Baaz

by Anuja Chauhan

  With a wriggle of excitement, she turns to an elderly professor. ‘Oh, you like the dupatta market? Yes, the colours are so hectic! This was shot in a chunni bazaar in Lahore. The rangrez there can make the most amazing patterns!’

  And with a scornful curl of the lips, to a gaggle of girls: ‘I’m sorry, I cannot reduce the price a little. The photographer sat in the branches for days to capture that shot! It’s a tigress and two cubs, she was very fierce, he risked his life.’

  Whether at the prompting of this last group or just organically, a rowdy group of boys swaggers over to the photo prints stall later in the afternoon, when the crowd has dwindled to a trickle.

  One of them, clearly the leader, slams a meaty palm down on Tinka’s table and demands, ‘You are selling Pakistani goods?’

  She leans back, crossing her arms over her chest. ‘Of courrrse not,’ she replies, her New England twang getting stronger, like it always does when she’s angry. ‘I’m selling photo prints, some of which were shot in Pakistan. Would you like to buy some?’

  ‘Haw ji!’ exclaims the leader. ‘Shame on you! Selling the enemy’s goods, that too on Independence Day!’

  ‘It’s Republic Day, actually,’ Tinka tells him. ‘Also, it isn’t illegal to sell these and Pakistan isn’t our enemy.’

  The thug, clearly not used to being spoken to so dismissively by a girl, shouts, ‘How dare you! Our soldiers are dying at the border and you—’

  Her eyes blaze with anger. ‘Watch your mouth. My brother was a soldier at the border, and he died too.’

  This gives him pause. ‘Huh?’

  ‘Huh yourself, duffer.’ Her voice rings with scorn. ‘Now back off, you’re soiling my prints.’

  But this is too much for the rabble-rouser. Humiliated and desperate to regain prestige, he lunges forward and upturns Tinka’s table. Her girlfriends scream. Passers-by gasp.

  And Tinka Dadyseth picks up a large bell from the Moradabad brass stall next to her own and whacks him hard across the head with it. He crumples immediately, the expression on his face one of intense surprise.

  ‘Go Tinkkaaaaaa!’ comes a scream mixed with delight and horror from the scrum of spectators.

  Tinka grins. The rabble-rouser’s underlings pick up their leader and bear him away, swearing revenge, even as the MH back-gate guards come stumping up, hissing and cursing and shooing all the boys out.

  Fifteen minutes later, Tinka is sullenly dunking biscuits into tea in Principal Vidya Surendran’s office.

  ‘Don’t do that, Tehmina, it’s a disgusting habit.’

  ‘Sorry, ma’am.’

  ‘I would have thought an intelligent girl like you would know better than to resort to crude violence.’

  Tinka flushes. ‘You’re right. I’m sorry.’

  ‘You mustn’t engage with these people, my dear, it isn’t safe. Suppose they make a target of you?’

  Tinka throws up her hands.

  ‘Well, somebody has to engage with them!’

  ‘Does it always have to be you?’

  ‘I guess not,’ the girl admits, blowing on her tea moodily. ‘But honestly, ma’am, they come around picking on me. And don’t say it’s because I’m pretty. There are tons of prettier girls around.’

  ‘Ah, but they aren’t Amerrrican,’ says the principal, deliberately rolling her r’s.

  Tinka colours. ‘I was born in the US, sure, but I live and study in Delhi. I think that makes me more patriotic than Indians who’d love to leave but can’t.’

  ‘But you’re influenced by American ideas,’ Principal Surendran points out. ‘You’ve been all praise for their anti-war movement, and I’ve seen you singing “Where have all the flowers gone” in a peasant smock with flowers in your hair. You looked very fetching.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Tinka mutters, wondering if she’s being reprimanded for being shallow. She is guiltily aware that her love for the American peaceniks might have a little to do with how nicely their funky fashions match her personal style.

  The principal arches her brow. ‘I hope it hasn’t gone any further than that?’ she asks meaningfully.

  Tinka’s biscuit drops into her tea with a plop. ‘Oh, Professor Surendran, of course not. I’m not into free love. Or drugs.’

  ‘Good. So tell me, what exactly got you so heated up today?’

  Tinka knits her strong brows, looking undeniably frowny and browny.

  ‘Everything! No, actually – d’you know, ma’am, all cantonments have a big flower and garden show every year?’

  ‘How nice,’ the principal replies. ‘We have that here at Delhi University too. Miranda House wins every year. Our salvias and sweetpeas showing is the best in the city. What’s your point?’

