Baaz

by Anuja Chauhan

  ‘Yeah, you probably still can’t walk, anyway,’ Raka says, the solicitousness in his voice patently fake. Shaanu throws him a dirty look but doesn’t disagree.

  They slam out of the Jonga and stride away, leaving Shaanu and Tinka alone. They glance warily at each other, then quickly look away.

  Is she pretty? Shaanu wonders as he gazes out of the Jonga window. Not really, she’s too brown, much browner than him. And yet … He steals another look at her. There is something nice about the clean, athletic lines of her body. Her eyes are huge, the lashes crazy long and spiky with tears. And her mouth looks so soft! There is also something else, something he’d felt when he was carrying her out of the train. A curious kind of … connection. There had been a moment, he could swear, when she’d just woken up and stared directly into his eyes, her own drowsy with sleep, and she had smiled, her longish face scrunching up in happy recognition, two tiny dimples flashing, and cuddled closer into his chest, sighing trustingly.

  He had breathed in the scent of flower borders in the springtime and felt like all those bench presses he’d been doing all his life had been leading up to exactly that moment.

  But then she had realized where she was and started to scream.

  And kicked him squarely in the crotch.

  He winces again at the memory, then realizes she is talking to him.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry I hurt you,’ she is saying. ‘It was nothing personal. I’m against violence as a solution to anything, as a matter of fact.’

  She speaks English so fast! He has trouble understanding all of it, but he sort-of gets the gist.

  He grins, the grey eyes sparkling.

  ‘Well, you kick like a camel,’ he says lightly, then tries out a phrase his boxing instructor always uses. ‘Employing both strength and science.’

  Tinka looks gratified. ‘My brother taught me,’ she says with a faint trace of pride.

  ‘Oh, really?’ Shaanu is interested. ‘Fauji?’

  She gives a terse little nod.

  ‘Which Corps?’

  ‘He’s dead,’ she says baldly.

  He extends a hand in sympathy.

  ‘I’m sorry, ma’am.’

  She gives an awkward shrug. He notices the dark circles under her eyes.

  ‘Stop calling me ma’am,’ she says tersely. ‘It sounds ridiculous. Officers only call married ladies ma’am. Not girls my age.’

  Shaanu flushes, feeling like a bumpkin. Clearly the general’s daughter has her cantonment etiquette down pat.

  ‘I thought ki maybe you were married,’ he says in retaliation.

  She rears up. ‘I am not that old!’

  He grins. ‘Okay, okay,’ he says peaceably. ‘But didn’t your brother teach you not to fall asleep when you’re travelling alone? You could miss your station. Or get kidnapped.’

  She dashes angry tears from her eyes. ‘I was tired,’ she admits. ‘Plus I was relaxed. I’d planned this for so long, and I thought I had finally got away with it!’

  Shaanu moves in closer.

  ‘There’s really no boyfriend? You can trust me. I won’t tell.’

  She throws up her hands violently.

  ‘No!’

  ‘Then why you are running away?’

  No reply.

  ‘C’mon, tell no,’ he urges, then grins. ‘Tell-me-na, Dadyseth!’

  She blows her nose hard on her grubby shirt.

  ‘Because.’

  It is a small despairing whisper that goes straight to Shaanu’s heart.

  ‘Because what?’ he asks gently.

  She looks up at him, her eyes huge in the dark.

  ‘Do you believe in God?’ she asks.

  Shaanu blinks. This seems a major leap in topic. ‘Uh, I don’t know.’ He scratches his head. ‘I suppose so? My sisters do, at any rate. I’m more a live-in-the-moment kind of chap, really.’

  Tinka sits up and hugs her knees.

  ‘Well, my dad believes in Country,’ she says gloomily. ‘Country is his god. But I think it’s a bullshit, fake, artificial god. And I can’t say that at home, can I, because that would mean Jimmy died for nothing – and if Pa has to face that he’ll go mad.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘Not that he isn’t half-mad already.’

  Shaanu’s young face grows stern. ‘So you think your brother and all of us here at the academy and my father, who was a freedom fighter, are all a bunch of fools protecting some nakli god?’

  Her eyes flash.

