One String Attached Read online

  PANKAJ DUBEY

  One String Attached

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  Contents

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  Follow Penguin

  Copyright

  PENGUIN METRO READS

  ONE STRING ATTACHED

  Pankaj Dubey is a bilingual novelist and film-maker. All his books, What a Loser!, Ishqiyapa: To Hell with Love, Love Curry and Trending in Love, published by Penguin Random House India, have been written by him in Hindi as well. He was a journalist with the BBC World Service in London. He was also selected for the prestigious Writers’ Residency in the Seoul Art Space, Yeonhui, South Korea, among three novelists from Asia in 2016. He was awarded the Global Innoventure Award for Literature and Storytelling in the House of Lords, British Parliament, UK, in 2018. Two of his novels, Trending in Love and Ishqiyapa, are being adapted into web series. He can be followed on Twitte @carryonpd. To know more about him, log on to www.pankajdubey.in.

  By the Same Author

  What a Loser!

  Ishqiyapa: To Hell with Love

  Love Curry

  Trending in Love

  1

  6 December 2002, Samachar Apartment Road, Delhi

  An unexplained sadness grips him as soon as he opens his eyes. The premonition washes over him that it won’t be a regular day. Something unpleasant is going to unfold. What that will be . . . he has no idea. Last night wasn’t good either. The fight in the lane for the arrival of the ambulance and then, the silence filled with the wind hammering at his door. So noisy and upsetting. He tossed and turned in bed until late. Not that he sleeps well on other nights. But the darkness leading up to today has been different. It is darker. What could be worse?

  He staggers out of bed and sticks his head out from the window. The sun—the little bit that is visible from here—looks the same. Some blessing that is. All else in his life has crumbled in the past decade. Shivam splashes water on his face and gets ready to face the day. He walks over to the part of the room that functions as his kitchen to make his tea and pack his lunch. He puts water to boil and chops two potatoes and two onions. Then he finds that he has run out of salt. No sabzi then. Rotis and onions will have to do.

  Then it hits him again. Today is no ordinary day.

  Someone bangs on his door. As he walks to it, the calendar on the side wall catches his eye. 6 December. His heart stops. Almost.

  There is more banging on the door. He hears it but doesn’t respond. Instead, he crumbles to the floor, his head in his hands, fighting to block out the screams and cries tearing at him from within. After the noise outside stops, he gets up and showers and dresses for work. An hour later, Shivam revs up his motorcycle, acting normal. Helmet and knapsack on, he races down Delhi’s sprawling roads before much of the city has woken up. He drives to the residential area of Lajpat Nagar and, parking his motorbike under a tree, walks to his tailoring boutique, a few metres away.

  This has been his routine for the past ten years.

  His muscular torso and easy, measured walk belie his tormented state of mind. A controlled existence—that’s Shivam’s mantra these days. He lets neither the demons inside nor the world outside affect him much.

  ‘Designer sahib!’ cries Munjal, his over-friendly neighbour, who runs a photocopy and computer printout unit from a hole in the wall in the opposite building. Shivam unlocks and rolls up the shutters of his tailoring shop as the morning news blares on Munjal’s radio.

  It’s ten years today since the Babri Masjid was demolished. Still, we are nowhere near closure. Despite the issue dominating every single election and affecting crores of people across the country . . . the Supreme Court has yet again assigned one more date to the dispute petitions.

  Instead of stepping into his shop, Shivam turns towards Munjal’s cubbyhole, pushes his arm in, and abruptly switches off the radio.

  ‘Oy! That’s my radio!’ Munjal reminds the tailor.

  But Shivam walks out, unapologetic.

  A string of filthy swear-words follows. But, in his heart, Munjal knows that the tailor isn’t a bully. He is generally gentle and non-interfering. He hardly ever speaks. What has happened today, he wonders. ‘Babri . . . Shivam doesn’t want to hear that word again. Yet, he keeps getting reminded of it . . . twice since morning. First, that calendar. And now, the radio. Hell! Anger. Pain. Helplessness. They grip him all at once. He wants to blow up the whole damn universe . . . make it as empty as he feels. As he stands next to his machine, his back to Munjal’s shop, his eyes begin to mist. He fights the tears. Fist clenched, he tells himself he won’t let a teardrop fall. He has locked up his feelings so well for so long. He won’t let them show now. No one will under. . .

