Baaz

by Anuja Chauhan

  ‘Try harder, man!’

  Shaanu glares.

  ‘Arrey, it’s a long ride to the city, and I’m flying CAPs all the time! And my family is visiting. Whenever I have free time I have to do bachha-party duty. Not that I mind,’ he is quick to clarify. ‘Besides, they’re leaving tomorrow. And of course,’ he shoots a dirty look at Raka, ‘my best friends are too busy being happily married to help me.’

  Poor Raka thinks back to the sleepless night he has just endured, but nobly says nothing.

  ‘Sorry, yaar,’ he says instead. ‘We’ll figure something out! What about this refugee camp she’s volunteering at? Isn’t that closer?’

  ‘That’s closer.’ Shaanu’s hand grips Raka’s shoulder painfully. ‘We could go there! Why didn’t I think of that? What a good idea! Tomorrow?’

  ‘Sure!’ Raks assures him heartily, then sobers. ‘Aur sun, Baaz, there are Sabres sniffing around our skies. Your photo’s come in the India Post, grinning from ear to ear, all four of you! The Pakis must’ve seen it. They’ll make it personal. You need to stay focussed.’

  ‘Yeah yeah.’ Shaanu nods in an offhanded fashion that Raka finds far from reassuring. ‘So in the morning then?’

  ‘In the morning.’

  They clasp hands and Raka gets to his feet.

  ‘Stay for a drink, yaar,’ Shaanu says.

  ‘Not tonight,’ Raka replies firmly. ‘Now that I’ve spoken to you about this, I need to go home and, er, catch up with Juhi.’

  He hurries away, and immediately the Gnatties come surging back, brimming with beer and good cheer, and bear Shaanu away to play billiards.

  ‘Make way for the Sabre slayers!’ they shout good-naturedly. ‘Make way for the innnnn-vinnnnn-cible heroes of Boyra!’

  • • •

  The train carrying the Faujdaars back to Chakkahera is scheduled to depart at ten in the morning. Eight a.m. finds the family cranky, constipated and clingy, and in no mood to say goodbye to their beloved Shaanu Bhaisaab.

  The Choudhary is holed up in one suite, enjoying the hot running water while all the children have been bundled into Ishaan’s quarters, a messy, noisy space strewn with hold-alls, suitcases, cloth bags filled with Kalkatta shopping and everybody’s washed-but-still-wet chaddis. At regular intervals, children emerge from Ishaan’s bathroom with chattering teeth, wet hair and scrubbed skin and present themselves to Sneha to be cold-creamed, combed and clothed. Sneha herself is ready, having bathed and dressed at the unearthly hour of four a.m.

  Ishaan straddles a chair and watches his sister keep her cool perfectly in the eye of the storm.

  ‘You should’ve been in the Army,’ he tells her. ‘You’re drill captain, quarter-master and commanding officer all rolled into one!’

  ‘Don’t you be condescending,’ she replies tersely as she holds Sulo’s chin firm and bisects her hair into a perfect middle parting. ‘I may not wear a uniform, but if a man had to do as much work as I do in a day, na, his manhood only would fall off!’

  His eyebrows rise. ‘Ouch.’

  She smiles grimly. ‘I mean it.’

  ‘You’re right,’ he agrees peaceably. ‘Anyway, I believe women are superior to men.’

  Sneha sniffs. ‘No, you don’t,’ she says darkly. ‘You believe some women are superior to men. Just the rich educated ones.’

  Ishaan sits up interestedly. This seems to be going somewhere.

  ‘From big families…’

  ‘Matlab?’ He wrinkles his forehead.

  ‘Who pretend to be Muslims and talk like Amaaricans and dance around in wet bikinis and give my brother sleepless nights.’

  ‘Sneha behenji!’ Ishaan is surprised. ‘I thought you liked Tinka!’

  ‘I like Tinka!’ Sulo, who they’ve both forgotten about, pipes up. She turns to her eldest sister. ‘You’re just jealous because she’s his Mercury.’

  Both Ishaan and Sneha gasp in indignation.

  ‘I am not!’ Sneha blazes.

  ‘She is not!’ Ishaan protests.

  Sneha whacks Sulo smartly on her rounded bottom, propelling her towards the door.

  ‘Go eat your breakfast!’

  The little girl rolls her eyes, but rushes away without a fuss. After all, there’s shahi tukda for breakfast today.

  Brother and sister look at each other in the momentarily empty room.

  ‘What’s all this?’ he asks lightly.