  ‘You don’t know anything about my brother,’ she retorts. ‘He joined the Army, not because he was patriotic, but because my dad made him. Dad was obsessed with the Army! We had a tank-shaped birthday cake on every single one of Jimmy’s birthdays! Ugly green thing with six Swiss rolls for wheels and a long cream wafer sticking out of it as a cannon barrel! What kind of sick man orders a cake like that on a small child’s birthday?’

  At least he ordered a cake, Shaanu thinks privately. We’ve never had a bakery ka birthday cake in our life! And we found out about birthday parties only from that filmi song where Jeetendra wears a tux and sings ‘Happy Birthday to Sunita’ to a white-frock-wearing Babita on the piano. This rich girl is clearly spoilt.

  ‘And most of Jimmy’s batchmates weren’t patriotic either. They were poor boys from small towns who got lured in by the promise of a glamorous upper-class lifestyle and a Defence Services alcohol quota.’

  But this is too much for Shaanu. This girl is rude and she’s making all sorts of assumptions.

  ‘My family is rich,’ he hears himself say. ‘We talk only English in the house and nobody in our family touches alcohol.’

  He wonders why he, who is always so open about his background, is feeling pressured into lying about it to this girl. Who the hell is she, anyway?

  She shrugs.

  ‘Well, then you must be a thrill freak,’ she says dismissively. ‘The kind who’s in it for the kicks. That’s the worst sort.’

  ‘I’m patriotic,’ Shaanu says loftily, suppressing with a guilty twinge the memory of the glee he feels every time he flies.

  Tinka looks unimpressed. ‘Whatever. Anyway, the point is that there’s nothing noble about war. Wars are fought for greed, not patriotism, and soldiers are mere pawns.’

  Myerpons? Shaanu is stumped again. This girl uses words nobody else does.

  ‘To be used and sacrificed, just like that!’

  As she snaps her fingers, his brow clears.

  He folds his arms across his chest and sets his handsome young jaw.

  ‘I’m nobody’s myerpon,’ he says grimly.

  Tinka stares at him for a moment, and then laughs – a laugh that is too old for her twenty years.

  ‘Okay.’

  Silence reigns for a while.

  ‘If you don’t like living with your father, why not just marry this rich boy he’s found for you?’ Shaanu suggests. ‘Is he so ugly?’

  Tinka curls her lip. ‘He’s pretty enough. But he only wants to marry me because I have a Green Card.’

  Shaanu absorbs this information, feeling rather intimidated. So she’s a Green Card, how very hep! She’s lived in foreign, she’s eaten hotdogs and hamburgers and can go there any time she wants!

  Out loud, he says lightly, ‘That’s not very patriotic of you. How did your father allow it?’

  She shrugs. ‘My mum’s family was settled in America. She came to India after marriage. My brother was born here, in Dehradun, but by the time I came along, she’d figured Dad was a nutcase, scooped up Jimmy and fled. I was born in the USA. Then she died and we had to come back to live with my dad.’

  Poor little rich girl, Shaanu thinks. Her name should’ve been Richa Rich.

  ‘So who’s the real God then?’ he asks roughly. ‘What do you believe in?’

  This shuts her up. She sits quiet for a while, before spreading out her hands helplessly. ‘In … in people, I guess. Human beings living in mutual respect of each other.’

  He knits his brows. ‘That doesn’t sound like
a proper religion.’

  ‘It’s not.’ Then she adds, rather randomly, ‘I want to study photography.’

  ‘They teach that?’ he asks cautiously.

  She nods, her eyes brightening. ‘Yes, in Bombay. It’s a post-grad course at a really good institute. I was lucky to get in. Well,’ she gives a modest shrug, ‘I did go to Miranda House – which, you know, is the female version of St. Stephen’s College,’ she adds, noting his blank expression.

  Shaanu’s vaguely heard of this safety pin college. It’s in Delhi or something. But the girl’s got her facts wrong – the best college in India is the National Defence Academy, where Raka and Maddy have studied. Everybody knows that.

  ‘And maybe after that, I could spend a year in New York specializing.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ He struggles to sound casual. New York is too far removed from his sphere. His big achievement has been to make it to Jodhpur. ‘I’ll probably go on a lot of international trips too, to buy planes and missiles and all and fly them back. Or as part of a peace-keeping force. Few years back, some Canberra crews went to Congo.’

  She smiles politely.

  ‘And then do what?’ he asks, piqued.

  She blinks. ‘What?’

  ‘Like, when I finish Flying College, I’ll defend my country. When you finish studying photography, what will you do?’