  His cell phone rings. Shivam is not surprised to get a call at this early hour. He fishes out the phone from his jeans pocket and puts it to his ear.

  ‘Kitty!’ Munjal hears the tailor exclaim. Shivam hardly has any calls. Who is calling him now? Maybe it’s his girlfriend, the slightly chubby, almond-eyed Gujju woman who visits his boutique at least once a week. It is hard to concentrate on his customers while she is around. Her bouncing anklets—she wears three on her left leg—catch his eye every time.

  ‘Not today,’ Shivam’s lips are drawn in a line.

  How can he put her off? Munjal shakes his head. Such a looker she is! Keen on the tailor too. Yes, he has noticed and envies that cold-blooded fellow.

  ‘Okay. Come,’ he says with a sigh. As Shivam finally gives in, a smile stretches on Munjal’s moustachioed lips. He has something to look forward to in his day.

  Not so for the tailor, who throws his phone on the table and gets busy with his daily routine of measuring, drawing, cutting and sewing.

  ‘Robot kahin ka,’ mutters Munjal.

  2

  On a narrow stretch of road with residential apartments and a few shops on either side, between the row of sedate houses and grocery and stationery stores, Shivam’s Aaina Boutique provides a colourful break, with its gaudy mannequins—slinky low-cut blouses in loud colours, tight salwar kurtas in garish patterns and cuts, and a special wedding range of lace and sequins catches the eyes of those passing by. Added to this is a constant stream of female customers of all shapes and sizes. The shop is quite an attraction.

  Apart from Munjal, the watchman of the adjacent apartment complex also has his eye on the boutique, though that is not what he had been employed for. From the dressing up of the mannequins in their weekly outfit every Thursday morning to their disrobing Wednesday nights before pack up—they miss nothing. Munjal sees the tailor tuck, pin and smoothen out the blouse on the mannequin’s frame till it sits snug. When Shivam drapes a sari or lehenga tightly round the plastic doll, the guard expels a breath he had been holding.

  Shivam, though, seems to go about his business without a shred of emotion. At thirty-one, he looks much younger and more attractive than his envious neighbour Munjal. He does not change his facial expression for anyone. Not even for the flesh-and-blood beauties flocking to his boutique—little girls with their mothers for an occasional dress, young girls on the brink of puberty for tight
-fitting suits and backless cholis, buxom women requesting him for the latest in blouses. All through it, his face stays impassive. Come festive season, the shop is heaven, overflowing with angels. He measures them, standing close. Seeing them, and yet not looking. Both Munjal and the guard sit drooling from their distant perches.

  Kitty arrives in a sleeveless mauve top and fitted denim capris. It is December and still no sleeves! She puts Munjal in the heat. Kitty flails her hands as she speaks. She looks more excited than usual. She pats Shivam on the shoulder, tries to get close to him.

  Munjal grumbles to himself as he can’t hear her.

  Shivam stands before Kitty, his eyes and ears open, but mind elsewhere. She snaps her fingers to get his attention.

  Embarrassed, Shivam tunes in to her again.

  ‘Is something wrong, Shivu?’ she asks.

  He shakes his head. No

  ‘You’re game for this na?’ she continues. ‘We’ll pucca scorch the ramp.’

  Shivam is in two minds.

  Kitty gets this. So before he can say no, she unleashes the full blueprint of her idea. ‘Twelve ensembles to begin with . . . this for the Kolkata showing . . . Next, we go to Hyderabad. And . . . ’ she grips his arm then, ‘if they like us, Shivu . . . and I know they will . . . there’s no stopping us then . . . ’ Into his ears, she whispers, ‘Orders, orders . . . only orders, then!’ she says triumphantly, her eyes twinkling with the dream.

  Kitty, so ambitious and talented. Shivam wants to dream with her. Make those dreams come true. But he stops. He is feeling low, he tells her.

