Baaz

by Anuja Chauhan

  ‘I mean conjunctivitis,’ Macho da says, tapping the frame of his sunglasses. ‘That’s why I’m wearing sunglasses at night. I could tell you were wondering. We call it Joy Bangla in the refugee camps. Kind of an affectionate nickname. It’s rampant there, you know.’

  ‘Oh,’ Tinka says. Then she adds, conscious of sounding like a trite socialite, ‘Is the situation in the camps very dreadful?’

  He stares at her through the opaque glasses for a moment, then says abruptly, ‘Are you really interested?’

  ‘Of course she is!’ Kung fui has spotted the romantic Mukti Bahini officer talking to her niece and materialized at her side. ‘She’s come from Bombay to help! We both have!’

  Macho da absorbs this and then shrugs. ‘Like you know, there are almost ten million people in the camps,’ he says in his deep, soft voice. ‘Joy Bangla isn’t the worst disease we’re facing, not by a long shot. That honour belongs to cholera. Which, if you aren’t aware,’ his gaze seems to flicker (disdainfully?) over their elegant attire, ‘is high fever and painful, uncontrollable diarrhoea. It kills you through dehydration. Then there’s malnutrition. The monsoon brought mosquitoes and malaria. Children and old people are dying every day. The corpses are piling up, the infections spreading. I would give anything for an electric crematorium.’

  His voice throbs with an intensity that commands silence, and by the time he has finished speaking, a hush has fallen over the bar.

  ‘That’s horrible.’ Kainaz Dadyseth’s voice is stricken.

  ‘Yes,’ agrees Tinka softly.

  ‘Christ, what a party-pooper,’ the voice of Kuch Bhi Carvalho floats up from the back of the bar. He sounds like he has gone back to gnawing on his pork chops. ‘Why would he bring up loose-motions on a party night? These Muktis grab any opportunity to hand-wring in public.’

  ‘And that’s why this war must happen,’ Macho da continues, gesturing dramatically, his greasy curls flying this way and that. ‘So that our suffering people can go back to our country after we have rid it of the tyrannical West Pakistanis – with the help of our friends in the Indian Army, of course! It is a just war, a necessary war, a good war…’

  This is too much for Tinka.

  ‘Oh please,’ she says, louder than she intended. ‘There is no such thing as a good war.’

  The Mukti goes very still. Then he bows politely to her and goes back to talking to the senior officers.

  Great, Tinka thinks resignedly. I’ve created a scene and probably got Ishaan into trouble too. It was a stupid, stupid idea to meet him today – this place is clearly a fauji watering hole.

  She looks around impulsively for Carvalho and realizes with a start that he is at her elbow, wiping pork chop gravy off his chin.

  ‘Please don’t get mad at Ishaan because of anything I said,’ she tells him.

  He looks mildly surprised at this idea, then waves one hand tolerantly. ‘You’re entitled to your opinion.’ Then his gaze grows keener. ‘Dadyseth, eh? Not many of those around – are you Jehangir Dadyseth’s sister, by any chance?’

  Tinka nods.

  Hosannah Carvalho’s face grows sombre.

  ‘Brave lad, brave lad. What a fight he fought! They teach it in the NDA, did you know?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s a masterclass in hand-to-hand combat. After his tank was destroyed by a direct hit, he crawled out and polished off six Pakistani soldiers with his bare hands.’

  ‘I know.’ Her voice is toneless.

  ‘I’m sorry, babah,’ Carvalho says heavily. ‘It’s always tough on the families.’

  They sit side by side at the bar, not uncompanionably, and watch the room together. Dilsher Singh is chatting with the band members, who are on a break. Shaanu and Juhi are giving Kainaz Dadyseth pointers on the best shopping areas in the city. And Raka is holding forth to Deengu on precision bombing.

  ‘Sir, it’s so frustrating! Eight times out of ten, the damn S-5s drift. And of course, five times out of ten, they’re duds. We can compensate for the duds, but how do we compensate for the drift? It’s totally unpredictable.’

  Deengu nods, his eyes getting a reminiscent gleam.

  ‘Oh, things drift,’ he says knowledgeably. ‘You won’t believe how much! Once at our base in Pathankot, back in the fifties, the ladies were having a mah-jong party. Alfresco, if you please, out in the spring garden of the AOC’s house. Meanwhile, a bunch of us were taking on the Pakis way up north, near the Poonch Sector. To cut a long story short, there was a dogfight. They fired at me, I fired back, and got one bugger bang in the belly, and he blew up into smithereens, and one of his hands, severed at the wrist, spun and drifted all the way to Pathankot, where it landed right into Mrs AOC’s punch bowl. Just as she had picked up the ladle, saying, Ladies, could one of you give me a hand?’

