Love Knows No LoC

by Arpit Vageria

  One of them said, ‘Amaan Ali sahib and I used to catch up for drinks often.’

  Zoya knew that her grandfather disliked alcohol. Disgusted by these lies, she knew that if she stayed any longer, she would lose her temper. She abruptly left the group and went into Naanu’s room, seeking comfort and solace.

  The moment she stepped in, she felt better; Naanu was watching her from a distance, telling her to smile and be strong. She almost felt his gentle hand on her head and stood very still, not wanting to let go of the moment. She sensed his voice whispering to her and then it suddenly went quiet. She opened her eyes, shaking herself out of the trance and looked around the room. This was home—even if the rest of the house didn’t feel like it any more. She ran her fingers over Naanu’s walking stick lovingly. She picked up his spectacles from his desk and gently wiped the lens with a soft cloth and carefully replaced them in the case. She opened the wardrobe and took out his favourite shirt and buried her face in it. The floodgates burst as his scent flooded her senses and she broke down.

  Nothing would bring him back now; he was gone forever and she just had to live with it.

  Her telephoned pinged with a message from Kabeer:

  ‘Are you home safe, Zoya? I know that this is a difficult time, but remember, there’s a shoulder to lean on just across the border. Call me anytime you like, I promise to do my utmost to cheer you up.’

  CHAPTER 16

  April ’17

  The airline’s automated announcement interrupted Kabeer’s sleep and he stirred, disoriented. A tap on the shoulder by the fellow passenger beside him woke him up fully. Even as he made his way to the luggage carousel, he could hear the thunder of Bangalore traffic.

  He got into his cab as the driver asked, ‘Where to?’

  ‘The Lalit Ashok hotels,’ Kabeer replied. Before they could sally forth, however, the cab driver got into a loud argument with the parking attendant who claimed that the cab had been parked at the airport for ten minutes, which was the minimum time a vehicle could stay before the parking fee kicked in, but the driver protested that he had been there for exactly nine minutes. After a loud and protracted wrangle, the cabbie finally gave in and paid the fare, grumbling all the way to the hotel.

  ‘These south Indians always do this!’ the cabbie cursed under his breath.

  Kabeer, who already had too much on his mind, gazed out of the window and ignored the driver.

  He was still shaken by the previous night’s attack on his cab. Also, he had no idea how his meeting with Zoya tonight would pan out. Although the thought of rejection was daunting, on some level he was looking forward to seeing her again.

  As much as he knew he loved Zoya, there was no telling if she still had the same feelings towards him or not.

  ‘Sir, if you want to drink water, there’s a bottle of mineral water in the seat pocket before you. Would you like to listen to some music?’

  ‘Yes, please. Turn on the radio,’ Kabeer replied quickly to curtail any further attempts at conversation.

  ‘I’ve seen you play cricket, sir. You play like Virat Kohli. Very aggressive. But you’ve got to learn to defend as well sometimes,’ the cabbie turned on the radio after this word of advice and Kabeer heaved a sigh of

  relief.

  The news crackled over the radio: ‘. . . cricketer, Kabeer, was attacked in Mumbai by a violent mob near his hotel. Luckily, he survived because the police arrived in the nick of time.’

  The cab driver looked stunned as he heard the news. He glanced at Kabeer through the rear-view mirror. Kabeer slumped back in his seat as he sensed another conversation commencing and couldn’t help looking heavenwards, asking god to give him strength.

  ‘Sir, never knew you had a good defence as well,’ the driver said tentatively, smiling. Kabeer chose not to reply.

  ‘Can I ask you one question, sir?’ he continued.

  Kabeer sighed, looking out of the window at the heavy traffic.

  ‘How is Zoya madam?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s impertinence,’ replied Kabeer loftily.

  ‘I am sorry, sir. Didn’t mean to pry but I was really happy when I got to know about an Indian dating a Pakistani. Aakhir Sania Mirza ka badla bhi to kisiko lena tha na,’ he said and started laughing. ‘Hamari Sania ko wo le gaye, unki Zoya ko hum le aaye. Hisab barabar,’ he added, chuckling.