  ‘Why didn’t you say this before?’ chirps Kitty. ‘Chalo, my treat. We’ll have chole bhature . . . even I’ve not eaten anything since . . . ’

  ‘Arrey, I didn’t mean that!’ Shivam pulls back as she begins dragging him out of the shop. ‘You took me literally.’

  Kitty’s cell phone rings, stalling their battle for the moment.

  Munjal is enjoying the show. So is the guard.

  Kitty ends her call. Shivam is about to decline her again, firmly this time, when he catches Munjal ogling. Not wanting to provide more entertainment for Munjal or the guard, he lets her take him for chole bhature or whatever . . .

  * * *

  Dipping his fluffy bhatura into the spicy chola curry, Shivam considers the girl squeezed in next to him, shoulder to shoulder, on the tiny bench in Ramlal’s famous Lajpat Nagar dhaba.

  ‘Have with this,’ she says, spooning pickled onions into his mouth.

  Shivam almost chokes. It isn’t the onions. It is her. He does not know how to handle her.

  She is close to him and yet not close. And he does not have the . . .

  She offers him another spoonful, cutting into his thoughts.

  ‘Wait . . . I’ll have . . . I will.’

  ‘No,’ she puckers her lips into a pout. ‘Can’t I?’

  He lets her feed him and talk about all that plays on her mind and she goes on and on with her idea map, drawing out the future in detail, hers, his, and theirs.

  ‘Shivu,’ she murmurs as he escorts her to her scooty, twenty minutes later. ‘We are a good fit . . . and not just in work, I mean.’ With that she zips away, leaving him thinking about what she has just said. For a few minutes, Shivam just stands there confused, in a bind over whether to work with her or not. Still undecided, he slowly walks back to his shop and picks up work from where he had left it.

  The day rolls on. Once the sun reaches its zenith, Shivam gets up from his sewing machine and moves to the shop counter that doubles up as his work table. Neatly dressed in an ochre-yellow checked shirt tucked into chestnut-brown trousers, held in place by a narrow black belt, he looks dapper despite his unassuming air. His hair falls on his forehead as he bends over the counter to measure a piece of cloth. He jerks his head up to throw back the flick covering his eyes.

  If only he could throw back the years in the same way . . .

  If he could turn the clock back ten years . . .

  Ten years since the mosque came down, ending with it everything and everyone that mattered to Shivam. Yes, everything . . . everything, but Babloo, that music-mad friend of his. Shivam laughs at the irony of Babloo being left behind. Even in the netherworld, they must not have the courage to bear the fellow’s shrill singing.

  Shivam’s laugh attracts Munjal’s curiosity and he gets off his stool and walks across to the boutique.

  ‘Chacha?’ Shivam asks, unsure why the middle-aged man has suddenly chosen to bless his shop.

  ‘What Chacha, Chacha . . . do you have nothing else to say?’

  ‘No, no . . . it’s not like that,’ says Shivam a bit embarrassed, his eyes still on the pattern he has been drawing with chalk on the fabric. ‘Just that I’m not good at talking to people.’

  ‘Not good, my foot! With that Kitty of yours, you are faster than Rajdhani!’ counters Munjal, referring to the superfast train.

  Not bothering to reply, Shivam spreads the cut-piece fabric he folded earlier to mark out a blouse pattern. With the eagle-eyed neighbour watching him keenly, he checks the armhole length and shoulder-to-shoulder measurement once again. He then cuts out the front and back shapes and arranges them on his table for sewing, not forgetting the pleats and the straight bands on which hooks will be fixed.

  ‘Wow!’

  Before Shivam can stop him, the photocopy manager picks up the front cut-out of a blouse and dangles it in wonder in front of him, imagining how it will look when ready.

  No, he can’t allow this! Shivam pulls the piece back from his hands and looks angrily at the neighbour. He can’t just walk over to his boutique any time he feels like and touch his things and get turned on at the thought of the customer!

  ‘Please don’t disturb me,’ he says firmly. ‘If even one measurement goes wrong, the whole piece will get spoilt.’