  He bursts into gales of laughter at this punchline and everybody joins in. Even Carvalho gives a short laugh. Shaanu moves in next to Tinka, studies her sickened expression and slides her a fresh shandy.

  ‘Are you okay?’ he asks in a low voice. ‘Don’t mind Deengu. All his stories are made up.’

  She rolls her eyes and takes a deep swig. Shaanu watches with some misgiving as the level of her drink drops rapidly.

  ‘I haven’t been around army guys for a while,’ she says when she finally puts her glass down. ‘I’d forgotten how they talk.’

  ‘Hey, we’re good folk,’ he protests mildly. ‘Gory but good.’

  Tinka snorts.

  ‘Your Deengu’s a barbarian!’

  ‘Nonsense!’ Shaanu retorts. ‘He’s the best ballroom dancer at the base. His waistcoat’s made of velvet and he smokes cigars. How can you call him a barbarian?’

  She glares up at him only to discover the teasing light in his eyes.

  ‘Ufff!’ Tinka spins her barstool away from him.

  Ishaan twirls it back gently.

  ‘Also, we aren’t Army guys, we’re Air Force, the most elite wing of the Defence Forces.’

  Tinka snorts.

  ‘The most refined killers, you mean.’

  The light goes out of Shaanu’s eyes. He backs away, shrugging.

  ‘For someone who talks so much about having an open mind, yours is pretty closed.’

  She opens her mouth to argue this, then shuts it abruptly, shaking her head.

  He continues, his tone friendlier, ‘That haircut’s a good decoy, by the way. Makes it hard for people to recognize you.’

  She stiffens.

  So he has seen the ad.

  She wraps her arms across her chest, feeling oddly exposed.

  ‘Is that why you invited me?’ she says tightly. ‘So you can show off the Freesia girl to your mates?’

  Shaanu puts down his glass.

  ‘Would that be so dreadful?’ he asks, his eyes meeting hers with complete frankness. ‘I mean, you’re famous, you’re gorgeous, I know you. Why wouldn’t I want to flaunt that?’

  This simple admission stumps Tinka. She stares at him, trying to pull her thoughts together, but it’s tough because (and how galling is this for a feminist to confess!) all she can see are the frank grey eyes and all she can hear is that matter-of-factly uttered You’re gorgeous.

  ‘That is so shallow!’ she finally manages to bluster.

  ‘Oh, I’m not particularly deep,’ he assures her, grinning. ‘That’s more Maddy’s style – he reads poems and shit. But to answer your question, no, that’s not why I invited you here as my guest, and anyway, nobody’s spotted the likeness yet. You’re still flying below the radar, so to speak.’

  She scowls and dips her head. ‘Thank God.’

  Before he can respond, the musicians strike up a little intro and the singer speaks into the mic in her husky contralto:

  ‘Time to play the last song of the evening, ladies and gentlemen! And as a delicate compliment to our lovely lady visitor from Bombay, we would like to serenade her with this year’s most popular, supremely refreshing melody!’

  She
nods at the band and they grin and start to play.

  ‘La…

  la-la-la-la…

  la-la-la-la-la…

  la-la-la!’

  People are confused but, as the singer points smilingly to Tinka, they start to nudge, point and, finally, applaud.

  ‘Busted,’ Shaanu says ruefully. ‘Ah, well, Dilsher clearly recognized you. I believe he’s been camping in the front stall of Tivoli cinema ever since your ad came out.’

  ‘Great,’ mutters Tinka.

  She squares her shoulders, smiles and waves half-heartedly to the singer, who takes this as a cue to segue into ‘Itsy-bitsy teeny-weeny yellow polka-dot bikini’.

  Across the room, Kainaz Dadyseth raises her brows and shrugs at her niece, her expression, even from this distance, clearly I-told-you-so.

  ‘Dance?’ Shaanu’s gaze is quizzical. ‘Or will I be accused of showing off again?’

  ‘Hai, it was you na in the ad?’ A random jolly lady rushes up out of nowhere, her voice squeaky with excitement. She is jumping up and down while, behind her, Macho da is staring at Tinka with a sardonic look upon his sunglassed face.