  Tinka leans in.

  ‘In the Army flower and garden shows, they always have a flower-arranging contest. The Army wives read up all these Ikebana booklets and make fancy flower-arrangements and compete for a prize; and every single year somebody stands a bunch of menacing-looking dark thorns in a big fat bowl, places one small, perfect white rose in the middle of the thorny jungle, calls the damn thing “War Widow” and wins!’

  ‘Don’t swear, Tehmina.’

  ‘Sorry, ma’am. It’s the most hackneyed idea possible! But such a holy cow that nobody dares to make fun of it or challenge it!’

  ‘There’s nothing funny about being a war widow, my girl.’

  Tinka nods her head passionately.

  ‘Exactly! I just think hyper-patriotism is a disease. It’s narrow, manipulative and exploitative. Look at the havoc it’s wrecked all over the world. And in India, patriotism virtually means hating Pakistanis – who, till twenty years ago, were our own countrymen!’

  ‘Patriotism cannot be our final spiritual shelter,’ murmurs her principal. ‘Humanity stands higher. Do not buy glass for the price of diamonds, my countrymen! And…’

  ‘… never allow patriotism to triumph over humanity as long as you live!’ Tinka finishes delightedly, eyes glowing. ‘Tagore said that! Yes, ma’am, I know.’

  Principal Surendran studies her bright young face.

  ‘What are your further plans, Tehmina? I’ve heard you’re not too keen on marriage?’

  The girl nods. ‘I want to study photography and human rights.’

  ‘An unusual combination – but one that you will excel in.’

  Tinka glows. ‘Thank you.’

  The principal smiles and inclines her grey head.

  ‘Go, child. And for heaven’s sake, try to stay out of trouble.’

  After the reassured girl has strode happily out of the room, Principal Vidya Surendran sighs and pens a troubled note to Tinka’s widowed father, Major General Ardisher Dadyseth (retd):

  Tehmina’s passion and outspokenness, though praiseworthy, could get her in trouble with the patriarchal elements at Delhi University. More and more, I worry for her safety on this campus. Perhaps, after the exams (in which she is sure to do well) you could consider sending her to the USA for further studies.

  I also suspect that her brother’s death has affected her deeply. I would strongly urge you to speak to her about this at the soonest. Of course, as a teacher, I can only make suggestions. The final decision rests with you…

  General Ardisher Dadyseth reads this missive and decides that he needs to find a nice Parsi boy for Tehmina and get her married and off his hands as soon as possible.

  • • •

  ‘She has a certain je ne sais quoi,’ declares Maddy dreamily, chin in his hands. ‘I could like her.’

  ‘Abbe, don’t start that qwa qwa again,’ Raka groans. ‘You’ll fall in love with anything in a skirt!’

  ‘Focus!’ Shaanu frowns. ‘She could have disguised herself, worn a burqa or something. We’ll have to be sharp.’

  The three friends are sitting on a bench at the Jodhpur Junction Railway Station, sipping hot, sweet tea and examining a black-and-white photograph. It has been handed to them by the wife of their Chief Instructor, Mrs Poncha, and
features a slim, vivacious young woman in a polka-dotted cocktail dress. At the back the Chief Instructor himself has written, in his small cramped handwriting: Tehmina Dadyseth.

  This Tehmina has run away from Delhi and, clearly being an enterprising girl, has bought two tickets from New Delhi Railway Station. One for a bus to Udaipur and one for a train to Bombay. Mrs Poncha and three hatta-katta nurses from the Military Hospital are waiting to apprehend her at the bus stop, while Maddy, Raka and Shaanu have been instructed to stake out the railway station. They have to find her and bear her back (quietly, with minimum fuss) to Chief Instructor Poncha’s residence, and he will ensure she gets sent back home, to be married off to the good Parsi boy with the big shipping business her rich father has found for her.

  She is the daughter of Poncha’s first cousin, Mrs Poncha has told the boys. He is a retired general, very well-respected, settled in Delhi.

  ‘All this is Maddy’s fault,’ Raka grumbles now. ‘Mrs Poncha’s nuts about him – because he’s a rich Coorgi murgi. All Parsis are like this only.’

  ‘It’s Coorg, not Coorgi,’ Maddy replies.

  ‘Well, I think it’s all a bit high-handed frankly,’ Raka declares. ‘The girl’s an adult, if she doesn’t want to marry this boy, she shouldn’t have to! I mean, she could be my Juhi!’