  ‘I’ll put an end to war,’ she says confidently.

  Shaanu, elder brother to three sisters, is sensitive enough not to laugh.

  ‘Put me out of business, you mean,’ he says lightly.

  He must have sounded patronizing anyway, because she stares at him resentfully for a while.

  ‘The one thing I won’t do is get married,’ she says finally.

  Shaanu is suddenly struck by the similarity between their two situations.

  ‘Chimman Singh didn’t want me to join the Air Force,’ he tells her. ‘I had to sneak off, just like you.’

  ‘Who’s Chimman Singh?’

  ‘My mother’s husband.’

  She gurgles appreciatively. ‘Nice. I think I’m going to start calling my father by his first name too.’

  ‘Go for it,’ he advises her. ‘Such a peaceful, powerful feeling it gives you, matlab ki, I can’t explain! Anyway, I cycled 85 kilometres to the admission test venue. And when I cycled back, after getting selected, mind you—’

  Her eyes widen. ‘Where do you live?’

  ‘In a vill—’ He stops, then continues carefully, ‘In a large town. In Haryana. We’re zamindars. Anyway, I told Chimman Singh the good news, thinking he’d be so proud and all, but he just ignored me.’

  His tone is light as he recounts the incident, but his eyes are bitter.

  ‘Why?’ she says, indignant.

  Shaanu gives a short laugh. ‘Because some nilgai got into the fields I was supposed to be watching that day and ate up half the arhar.’

  Now it is Tinka’s turn to look blank.

  ‘Oh,’ she says doubtfully. ‘So maybe Chimman had some justification?’

  Shaanu snorts. ‘Naaah, it was a doomed crop anyway. He’d burnt it all up by putting in too much fertilizer. He’s not too smart with dosages.’

  ‘Dog,’ she says, not understanding much but getting the gist.

  ‘So, in a way, I helped him save face. I think he just wanted me to live under his heel and be bossed around all my life.’

  This she understands completely.

  ‘What a dog,’ she says warmly.

  Shaanu looks at her with more approval now. Maybe this girl isn’t that bad, after all. Sure she’s strange, more boy than girl – whoever’s heard of a girl risking her reputation and running away from home, not to marry a boyfriend or become an actress but to put an end to war! But all Parsis are strange, people say. Clearly, however, she can tell good from bad.

  Suddenly, she ducks behind the stepney.

  ‘Wha—?’ Shaanu turns around.

  A flurry of activity animates the driveway of the Chief Instructor’s house. Drivers are moving back to their parked cars and starting up the engines. The gate is being opened.

  Popo’s meeting seems to be over.

  Shaanu looks at Tinka as she crouches low and watches the gate, biting down on her knuckles and swearing hard.

  Listening to the string of seriously impressive swear words emerging from those sweet, full lips, he comes to a decision.

  ‘Dadyseth.’

  She is too focussed on the gate to hear him.

  ‘Oye, Tell-me-na.’

  ‘Huh?’ She turns around.

  ‘If anybody on the train tries to get over-funny with you, you’ll kick them with that camel kick, right in the crotch, won’t you?’

  She stares at him uncomprehendingly, then slowly, a gleam of hope dawns in her eyes.

  ‘Yes,’ she says breathlessly.

  ‘And you’ll go seedha to Bombay?’

  She nods eagerly. ‘To Altamont Road. My aunt’s house, my fui.’

  Shaanu holds up one hand. ‘And you’ll be safe at Ultimate Road.’

  ‘It’s not Ultimat—yes!’

  ‘And you have money?’

  ‘Oh, I do.’ She nods fervently.

  Shaanu grins, his grey eyes warm and curiously alight.

  ‘Then run. Jump out of the Jonga and go. You’ll get a rickshaw at the barrier, and you’ll be back at the station in twenty minutes. Buy an unreserved ticket on the next Bombay train. One leaves in two hours, I think so.’

  She stares at him. ‘But what about you? You’ll get into trouble…’

  Shaanu throws his arms out. ‘Arrey nahi, I’m on a good wicket here. Everybody loves me!’

  She looks hesitant. ‘Why … why would you do this?’

  He leans forward and smiles. ‘I know what it’s like to have an asshole for father. Also, you kick well.’

  She gives an oddly tremulous, excited laugh. ‘Tell him I asked for the bathroom and crawled out through the window while you were waiting outside.’

