by Shobhaa De
‘You are new here… I mean, to the park, this area…’ she said, her voice muffled behind her beautiful mask (hmm, a handstiched denim one, I noted). I pointed to my building and said, ‘Decided to spend time with my parents… you know… lockdown duty!’ I made it sound cool. Like a semi-joke.
Her eyes smiled some more. She wore mascara, and her eyes were lined with a green pencil. It was impossible to figure out her age, but going by her figure and the fading highlights in her hair (which was tied in a high pony), I guessed we were the same age - mid-thirties. I could recognize the dangerous signs welling up within - the Roohiwala signs. My voice had changed. And I was flirting with my large, expressive eyes, staring openly at the lovely stranger.
‘Shaalu...’ I said, and tried a gloved fist greeting. Her hands remained where they were. ‘Minu…’ she replied, adding, ‘our names rhyme.’
We both laughed. ‘Do you know where to source jowar ka atta from? I am new to the area, and avoid wheat. Gluten-resistant.’
I said a bit too eagerly, ‘I can run home and get you bajra. My mother makes bajra bhakris… can get you those, too.’
Minu’s eyes smiled, ‘You are so sweet and helpful and kind… it’s hard to make friends in Mumbai.’
My heart was hers. I wanted to tear open my chest and hand it to her, there and then while she ran on the spot and I panted. ‘I have run out of too many essentials… and my grocery store is saying to stock up with whatever they have before even those supplies run out. How are you managing?’
I shrugged and said, ‘My folks are old timers. They have a good relationship with the kiraanawalla. You just give me your list… I will arrange whatever you want. Except booze! But I have an extra bottle of decent gin.’
Her eyes were shining! Minu was pleased with me! She said, ‘Let’s punch in our numbers when we finish this round. It will be easier to co-ordinate everything from now on.’
Oh my God! She had said, ‘From now on.’ I wanted to jump in the air and yell, ‘Yayyyyy!’ But stopped myself.
She said, ‘Gotta get going... Zoom party in twenty minutes! Must tart up!’ My heart sank. Zoom party! With whom? And why tart up? She could have asked me to join after we exchanged numbers. But she hadn’t. I couldn’t sleep all night thinking of Minu partying with very successful, very glamourous people - she must be a highly sought after person, why would she befriend me?
The next day was awful for me, Aie had woken up with a slight temperature and a sore throat. Baba was worried, and wanted me to take her to the nearest testing centre in the evening.
I said, ‘No! That won’t be possible!’ before I could stop myself. Baba looked upset and angry, asking agitatedly, ‘Why not?’
Like a fool I blurted out, ‘I have to give a packet of jowar and three avocadoes to my friend in the park.’ He looked at me like I had gone mad. ‘You want your mother to die of Covid while you run to give fruits and vegetables to some friend?’
‘Baba - not fruits and vegetables. Jowar and avocadoes - there’s a big difference.’ He looked like his eyes would fall out of his sockets .Then his body slumped. With a wave of his hand and in a tired, small voice he said, ‘Go… go to your friend. I will take care of Aie.’
I am ashamed to admit I did just that. Since there was still a small window left for people to buy essentials, I all but ran to the corner store and pleaded with the owner to give me the atta. He asked, ‘Will bajra do?’ He was out of jowar… shit! Bastard! I took the bajra anyway and went in search of avocadoes. No luck. So I spent on imported ‘Beauty pears’ instead. And bought three, top grade, organically grown Hapus mangoes, hand-picked from the vendor’s peti.
I placed everything in a jute bag and went in search of Minu. She was talking on her cell phone (latest model) and waved out. I lifted up the jute bag and indicated with a thumbs up sign that I had succeeded in my mission. As I walked up to her, following my nose, she turned her back to me and continued talking in a low voice. I didn’t feel bad or anything. Must have been an important work call.
Her mood had changed when she abruptly ended the call. ‘Let’s run,’ she said, ignoring my outstretched hand holding the jute bag. I loved her workout gear and complimented her. She kept running like she hadn’t heard me.
When we completed ten rounds of the small park, she sat down on a wooden bench and pointed to a space three feet away for me to sit.
‘Something wrong?’ I asked.
‘Just a shitty day at work,’ she replied.
After a pause I asked, ‘What do you do?’
Minu said, ‘I am a stylist… you know? I style Bollywood stars… models... celebrities. But because of this fucking lockdown, no work is happening. All shoots are cancelled. Most glam magazines have shut down or are using file photos. I don’t know how I am going to pay my credit card bills this month. And I have an EMI on hold - for this fucking fancy phone that I no longer need.’