  ‘Why is she going to Bombay?’ Maddy wants to know. ‘It’s not a safe city for young girls to run away to. The papers are full of horror stories about girls who run away to Bombay.’

  ‘You all are thinking too much,’ Shaanu says. ‘Let’s just uthao her, bundle her into the Jonga and drop her off at the WingCo’s.’

  ‘This isn’t Chakkahera.’ Maddy frowns. ‘We don’t treat girls that way.’

  Shaanu throws out his hands. ‘But he’s her uncle.’

  ‘And he has the deciding vote on the Sword of Honour,’ Raka says slyly. ‘Is that why you want to keep him happy, Baaz?’

  Shaanu grins. Old Kuch Bhi Carvalho has already sought him out and briefed him on this. ‘Just keep your nose clean through this final week, Chakkahera,’ he advised him in an aside during parade drill. ‘And the Sword of Honour will ride home with you to your dusty village in your battered tin trunk.’

  ‘That sword’s got my name on it, brother,’ says Shaanu confidently. ‘I don’t need to keep anyone happy!’

  ‘Dream on, brother,’ Raka smirks.

  ‘Look, how are we supposed to get her off the train without creating a commotion?’ Maddy demands. ‘Suppose she refuses to come? We’re in our Flying College uniforms, we aren’t even proper officers! We can’t just—oh shit, here comes the train.’

  The Desert Queen has just steamed onto the platform, puffing self-importantly and creating quite a stir.

  ‘I’ll check bogies 1, 4 and 7,’ Shaanu says, springing to his feet. ‘Maddy, you take 2, 5 and 8. And—’

  ‘I’ll take 3, 6 and 9,’ Raka finishes. ‘It’s a five-minute halt. Let’s go, boys!’

  They board their designated bogies even before the Desert Queen comes to a full halt, moving smoothly down the central aisle, scanning every face. The innards of the train are a warm, humming space smelling comfortably of puri-aloo, Odomos and overripe oranges. Under the dim glow of the blue night lights, mothers rock their babies to sleep, fathers move about importantly, listening to the radio or brushing their teeth. In the doorways, there is the usual hubbub of passengers getting off and on, hailing coolies, humping suitcases or barking out instructions.

  The three cadets move rapidly through the bogies with no success. Shaanu is just starting to think that Mrs Poncha’s information was incorrect when suddenly, sandwiched between a lugubrious-looking villager in a turban and a snazzy city slicker in a yellow bush shirt, he spots the girl in the photograph.

  She is bundled in a long dark coat, a far cry from the cocktail dress in the photograph, but it’s her all right. She is fast asleep, her head tilted back against the bench. Her eyes are shut tight, the lashes dark, almost fanlike against her cheeks. Her fingers are curled loosely around a fancy purse and her mouth is slightly open. She looks limp, exhausted and absolutely defenceless.

  Shaanu looks at the smudgy shadows under her eyes.

  She sleeps on.

  The two men seated on either side of her stare back at him with undisguised hostility. Shaanu recognizes the self-important, slightly self-conscious look of self-appointed protectors. With a quick, confident movement, he flashes his Flying College ID at them.

  ‘Indian Air Force,’ he says in a low, business-like voice, motioning to the one in the aisle seat to move. ‘On national security business. Out of my way, please!’

  The man gets to his feet without demur. So far so good, thinks Shaanu. He bends, slides a muscular arm under the sleeping girl’s knees and another behind her neck, and lifts her up bodily.

  He is striding down the aisle to the door when several things happen at once. The girl’s eyes fly open, her body tenses and she lets out a scream piercing enough to make his back teeth rattle. Then she starts to struggle.

  Simultaneously her two protectors spring to their feet, protesting hoarsely. ‘Hain? Aise kaise? Hullo! IAF! You are kidnapping and raping! Shame shame! Stop him, somebody!’

  At the same time, Raka and Maddy appear on the platform and let out a roar. ‘You’ve found her! Oh, well done! Shabaash, Baaz, shabaash!’

  And the train starts to move.

  Ishaan Faujdaar gives a laugh of pure reckless enjoyment, tightens his grip on the struggling girl, runs to the door and leaps off the train.

  • • •

  ‘Whooofff!’

  Pain explodes like fireworks inside Shaanu’s head. He winces, shakes his head vigorously, then opens slightly glazed eyes.