  Kabeer clenched his fist and clamped down on his temper. He glared at the cab driver through the mirror. As he made a U-turn and by Toit Brewpub, Kabeer suddenly lurched forward and told him to stop the car immediately.

  This was the pub where Kabeer and Zoya often partied. On the pavement outside the tavern was a tall girl in a sheathe-like black dress with her back to the street, and all Kabeer could see of her was her long dark hair. She was surrounded by a group of people.

  ‘Sir,’ the cab driver protested sensing his fare dwindling, ‘your hotel is quite some distance away.’

  ‘Never mind. Stop here, please.’ The driver slowed down and stopped at the kerb. Kabeer grabbed his bag, stepped out of the cab, his eyes fixed on the girl across the street, and did a dangerous dash through the traffic. As he drew closer, the girl slowly raised her chin and looked straight into his eyes.

  Hope faded away as he looked into the stranger’s eyes. She had looked so much like Zoya from a distance. He stood there, his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath and cursing himself for being an idiot.

  His eyes filled with tears as a flame that had suddenly started burning within him extinguished within seconds. Pedestrians swarmed around him, loudly reprimanding the man who had caused such a disturbance in the traffic. Some of them recognized him after a few moments, realization slowly dawning on their faces. He shouldered his way through the crowd and vehicles back to his cab. People had started clicking pictures with their cell phones by then.

  The cabbie opened the door for him and didn’t say a single word for the remaining part of the journey. Kabeer leaned his forehead on the window glass and stared out into the distance, hardly noticing the bumper-to-bumper traffic. His thoughts were far away, about Zoya. Would he ever see her again?

  Disembarking at the hotel, Kabeer shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. He clearly remembered the day he had spent there with Zoya when they had missed their flight to Mumbai a year ago.

  At the hotel reception, Kabeer specifically asked to be allocated room number 1002. The room abounded with memories of the best time of his life, time he had spent with Zoya.

  When he opened the door, everything came alive before him. The couch where they had made love was still there and the view through the large French windows was still as beautiful.

  ‘Would you like to order something from room service, sir?’ asked the bellboy as he deposited Kabeer’s duffel bag on the luggage rack.

  ‘A bottle of red wine and a tray of cheese, please,’ replied Kabeer foreseeing a long sleepless night before him, beset by memories and regret for what could have been.

  He pulled open the top drawer of the chest of drawers to unpack his meagre belongings from his bag and nearly dropped everything he was holding in his hands. There, in the empty drawer lay another e-ticket of Zoya’s next flight. He could barely believe his eyes.

  When he recovered from his shock, he carefully scanned the room hoping against hope that there was more than just the one clue. He focused on the areas that he thought Zoya might have considered special, but unfortunately, he didn’t find anything more. He scrutinized the boarding pass. Zoya was going to be in Delhi that day. His heart sank as he realized his trip to Bangalore had been in vain

  He wondered whether it was actually another step towards finding Zoya or somebody’s sadistic idea of a sick joke.

  In a day full of unexpected turns of events, it was with hope that he checked out of the hotel within fifteen minutes of checking in. The next flight to Delhi could change his life forever, but he had to be very careful because if it was someone else, not Zoya, orchestrating this w
ild goose chase, that person was stalking him like a real professional.

  CHAPTER 17

  July ’16

  The clouds had turned steadily orange as evening approached and a brisk wind rustled through the leaves of the trees. With the weather bureau dithering about the forecast, people were undecided about whether they should opt for their two-wheelers—much better to navigate through the city’s traffic congestions—or four-wheelers that could afford a modicum of shelter in case the clouds burst. But another storm raged within Zoya.

  Seated in the balcony, facing Naanu jaan’s favourite chair, she thought of all the happy times that they had shared, lively conversations about music—modern-day music as well as the old classics—and her grandfather’s wry witticisms that invariably made her laugh. He often spoke about his yearning for peace between India and Pakistan.

  Today, it was Mamu jaan sitting across from her, to stake his claim to the property of his deceased father—property that had already been bequeathed to his granddaughter, Zoya.