  ‘It’s for Taneja madam, na?’ asks Munjal, ignoring his statement, ‘I’m sure . . . it seems her size.’

  ‘Come, let’s have some tea,’ offers Shivam, wanting to divert his middle-aged visitor’s attention. Throwing an arm around his shoulders, he leads the man out of his shop.

  Barely a few metres away, under a tarpaulin shack, the chai wallah conducts brisk business. As the two sit cradling their tiny glasses of hot, milky, ginger chai, Munjal laments, ‘Why can’t we do this more often?’

  Because this isn’t what he wants to do. With Munjal, or with anyone for that matter.

  He can hear Munjal growl irately. ‘It’s always the machine . . . your ma’ams . . . and back to the sewing machine. It seems nothing else exists!’

  Yes, accepts Shivam. It’s always the machine. For the machine is all he has left in his life.

  3

  Ayodhya, 1992

  Even back then, the sewing machine had been at the centre of all his disputes with his family. His mother had one and he enjoyed seeing her work on it. If there was any mending to be done, he would happily help. Soon, he was not just mending but also experimenting, as he tried to sew all kinds of things—pillow covers, curtains, dresses—newer designs and patterns constantly playing on his mind. All this when his Baba, Mahant Avdhesh, the head priest of the temple at the Ram Janmabhoomi site, venerated by all in this temple town of Ayodhya, was looking to groom him into his able successor.

  ‘Shivam!’

  The booming voice sent Shivam scurrying into the mahant’s room.

  His father was arranging the thali—a huge, copper plate with a brass lamp, camphor, vermilion and more—for the mangal-aarti ritual the next day, when the lit-up ghee-soaked wicks would be waved ceremoniously in offering to the gods.

  ‘For a change, make yourself useful,’ he bellowed on seeing his son.

  As Shivam went about fetching whatever his priest father demanded next, the old man didn’t hold himself back:

  ‘Just running around here and there won’t do . . . twenty-one year old and not one mangal aarti I can trust you to lead . . . mahant ka beta . . . par genda phool ho .
. . you’re just for decoration!

  Being likened to marigold blossoms used to deck up the idols was supposed to be derogatory, but Shivam didn’t find it so. The yellow, orange, multi-hued balls of petals, which were stitched into garlands and temple over-hangings or fashioned into bracelets and anklets for the divine, had always fired his imagination.

  So, he smiled. His grumbling father noticed that tiny gesture and launched a tirade.

  He thought the boy was mocking him. Picking up the stick that he kept in the room to scare away monkeys, he grabbed his offspring by the collar of his fancy turquoise shirt and started beating him. Thwack . . . thwack . . .

  ‘Aaaah! Shivam yelped, jumping in pain as he tried to dodge the stick. All that mudgal swinging he had done in the akhara next door came to naught. Same as the monkeys, he ran around yelping in pain. Clearly his gym trainer was wrong when he promised him that working out with the five-kilo Indian club would turn him into Vajra.

  ‘Stop!’ His mother rushed in and wedged herself between the two men. ‘He’s just twenty-one, why do you forget!’

  ‘He’s forgetting, not me,’ hit back the seething priest, the stick still trembling in his hand. ‘Twenty-one! Yet up to no good.’

  Shivam found his voice once the stick was gone. ‘Your good is not my good, Baba.’

  That brought the mahant stomping up to him again, spitting fire.

  ‘Kal ka launda, you’ll teach me . . . I, Mahant Avdhesh . . . I . . . ’ he stammered in rage. ‘Ministers come to me to set their lives right. I . . . I do their puja. And you, my own blood . . . you dare defy me.’

  ‘Hear him out,’ his mother pleaded, shielding her son from the mahant’s wrath.

  ‘Don’t be a priest if you don’t want to. Set up a prasad shop. Selling divine oblations brings good money. And you’ll be blessed too.’

  ‘No. You know, that’s not what I want to do.’

  ‘Then what you want to do . . . stick your head in ladies’ blouses with that Muslim darzi!’ The mahant thundered, drawing menacingly close again.