  ‘Oww, ma’am, easy,’ he says, still doubled up in pain. ‘I want to have children one day.’

  The Air Force Jonga is rattling along at a terrific pace. Raka’s at the driving wheel, Maddy beside him, while Shaanu is slumped in the back, facing Tinka Dadyseth, who is sitting with her back to the stepney, an expression of grim satisfaction on her face.

  ‘Yes, do calm down, Tehmina,’ Maddy drawls reassuringly from the front. ‘We’re decent folk. Please.’

  She remains crouched in her corner, knees pressed together, hands balled into fists, but her eyes narrow to slits.

  ‘Where’d’you find out my name?’

  She has a slight American accent. Under her half-open coat, she is dressed in a black poloneck and a gathered, gaily printed, red miniskirt. The kind of skirt, Shaanu thinks through a haze of pain, that female performing monkeys wear when they come around with their madaris and put up little shows on the roadside in Chakkahera. A bandariya skirt. She has slender brown thighs and shoes of a kind Shaanu has never seen before on a girl – boys’ shoes made of buttery leather, with laces and a design picked out with little holes in the front.

  He decides she is a snob.

  ‘We didn’t uthao you just like that, you know,’ he tells her, still doubled up, elbows on his thighs. ‘We’re not a bunch of tharkis. We’re officers.’

  Her lips curl in scorn.

  ‘You’re too young to be officers.’

  Definitely a snob.

  Shaanu reddens and draws himself up.

  ‘Well, cadets then.’

  She tosses her head and sniffs.

  ‘I despise armymen.’

  ‘So do we.’ He grins. ‘We are IAF. Which is fifty times better than being Army. And we’re Fighters. Which is fifty times better than being just IAF. Well, at least two of us are Fighters,’ he clarifies. ‘He’s in transport.’

  She stares at him blankly.

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  Shaanu goes a little red. Why is he babbling?

  ‘I mean-to-say,’ he fumbles over the English phrase, ‘that we’re only following orders.’

  The girl bridles. ‘Whose orders?’

  The Jonga hits a pothole and they’re all jolted hard. Shaanu lets ou
t a groan and doesn’t reply.

  ‘Your uncle’s,’ says Raka from the driver’s seat. ‘Wing Commander Poncha. He is our Chief Instructor. We’re taking you to him.’

  ‘Shit.’ All the fight seems to go out of the girl. She wilts visibly. ‘Popo uncle! I should’ve known.’

  ‘Popo uncle!’ The boys exchange delighted grins.

  Tinka dashes her bony knuckles to her eyes angrily. ‘God, I’m such a pathetic little idiot!’

  She throws herself back against the stepney in disgust.

  ‘Hey.’ Shaanu sits up straighter. ‘Careful, ma’am. You’ll hurt yourself.’

  ‘I’m not made out of glass,’ she snarls. She adds in a resentful voice, ‘Chauvinist!’

  Hain? Shaw-one what? His stint at the Flying College has bolstered Shaanu’s halting English, but he doesn’t recognize this particular word. Is it a swear word? He looks towards Maddy for help, but Maddy hasn’t heard.

  Shaanu shrugs and falls silent. The Jonga bumps along, and soon blue and grey walls loom up on either side of them, and they cross the barrier into the Air Force area.

  In the front seat, Raka’s conscience has been troubling him. He turns around and addresses Tinka earnestly, ‘We’re only following orders, you know, ma’am. On a personal level, we also feel that if you don’t desire this arranged marriage, you shouldn’t be forced into it.’

  ‘Shut up, Raks,’ Shaanu growls.

  Raka ignores him.

  ‘Can’t your boyfriend just speak to your family?’

  Tinka looks blank. ‘I don’t have a boyfriend.’

  This stumps Raka. He turns around and sits back, saluting the sentry as the Jonga drives through the main gate of the college.

  ‘I am not going to get out of this vehicle without a fight,’ Tinka says in a tight voice as they pull up outside the Chief Instructor’s residence. ‘I’ll make a scene if you force me to. I’ll scream and shout, I’m warning you.’

  The boys look at each other uneasily. There are several VIP cars parked outside Poncha’s residence. Clearly, some high-powered meeting is going on.

  ‘Mrs Poncha said to keep this quiet,’ Raka says doubtfully. ‘Should we just…’

  ‘Baaz, you stay here with, uh, with the lady.’ Maddy decides. ‘We’ll go in and inform Popo uncle that she’s been found, safe and sound.’