t touch me. My stomach hurts badly,’ he began to scream.

  His face was white, and he was sweating profusely. A couple of neighbours rushed in and insisted that the partner be taken to the doctor immediately. Roopak put him into a taxi, took him to the nearby Bhatia Hospital, and went straight to the OPD. The partner began to weep uncontrollably. When Roopak said, ‘Don’t be afraid, nothing will happen,’ the partner held his roommate’s hand, pulled some money out of his pocket and gave it to Roopak.

  ‘That’s all right, we can deal with this later,’ said Roopak, even as he thrust the money into his own pocket without looking to see how much it was, though he was worried about the hospital expenses. A nurse wheeled the partner away. Roopak debated whether or not he should follow. The nurse motioned to him that he should come with them.

  ‘Severe appendicitis. We have to operate at once,’ said the doctor, handing Roopak a form to sign. ‘Hurry, hurry.’ Seeing Roopak’s signature, the doctor said, ‘Nice name.’

  The partner, now lying on a wheeled stretcher, looked intently at Roopak. The nurse gave Roopak a piece of paper and said, ‘Get all these medicines.’

  When he returned, the stretcher was at the door of the operation theatre, and the partner was in a green hospital gown. The nurse handed Roopak the partner’s pants, shirt and underwear. Some scraps of paper fell out of the shirt pocket. As Roopak bent down to retrieve them, the partner, already drowsy, said, ‘Look here, I have a distant relative in Borivali. He has a Xerox shop outside the station. I haven’t seen him myself, but he’s a relative on my mother’s side. A bald chap…’