  Sneha puts down the comb and ribbons.

  ‘Shaanu Bhaisaab, I know she is nice – she was so nice on the train! But she’s complicated, and she’s not like us. She talks too easily to men, roams around alone. She’s bold and she’s trouble, and she’s wrong for you.’

  ‘You mean she’s too hep for me.’

  ‘I knew you’d say that.’ Sneha reaches for him, distressed. ‘That’s not what I mean at all.’

  He shakes his head. ‘You’ve got it all wrong. First, she’s not my Mercury! And second, it’s silly for you to worry because she’s not trouble, and she’s not complicated or any of those things, and she’s definitely not wrong for me.’

  She stares at him in disbelief.

  ‘You’re contradicting yourself,’ she says bluntly. ‘You’re saying you don’t like her, and then you’re saying she’s right for you.’

  But this is too much for her older brother.

  ‘Don’t speak to me like that, Sneha behenji!’

  ‘Why not?’ Sneha snorts. ‘Tinka does! You’re trying to patao her by acting very modern, but actually, Shaanu Bhaisaab, you’re not. You have one set of rules for girlfriends and another set for sisters.’

  ‘That’s not fair,’ Ishaan says, stung.

  ‘Achcha?’ She’s really upset now. ‘I’ve been here so many days now – when did you ever take me dancing to the Club?’

  He stares at her in total non-comprehension.

  ‘You said you didn’t want to go!’

  ‘But you could have insisted! Made me go!’

  ‘But then you’d say I was bossing you around and not letting you decide for yourself! And you’d call me a chauvinist!’

  She shakes her head, staring at the floor.

  ‘I said no because I felt little under-confident, but if you’d asked me a few more times, I would have gone. I even brought my good saris to wear to the Club. But you didn’t, because you’re…’ her voice drops to a despairing whisper, ‘ashamed of me.’

  He rises from his chair so fast it falls backwards and drops to his knees before her.

  ‘That not true,’ he says urgently, the grey eyes agonized. ‘You’re amazing, you’re beautiful, everybody envies me my sisters!’ He grabs her hands. ‘Let’s go dancing tonight!’

  She shakes her head. ‘I’m leaving in ten minutes.’

  ‘We’ll change the tickets.’

  ‘No!’ She pushes past him and starts to comb her hair with trembling hands.

  ‘I insist!’ Shaanu says determinedly, thinking that maybe this is what she wants him to do.

  But she just ignores him and starts checking the locks on her attaché case.

  Ishaan’s troubled eyes follow her around the room.

  ‘Sneha behenji, you’re … you’re happy in your marriage, na?’ he asks finally.

  She gives a little laugh, but says nothing.

  ‘You don’t … regret it?’

  ‘No no.’ She shakes her head. ‘I just wish … I had something more.’ She looks up at him, her eyes bright. ‘I’m a good teacher, no, Shaanu Bhaisaab? I taught all the little ones so well?’

  ‘You did.’

  ‘I could be a teacher!’

  ‘Yes, yes of course you could…’ Ishaan’s eyes rake her face. ‘Doesn’t jijaji take you out to parties and all?’

  ‘We live in Jhajjar, Shaanu Bhaisaab. Where will we go?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says wretchedly.

  She turns to face him. ‘It’s just…’ She pauses, then continues in a softer voice. ‘It’s just that you’ve never fallen in love befo
re, and you’ll do it like you do everything else – with all your heart and soul. I’m worried you’ll get hurt.’ Her voice drops even lower as she confesses, all in a rush, ‘And I’m worried you’ll forget all about us.’

  ‘I’m not in love with her.’ Thus, Shaanu, fervent and frazzled, completely contradicts what he told his friend last night.

  ‘Yet,’ Sneha replies sadly.

  ‘Okay, yet,’ he admits. ‘But she’s nice. She’s so different. I’m the envy of the entire Air Base. All the guys are crazy about her, heck, the country’s crazy about her!’

  ‘Just because the country jumps into a well, you don’t have to jump into the well.’ Sneha rolls her eyes as she murmurs the old aphorism.

  ‘And I don’t want her to be my girlfriend just so I can show off,’ he continues doggedly, ignoring this interruption. ‘I liked her before she did that ad, you know, ne, I told you the story. When I was in Jodhpu—’

  ‘Why can’t you just marry my nice friend from Jhajjar and be happy?’ The words are wrung out of her.

  Shaanu stares at her hopelessly, not sure what to say, when they are interrupted.

  ‘Beta Shaanu?’