  He definitely thinks she’s a silly bimbo now.

  Tinka, feeling cheapened and very flustered, with the eyes of the entire gathering upon her, snaps hurriedly, ‘Uff, yes, yes! It was me! Please stop jumping!’

  The woman freezes, her face clouding over. There is an awkward, uncertain pause.

  ‘Look, let’s just go to the floor and get it over with,’ Ishaan whispers. ‘I’ll escort you out once we’ve danced for a minute or two.’

  But Tinka shakes him off.

  ‘Stop telling me what to do!’ Shaanu goes very still.

  ‘I owe you nothing, okay!’ she says, suddenly feeling close to tears. ‘I barely know you!’

  His face closes down.

  ‘You’re right,’ he says lightly.

  He gives her a polite bow, turns on his heel and stalks away, his tarmac swagger very much in evidence as he strides across the dance floor and flat palms his way through the double doors.

  Tinka sits down on a bar stool heavily.

  Across the room, Kainaz disengages politely with the people she’s talking to and starts to walk towards her niece.

  ‘Pardon, but that wasn’t very nice of you,’ says a seething voice behind Tinka.

  Tinks turns to confront Juhi.

  ‘I don’t know you,’ says Juhi, the lights from the chandelier catching the flyaway curls around her face, making her appear almost angelic. ‘Maybe you are having some problems or pressures, because everybody knows girls from decent houses don’t do ads like that. Anyway, all that is your business. I only want to say one thing to you.’

  ‘Say it, then.’ Tinka is starting to feel pretty fed-up. God knows what this girl’s problem is!

  ‘You should be nicer to Baaz.’

  Tinka stares at Juhi, her heart, for some reason, starting to sink.

  ‘What?’ she asks with an incredulous laugh.

  ‘He lost the Sword of Honour because of you,’ Juhi continues in her sweet, stinging voice. ‘It was practically settled on him till he decided to help you out. The top brass got furious. They wouldn’t even look at him after that. All his boxing medals and flying medals counted for nothing. He desperately wanted to fly MiGs but they didn’t let him. He got assigned to the Gnats instead. They said it was because he was short, but that’s silly, lots of tall men fly Gnats. He may never rise higher than a Wing Commander, thanks to the stuff your great Poncha uncle wrote in his permanent file. Kul mila ke, your influential family effectively crippled his career. And I’m not even getting into the taanas his stepfather threw at him. So when you say you owe him nothing, you’re not being very correct.’

  Tinka pushes back her short hair with a shaking hand.

  ‘I didn’t know,’ she says stupidly.

  Juhi shrugs, her eyes reflecting both sympathy and scorn.

  ‘Well, now you do. What are you going to do about it?’

  SIX

  ‘Shaanu Bhaisaab?’

  ‘Hmmm?’

  It is early the next morning. Shaanu is lying prone on a folding cot, one arm flung up to cover his face, staring moodily at the ceiling fan.

  ‘Who’s your Mercury?’

  He groans and turns his head. Sulo is sitting on the edge of his bed dressed in her best white dress and matching shiny sandals.

  ‘Nice frock.’ Shaanu dutifully joins index finger and thumb into an admiring circle.

  ‘It’s from Snow White,’ she tells him, proudly smoothening the folds. ‘My birthday frock. I’ve only worn it twice. So who’s your Mercury?’

  He pushes his hair off his forehead and smiles at her, his grey eyes warm with affection. ‘You are.’

  She gives a delighted little giggle.

  ‘You’re lying.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But Sari said you told her that she’s your Mercury.’

  ‘The solar system,’ Ishaan says, rolling onto his stomach and regarding her solemnly, ‘is a very complicated thing. We learnt all about it at the Flying College. The planets keep changing their paths. Sometimes Mercury is closest to the sun, sometimes Venus is. Sometimes all of them even line up in one orbit, imagine! And sometimes a Halley’s comet comes blazing in out of nowhere and throws the whole system for a six!’

  Sulo gives up hope of extracting a clear answer from him and moves on to other subjects.

  ‘Can we come watch you fly today?’

  He sighs and sits up. He can hear Sneha in the next room, persuading Sari to surrender her beloved pants and change into a nice frock.

  ‘But why?’ Sari is wailing.

  ‘Because otherwise everybody will think ki you don’t have any good clothes,’ Sneha explains patiently.