  The possibility of losing everything to her powerful Mamu jaan left Zoya with a fear of not being able to stop the injustice that would happen to her dead grandfather’s wishes. ‘What would you like to have, tea or coffee?’ Zoya asked, disguising her anger.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘You sure about that? You always liked tea.’

  ‘Yes. I don’t like it any more,’ he said and yawned, ‘let’s not pretend that we have ever shared a good relationship, Zoya, and get down to brass tacks.’

  Zoya sipped her cup of green tea, ‘Go on, then, Mamu. What is it you wanted to talk to me about?’

  ‘It has been more than a month since Abbu jaan passed away and we’re all still in mourning.’

  Zoya said nothing, fully aware that her uncle had bottled up his bitterness and rancour for years, and that it would all come out on this day.

  ‘If only you were here taking care of him that day, Zoya, he wouldn’t have lost his life,’ and there it was.

  ‘And you wouldn’t have had to put on this bereaved act today,’ she snapped.

  ‘I am not putting on an act,’ he said belligerently.

  ‘Oh, really? During all these years, you just visited him to get his signatures on cheques, as far as I’m aware. And then you started forging his signature, right?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Zoya,’ he denied heatedly, ‘and I am not here to argue with you. I am my father’s only son and the rightful heir to everything that my father had.’

  ‘And who inherits the responsibilities, duties and liabilities that have accumulated since the time you left?’

  He leaned close to Zoya and she could smell his fetid breath, ‘I always told your mother that you would make a better politician than a singer. Your debating skills were always phenomenal and you won every argument.’

  ‘What’s your point, Mamu?’ Zoya asked in a tired voice.

  ‘I am trying to say that this is the law and you can’t win with your nonsensical speeches. Business is always dirty, so take my advice and don’t get involved in it.’

  ‘And there’s one thing Naanu always told me that you were good at,’ she retorted.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she scoffed. ‘He spent all his life looking for one redeeming quality in you; sadly, his search was in vain.’

  ‘You’ve got a big mouth, Zoya,’ he pushed the chair back with force and stood up. He looked furious.

  ‘Didn’t you just tell me that I was good at it?’ Zoya smiled dourly and relaxed in her chair.

  ‘Is this how you talk to your elders and betters?’

  She shrugged, ‘I offered you refreshments but you declined. And, Mamu, as you said, business is dirty.’

  She flipped open the folder on the patio table, took out a legal document and handed it over to her Mamu.

  ‘You’re five years too late in claiming what could have been yours,’ she said. ‘You can keep that photocopy,’ she said before continuing, ‘Naanu transferred this to my name exactly five years ago. Even if I were to die today, I’m certain it’s never going to be yours, ever. You had better get off my property now, Mamu,’ Zoya commanded coldly.

  Mamu jaan stood rooted to the spot in impotent rage. And then, with one final furious glare at her, he stormed out of the house.

  This house that Amaan Ali had built with great love and care was the house of his dreams, in which he wanted his children and grandchildren to grow up, thrive and prosper. He had worked hard to build a home that would make his family proud of him, but, as time passed, his dreams shattered one by one: he was heartbroken by his daughter’s untimely death. To add to his grief, his son grew indifferent towards him, creating an unfordable chasm. It was Zoya, his granddaughter, who shared his dreams and filled the house with music and happiness. He had hoped to celebrate her wedding with great pomp in this very house.

  When the storm eventually broke that evening, Zoya drew the curtains and shuttered the windows, silently vowing to ensure that no storm ever entered her house again.

  As if on cue, her cell phone buzzed with a message that read, ‘I’m on my way to Pakistan and not to worry, I’ll find your address easily given that you’re quite the celebrity. Just so you know, biryani is my favourite dish. So, dinner tonight at your place.’

  Zoya couldn’t help smiling as she reread Kabeer’s message. She had been ignoring her phone for the past several days.

  ‘If you’re brave enough for my cooking experiments, then sure ?,’ she keyed in and pressed send.

  Hundreds of kilometres away, Kabeer smiled as happiness zinged through him.