  The Choudhary’s voice is so cooingly sweet that both Shaanu’s eyebrows and his antenna rise immediately. He looks at Sneha, his eyes comically conspiratorial, but she just tosses her head and looks away.

  ‘So we are leaving!’ Chimman Singh states the obvious as he enters the room at the head of a wave of children, wiping shahi tukda syrup from his chin.

  ‘Yes,’ Ishaan says formally. ‘Thanks for visiting, pitaji.’

  The older man sits down on the edge of the bed with a grunt.

  ‘Maybe I am too strict,’ he says.

  Ishaan’s jaw drops. ‘Hain?’

  ‘Too strict with you!’ the Choudhary repeats after letting out a small burp. ‘After all, you are an afsar, a Flying Officar ne, I can tell, after living here, seeing your life and all, that a girl from our village just won’t fit in.’

  ‘That’s not the point.’ Ishaan addresses his stepfather, but his eyes are on his sister. ‘It’s not about a girl from a village or a girl from a town. I just want to pick my girl myself.’

  The younger girls giggle. Jaideep Singh nods stoutly.

  ‘Shaanu Bhaisaab wants to do love marriage,’ he explains to his grandfather. ‘Because when you do love marriage, your wife loves you. When you do arrange marriage, she arranges you.’

  ‘Yes yes,’ the old man says tolerantly. ‘Shaanu Bhaisaab feels like that because his mother loved his father.’

  ‘And you?’ Jaideep Singh demands.

  The Choudhary shrugs. ‘Our marriage was arranged.’

  ‘Oh.’ There is a world of pity in the toddler’s voice.

  Shaanu stares at his stepfather.

  ‘So I won’t force you to marry anybody,’ Chimman Singh declares. ‘You find your own girl, chhore, and you marry her and bring her to the haveli for my blessing, bas!’

  Ishaan goggles, rendered absolutely speechless. Has somebody body-snatched Chimman and replaced him with this paragon? He stares at the old man in disbelief, then at Sneha, standing by the window.

  Her lips twist into a bitter smile.

  The old man leans in. ‘Theek se, ne?’

  Ishaan blinks. ‘Thee-theek se, pitaji.’

  ‘Aur haan.’ The Choudhary looks meaningfully at Sneha, who nods, walks to her attaché case, extracts a red velvet box and hands it to her father. He opens it, revealing a chunky gold chain. ‘This is for you. I bought it yesterday from Senco jewellers, Kalkatta, because I’m so proud of you. Here, wear it!’

  ‘For … me?’ Shaanu asks in wonder.

  The old man cracks a rusty smile.

  ‘For you. I’m proud of you, chhore. Pakistaniyon ke plane gira ke, you have made my chest double in size with pride.’

  Ishaan’s grey eyes grow painfully intense. Starting to his feet, he lets the old man drop the chain around his neck.

  ‘And your chest?’ To cover the awkwardness of the moment, Ishaan grins at his sister. ‘Did it double with pride too? Looks the same to me!’

  ‘Chupp.’ Sneha goes pink with embarrassment.

  ‘There’s a flying eagle ka pendant on it,’ the old man says from behind them gruffly. ‘Because Baaz…’

  ‘… means eagle. I know.’ Shaanu turns back towards his stepfather, his voice equally choked.

  Chimman Singh looks him full in the face and smiles. Shaanu smiles back, his heart in his eyes.

  The old man clears his throat self-consciously and shouts, ‘Eiiii bachhaa party, camera lao! Let’s have a family photu!’

  EIGHT

  When Tinka reaches the refugee camp on Saturday morning, she finds the children in an unusually cranky mood. They are usually cheerful after breakfast, their stomachs filled with rice, the winter sun warm on their backs, but today is a cold, wet day and everybody is sluggish and surly and out of sorts.

  When she drops the needle into the groove and claps her hands, they all sort of dwaddle forward, picking their noses and scratching at their mosquito bites, and start to sway half-heartedly to the beat.

  Tinka raises the needle of the LP.

  ‘You can do better than that! Didn’t you eat breakfast?’

  ‘I’m sick of rice,’ somebody grumbles.

  ‘It’s always burnt and smelly.’

  ‘I want to sleep. This is stupid.’

  Not in a particularly sunny mood herself, Tinka is tempted to add several of her own woes to this list. But she’s the grown-up here.

  Shaking off her lethargy, she laughs, restarts the music and roars, ‘C’mon, kids! With feeeeeling!’