I was so impressed. No wonder she was so stylish - she was a stylist! Even her mask was stylish, glittering away with tiny sequins. I was thinking of ways to make her smile.
So I blurted out, ‘I can give you money - not much. But what I can spare. You can return it after the lockdown.’ She smiled!
Her eye make-up was of a deep plum colour and it suited her eyes. ‘Really? You have money to give? I love youuuuuuuu.’
My heart stopped beating. My lungs also collapsed. I wasn’t breathing. She didn’t notice. She was talking on the phone animatedly and telling someone she had managed to ‘score some funds’. Meanwhile, I was asking myself where I’d get the money from. Nothing else mattered.
‘How much can you spare, bro?’ she asked. Why was she calling me bro?
I didn’t reply immediately, so she held up her index finger. ‘One thousand?’ I asked. She burst out laughing, ‘Dude… what does anybody get for 1K… come on, talk sense.’
I felt so foolish! So I added, ‘Arrey… I was just joking! I guess you need one lakh, right?’
She nodded, ‘To start with. That will just about cover some small stuff.’
I swore to myself I would get it for her. Then I heard her on the phone again. She was discussing the colour of a lehenga and talking about the embroidery style on the achkan.
Wow! Maybe she was in charge of styling someone really famous - a big, big Bollywood star. Maybe she was styling Alia for her wedding. I asked eagerly if she was Alia’s personal stylist. She said vaguely, ‘Sort of. She is one of our clients.’
‘Have you met her? Interacted with her directly? Is she a sweet person?’ Minu smiled. Again! Picked up her water bottle and announced, ‘Gotta run! Another fucking Zoom thingie. Webinar… such a waste of time. So much bakwas. See you tomorrow, bro. Bring cash, okay?’
She was gone. Leaving a trail of ‘Eternity’. Minu had left the jute bag with the bajra atta and the pears. Poor thing, she had forgotten to take it from me in her hurry. I’d make sure she took it with her tomorrow - the atta, pears… and cash. I would pack the money separately, of course. When I got home, Aie and Baba had left for the clinic. There was a short note on the kitchen table. Baba hated cell phones. And Aie was feeling weak, so maybe she hadn’t called for that reason. Aie had left food for me, near the gas range.
But I wanted cash, not food. And I found it inside Baba’s steel trunk, in a brown paper envelope neatly labelled, ‘Emergency fund For Medical Expenses. Rupees Three lakhs.’ Baba had always been a very organized, disciplined man. Inside were old notes, neatly folded. I counted them carefully - two lakhs fifty thousand. He must have removed fifty thousand when he took Aie for a check up. I was honest enough to take only one lakh for Minu. I could have taken the balance. But Minu had asked for one lakh only. I kept the money under my pillow and tried to sleep. By the time I heard sounds in the kitchen, it was well past midnight. It was Baba. Just Baba.
‘Where’s Aie?’ I asked sleepily.
‘At Kasturba Hospital,’ he replied. ‘Aie’s test results will come tomorrow… if she tests po
sitive...’ Baba touched his forehead and looked skywards. My heart sank. Not for Aie. But for myself.
Khalaas! I was doomed. This meant just one thing - Baba and I would be in quarantine and I wouldn’t be able to leave the house or give the money to Minu. In just a few hours, the BMC people would be here to seal not just our home, but our small building. They would sanitize everything and spray all the rooms, as they kept showing on TV. Our wrists would be stamped and we would be told to not step outside our front door. I would be finally, hopelessly trapped.
And that was when I realized. I was trapped already. I had been trapped for a while now. Perhaps since I lost Roohi. But it was time to get out. I knew I would lose Minu. I knew it. But that was alright. I went to my room and picked up the half-used bottle of ‘Eternity’ - why did I still have it even - and threw it into the garbage can. I would have to figure out a way to put the money back into Baba’s trunk. He was going to need it now. Baba shuffled up to where I was seated, slumped on my bed. He handed me a bottle of sanitizer. ‘Aie sent it for you,’ he said. And walked out.
Feeling trapped was going to be my ‘new normal’ from now on. If not Minu, I would find a Tinu. And I knew then itself that my future was going to be another, even bigger trap. With Baba. Aie was not coming back. And Baba couldn’t live on his own.
Shobhaa De is a widely read author and columnist. She is known for her outspoken, irreverent views, making her one of India’s most respected opinion shapers. Her writings have consistently chronicled her deeply felt socio-political-cultural concerns.
First published in India by Simon & Schuster India, 2020
A Viacom CBS company
Copyright © Shobhaa Dé, 2020
The right of Shobhaa Dé to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with Section 57 of the Copyright Act 1957.
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