  CHAPTER 18

  Just a while ago

  Almost a month and a half after the terrorist attack that had shaken both the countries, Arko and Kabeer were practising in the nets of Wankhede Stadium, Mumbai, at the crack of dawn, preparing to return to Pakistan.

  This was the second game that was to be held there, with much tighter security arrangements this time. It was an unexpected move that had left many scratching their heads. The media was calling it a highly influenced political move, some people called it a courageous one and most cricket experts were of the opinion that it was foolhardy to the extreme. After what had gone down in Lahore during the last ‘friendly’ match, many from the team had backed out from another tour in Pakistan. In their place were eager, younger cricketers, grabbing their first opportunity despite the danger.

  Arko was promoted to captain and Kabeer, in his second international match, was declared vice-captain. Kabeer’s grandfather wasn’t too keen on him going to Pakistan again for a match, but Kabeer was determined to play there despite the circumstances. During the day’s practice session, it was clear, however, that Kabeer’s heart wasn’t in the game.

  He missed yet another full toss and was bowled out in the nets.

  ‘What’s wrong, Kabeer?’ frowned Arko. Like most new captains, he looked understandably worried, especially now that the most junior player in the team had suddenly been promoted to vice-captain.

  ‘Any specific reason you’re so tense?’ Arko repeated, sipping from his water bottle.

  ‘No, why?’

  ‘Would you like to take a break, maybe?’

  ‘I don’t need a break.’

  ‘You do. You’re playing random shots. Something’s bothering you, I can tell,’ Arko sighed. ‘I really need you to pay attention to the game. Cover drive attempts at out-swingers, lousy sweeps at full tosses, uppercuts at good length balls,’ Arko shook his head and clicked his tongue, ‘those are just not on, and we’re about to play internationals!’ Arko paused for breath, before continuing, ‘Is this about what had happened last time? If that’s what’s bothering you, it’s for the good of the team that you leave the squad. That’s me as a captain talking. A friend still cares for your sentiments,’ Arko grinned.

  ‘No, no. I’m over that, I swear. People really want this match to take place, for their own reasons.’

&n
bsp; ‘It’s not about what people want, Kabeer, it’s about whether you feel up to it or not. And to be honest, considering the way you’re playing, I don’t think you’re up to it.’

  ‘I’ve cleared all the required tests by BCCI. What more do I need?’

  ‘Are you mentally fit or still traumatized?’

  Unsure of how to respond, Kabeer remained silent.

  Arko sighed gustily, ‘I’ll just wait for you to wrap up, okay? I want to know what’s going on in your head.’

  ‘How does it matter?’

  ‘It matters. As a sportsperson, you have to concentrate on the game, no matter what. That’s why you’re here to play, against all the odds, and still win for your country. For that, you need a friend with whom you can talk.’

  ‘Am I talking to a friend or my captain now?’

  ‘A friend if you’re willing to loosen up and talk it out, and a captain if you’re going to be the strong, silent type,’ Arko replied. Kabeer slapped him. ‘What was this for?’ Arko demanded, shocked, and looked around to see if anyone else had witnessed the event. But there weren’t many people around.

  ‘I don’t know, I just wanted to slap someone to take my frustration out,’ Kabeer said, chuckling.

  ‘I can get you out of the team for this misconduct, you know that?’

  ‘I slapped my friend, not my captain.’ He smiled, and Arko smiled back. ‘Do you remember Zoya Malik?’ Kabeer asked.

  ‘Who can forget her?’ Arko shrugged, ‘what’s going on, champ?’ He folded his hands, waiting for what Kabeer has to say. Kabeer tucked his bat under his arm and went to sit down on a bench behind the nets.

  ‘We met when she was in India and I felt we developed a connection. Her grandfather, Amaan Ali Malik, died that day while she was performing on stage. She started crying and told me how much she was going to miss him as I drove her to the airport. Some journalist even had the audacity to ask her why she had chosen money over her grandfather’s death. I could see that that shattered her. I have since left a number of text messages and even called her up, asking about how she’s holding up, but she never answers. I’m worried that I read more than I should have into that fleeting encounter.’