  This time, things go a bit better. The upbeat music energizes the maidan, and the long line of smaller ’uns playing the ‘train’ finally get the hang of huffing and puffing and cooo … chookk-chookk-chookking in unison. Strung between them like a pendant on a pearl chain, Mamuni performs her coy act perfectly, flipping the pages of her book while casting flirtatious glances at the two ‘IAF Fighters’ chasing the train in their ‘Jeep’.

  Mere sapno ki rani kab aaye gee tu?

  Aayee rutt mastani kab aaye gee tu?

  ‘Good, very good!’ Tinka shouts as the ‘train’ runs merrily around the maidan. ‘Stop now, everybody, let Mamuni do her thing. Mamuni, smile at Prasanto! Prasanto, stop drooling on the mouth organ, it belongs to your friend. You just have to flirt with Mamuni. Smile at her … smile! Arrey, why aren’t you smiling?’

  ‘Because she’s pregnant,’ announces Prasanto, who has been hanging out with older boys, smoking beedis and downing hooch, and is privy to information he didn’t have at a more innocent time when he’d assumed Mamuni was just fat. ‘She’s dirty! And ugly! I won’t flirt with her! Change her!’

  There is a shocked silence. Some of the kids giggle nervously. Prasanto, perhaps horrified at his own temerity, puts his fingers into his mouth and starts to suck on them.

  Tinka strides forward, her mouth set in a grim line.

  ‘She’s pregnant, yes, but she’s not dirty,’ she says sternly.

  ‘Pregnant without marriage means dirty!’ yells back the boy, puffing out the frail cage of his ribs.

  ‘No!’ Tinka, thoroughly rattled, reaches for the explanation the Missionaries of Charity always give in this situation. ‘All babies come from God!’

  ‘Oho, so God is a West Pakistani rapist?’

  Shocked gasps greet this blasphemous statement.

  Tinka, appalled at the crudity more than the blasphemy, slaps Prasanto across his sneering face.

  ‘Chupp!’ she thunders, aghast at the ugliness of the scene but also aware that she has to make an example of this child or risk losing her authority for good. ‘Say sorry to her.’

  The little boy shakes his head, holding his stinging cheek. ‘I won’t!’

  Tinka’s face darkens.

  ‘Say sorry now,’ she growls, ‘and I’ll let you be in the show. Or don’t say sorry a
nd I’ll throw you out.’

  ‘You can’t throw me out!’ he exclaims, startled. ‘I’m the main!’

  ‘Yes, and you’re a good main, very handsome and an excellent actor,’ Tinka says in a kinder voice, sensing that behind his bluster, he is actually quite close to tears. ‘But if you’re ugly inside, I can’t use you. Your choice, kiddo.’

  They stare at each other, locked in an impasse – the scrawny orphan in loose pyjamas and the privileged young woman in a bright orange kurta – and then Prasanto’s eyes drop.

  ‘Sorry,’ he mutters sullenly to Mamuni.

  ‘Fuck off,’ is her cordial response.

  ‘Mamuni!’ Tinka swivels to glare at her. ‘That was rude! Say sorry.’

  Mamuni stares at Prasanto out of her good eye for a few seconds and then blinks.

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Good children!’ Tinka says, relieved. ‘Now let’s start from where we left off, shall we? Music!’

  Tinka restarts the music and they’re off again, like nothing untoward has happened at all. Things go much better this time, everybody remembers their cues and performs with full energy. In fact, things go so well that they start to attract a crowd of spectators who clap their hands to the beat and cheer lustily. Tinka’s heart almost bursts with pride.

  But halfway through the third verse, just as they’re approaching what the entire troupe agrees is the best bit of choreography, the LP jerks convulsively, Kishore Kumar’s voice starts to drag ominously.

  ‘Kyaaa hai bharrrrr-o-saaa…’

  And the little green light in the gramophone blips off.

  Prasanto and Mamuni stand frozen in the sudden silence, hands stretched towards each other to start the sizzling salsa Kainaz has taught them.

  Damn, Tinka thinks, disproportionately disappointed. They were in such a flow! Everything was going so well! God alone knows when the electricity would come back now.

  She gets to her feet and starts to call the children off the ‘stage’, when a pleasant baritone sounds from the gathered crowd.

  ‘Kya hai bharosa,

  Aashiq dil ka,

  Aur kisi pe, yeh aa jaye…’

  The singer has picked up the verse exactly where Kishore Kumar left off. His voice is tuneful, vibrant and very cheerful. Everybody starts to clap.