  ‘Good suggestion. I’ll take it.’

  She hugs him and he feels strong slim arms around his neck, a pointy chin digging into his shoulder. Again he breathes in the faint fragrance of spring.

  ‘I’ll never forget you,’ she vows. ‘Thank you.’

  She pulls back but he holds her fast.

  ‘Your brother didn’t die for nothing,’ he says steadily. ‘What we fight for, it’s worth fighting for, ne?’

  But she just shakes her head and pulls away, averting her gaze.

  Shaanu lets her go.

  ‘Thanks,’ she says again, squeezing his hands fervently. And then she is gone, scurrying towards the barrier with her fancy purse over her arm.

  Shaanu watches her go, a strange leaping exultation in his heart and an equally strange sense of loss twisting his insides.

  She wheels around when she is about a hundred metres away, her dark coat whirling around with her, and slaps a hand to her forehead.

  ‘What’s your name?’ she calls.

  Shaanu leans out of the Jonga and cups his hands around his mouth.

  ‘Ishaan!’ he shouts back. ‘Ishaan Faujdaar!’

  But a three-ton Shaktiman truck crosses the road right then. And by the time it rumbles out of the way, the road is clear and she has gone.

  THREE

  It is a beautiful morning in October, crisp and fragrant. Sunshine pours down like a benediction through white candyfloss clouds, its slanting golden beams against the blue sky reminiscent of the bhavishyavanis depicted in the Amar Chitra Katha comics that have just taken the young nation by storm.

  Below this glorious dome, the Air Force base at Palam is all decked out to celebrate India’s 38th Air Force Day. Freshly drawn white lines mark the perimeters of the airfield, while multicoloured flags flutter bravely above. The mood is proudly patriotic. Cantonment kids have missed school to be here – to eat crunchy-on-the-outside, gooey-on-the-inside boondi ka laddoos, to watch their beloved Tiranga dance in the crisp bree
ze and to shout lusty Jai Hinds in response to the perfectly synchronized marching. Sunshine sparkles on their neatly oiled hair and on the red-and-grey school uniforms their principal is so fond of describing as ‘blood and iron’. Behind them sit the who’s who of New Delhi, capital of the Republic of India. Smartly uniformed officers, shoes and epaulettes agleam with Cherry Blossom and Brasso, and floral chiffon-wrapped ladies smelling sweetly of Revlon’s Charlie. Journalists both Indian and international. The defence minister, a rotund, twinkly eyed, gulabjamun of a man and, next to him, the Chief of Air Force Staff. But all eyes are on the sky, where, with a deafening roar of engines and an intoxicating whiff of aviation fuel, a formation of fighter jets has just come streaking in like a spray of silver bullets.

  ‘And now ladies and gentlemen, we come to the climax of the show!’ The plummy, BBC-accented voice of the old commentator echoes through the airfield. ‘After the de Havilland-made transport carrier Caribou and the Canberra Bombers, here comes the IAF’s pride and joy! India’s fighting squads – the faithful Hawker Hunters, the gallant HAL-built Gnats, the hero of the ’65 war, the spanking new MiG 21s and the electrifying Sukhoi-7s! This up-to-date, absolutely first-class fleet is what keeps us safe in the skies from the enemies of Hindustan!’

  Everybody cheers. The defence minister – a respected freedom fighter and Congress stalwart – gets to his feet and applauds.

  The commentator starts to rattle off statistics.

  ‘The Gnats are powered with a Bristol Orpheus turbo jet engine which can attain a maximum speed of 695 kilometres per hour! They have a range of 805 kilometres and can carry two cannons, two 500-pound bombs or eight rockets each!’

  ‘Kya plane hai, saab!’ says the defence minister admiringly. ‘So small that it’s invisible till it’s almost on top of you! Aur design aisa gajab ki you don’t know if it’s coming or going! Confuse kar ditta Pakistaniyon ko!’

  ‘Our new Russian acquisitions are superb too, sir,’ counters the Air Chief. ‘The MiGs, the Sukhois…’

  ‘Arrey, hamaare Gnats are known as Sabre Slayers,’ says the the old Congressi, who has done his homework. ‘Pakistan’s F-86 Sabres shake at their very name!’ He winces. ‘Uff! What a noise they all make but, to be sure!’