  ‘How about I wear my pant-shirt only?’ Sarita negotiates. ‘But I carry my good frock along on a hanger? Then I can be comfortable, and people will still know I have good clothes.’

  Shaanu chuckles, picks Sulo up from under her armpits, being careful not to crush the Snow White dress, and deposits her on top of his rolled-up fauji hold-all.

  ‘The airfield is a dangerous place, gudiya,’ he says. ‘No little kids allowed. Suppose a big jumbo jet came down from the sky… and rolllled up to you … annnnd … ate you up, you baaawdi booch?’

  He matches his actions to his words, and Sulo gives a delighted giggle and squirms away.

  ‘You baaawdi booch! How can such a small girl fill its stomach?’

  ‘That’s also true,’ Shaanu says, struck by this logic. ‘So then we’ll let it eat pitaji too.’

  Sulo giggles, but Sneha calls out at once from the next room, her voice sharp.

  ‘No making jokes about pitaji!’

  ‘But we’re serious!’ Shaanu protests.

  The Choudhary puts his head into the room at this very moment. Sulo’s eyes grow round. She jumps up and runs out, circling around a harassed Sneha, who has entered behind her father, wringing her hands.

  Shaanu gets to his feet.

  ‘Namaste, pitaji,’ he says formally.

  The old man grunts and sits down at the little dining table. He is wearing a navy-blue bandgallah and looks curiously shrunken without his pagdi on his head. There is something oddly vulnerable about his exposed, bulbous forehead.

  ‘Manne kuch baat karni hai taarse,’ he grunts. ‘I have to talk something serious to you.’

  Shaanu’s eyebrows rise. ‘I would imagine so,’ he says dryly. ‘Since you decided to show up here with poor Sneha and four kids in tow when we’re expecting war to be declared any moment.’

  ‘What is war?’ The Choudhary waves away war as a thing of no importance. ‘The children wanted to meet you.’

  ‘You’ve made them miss school,’ Shaanu says.

  ‘What is school?’ The Choudhary waves away school as a thing of no importance. ‘The thing is, Shaanu, ke I have found a bride for you. From a very good family in Jhajjar.’


  He tries a fatherly smile as he says this, but it doesn’t come out too well.

  Shaanu just stares at him.

  ‘Go on.’ There is a dangerous edge to his voice.

  The Choudhary’s face starts to turn red and blotchy.

  Slowly, he gets to his feet.

  ‘Gori se, te kori se,’ he says bluntly. ‘She is fair and pure. Which is more than your mother was.’

  Shaanu makes a hasty movement towards the old man, who steps nimbly behind the dining table.

  ‘Shaanu, no,’ Sneha says, distressed. ‘Please! She really is a good girl. Sachhi. Her father is a very big jeweller in Jhajjar. See the photo.’

  ‘The father’s photo?’ Shaanu demands. ‘Or the jewellery shop’s photo? I can’t believe he’s co-opted you, Sneha didi, I thought you were on my side!’

  But Sneha looks offended. ‘She is nice, Shaanu Bhaisaab!’ she insists. ‘She’s a friend of mine. My prettiest, most popular friend! You’ll like her! She reads books and newspapers and listens to English songs and all! And nothing is wrong with arranged marriage – I had one and look how happy I am with your jijaji!’

  ‘And you’ll bring in a decent dowry,’ puts in the old man. ‘More than that idiot Surinder brought in, at any rate! How much money I spent on the fellow’s studies, thinking I’ll get a doctor in the family! Colour pencils and geometry boxes and what not, and keeping the tubelight on all night to study – such big-big electricity bills I used to get! And after all that, he only became a wet! Spends all his time ramming the sperm of foreign buffaloes into desi bhains with an injection as big as a holi pichkari! Dhatt!’

  ‘He’s head of the animal husbandry team for all Haryana,’ Sneha says hotly. ‘It’s a big post, pitaji!’

  ‘Chuppp ke!’ the Choudhary grunts. ‘The girl’s father is giving fifty thousand rupees and a brand new Fiat.’

  ‘So what?’ Ishaan says.

  ‘So say yes.’

  ‘I’d rather say yes to one of Surinder bau’s desi bhains!’

  ‘Shaanu Bhaisaab!’ Sneha’s eyes fill with tears. ‘That’s so mean! So my friend’s a desi bhains? And I’m a desi bhains?’

  Ishaan reels at this unexpected attack. Sneha and he never fight.