One String Attached Page 3

  Babloo whacked his friend playfully, trying to curb Shivam’s excitement. At least his friend had not screamed this time. That would have exposed their hiding place. As they crouched behind the banner on the water tank, Shivam could not take his eyes away from the ground. What was it about this girl that made him take such risks?

  Then as if Babloo had heard him, he nudged Shivam again and repeated his question. ‘Arrey, tell na . . . how does it feel . . . all this love-shove?’

  ‘I feel . . . I feel alive and dead at the same time.’

  Babloo looked blankly at him. ‘Huh?’

  ‘Not seeing her kills me . . . and then one look from her, just one, and I want to live forever.’

  ‘Bhaiya, you’re turning into a dreamer.’

  ‘You will too, Babloo . . . when love hits you.’

  ‘No way,’ denied his friend swiftly. ‘Music is enough for me.’

  ‘Music feeds on love,’ Shivam threw back at him. ‘Every song Nusrat saheb sings, he sings for us.’ Then he sighed, ‘Arrey, I can flunk twelfth again . . . just for one smile from her.’

  Babloo was impressed. Not clearing the school final had almost killed his friend.

  As the game wound up and the girls lined up to go indoors, his friend’s girl in the burqa looked one last time in their direction, before joining the others.

  ‘Did you see that? She knows!’ Shivam squeezed Babloo’s arm and pointed out, jubilantly.

  ‘You’re a hero, Bhaiya,’ acknowledged Babloo, as they jumped down the tank and went back the way they had come.

  ‘What you want?’ asked Shivam then, not falling for the ‘hero’ bait.

  ‘No, Bhaiya. Why would I want anything at all?’ But a minute later, he confessed, ‘Those new cassettes are out . . . the ones I was telling you about yesterday, and I’m short on cash.’ He looked down as they walked out.

  Shivam laughed, ‘Okay, so this is what makes you hang out with me!’

  ‘No. Never!’ Babloo said with a pained look. ‘Let it be. I don’t want the cassettes.’

  ‘Arrey, I know.’ Shivam put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. ‘How crazy you are about music. I know. I’ll get you the cassettes.’

  ‘Bhaiya, don’t you ever question our friendship,’ His face was sombre, ‘I will do anything for you . . . anything.’

  Shivam laughed it off as the two cycled over to the front gate of the girls’ school, to begin the second phase of their watch.

  A stream of girl students flowed out. It was a flurry of blue kurtas and excited chattering faces, their cotton chunnis dancing behind them, with their bouncing school bags. Both an ice-cream wallah and a makeshift chaat food stall did brisk business as a gaggle marched over to them excitedly. A number of burqas fluttered out too, billowing in black or blue. Shivam sought out that one blue wave he had deemed his own. He looked past these cloaks for that singular beauty . . . the one that no veil could hide.

  And there she was . . . surrounded by her salwar kameez-clad friends, weaving her way out. A pep in her step . . . half-skipping as she walked, her mind running on hundred different tracks as she made her way to the gate. He watched her wave to someone, call out to another, and then get startled by a stray cat that crossed her way. She lit up all his senses . . . even half-asleep he would know it was her . . . of that he was sure.

  Nearing the gate, she got self-conscious. He saw her growing less chirpy and walking on her toes a bit, maybe, trying to look taller. The gang paused at the gate. Seeing the boys, the girls poked their burqa friend, passed comments and started giggling. She continued walking but pretended she hadn’t heard them. Shivam held his breath as she drew closer, within inches of him. Before she crossed the road to reach her rickshaw, their eyes locked. For one brief, timeless moment. And he drowned in the depth of all that he saw in them.

  She saw him drowning. And let him. She knew he didn’t want to be saved. Her eyelashes fluttered. And they connected, needing no words.

  In that crowded lane, she saw only him. And he, her. The cacophony of horns, traffic and people reached their ears but didn’t register. It was as if they were suspended in each other’s magic.

  ‘Wait, Bhaiya, I’ll get Monu’s Luna . . . you go after her on that bike,’ said Babloo, getting up from his perch.

  Her eyes widened at this. Shivam held his friend back with a hand, not breaking eye contact with her. And then she was gone. On the rickshaw she’d hailed.

  ‘Aaina!’ he called out to her once she was gone.

  Babloo sighed. Watching it on screen was one thing . . . up close, love was a painful business.

  ‘I was getting the Luna. Why did you stop me?’

  ‘Your sister knows her. Can you not fix one meeting,’ he asked as if he hadn’t heard his friend.

  ‘Today only, maa kasam,’ swore Babloo. I’ll talk to her.’

  Shivam sighed, got on his bike and cycled away. He was singing a popular romantic number.

  6

  Aaina stepped out of the rickshaw and plunged straight into an argument.

  ‘Is it biting you?’ Naved said sarcastically as he watched his sister pull off her burqa the minute she stepped inside the house.

  ‘Wear it and see na, you’ll know!’ she retorted.

  Ammi left the spice jar she was filling in the kitchen and entered the hall breathing fire. ‘Aaina, mind how you talk to your brother!’

  ‘Why, Ammi? Why do you always take his side?’ Aaina said.

  ‘Naved is right. You’re getting too disrespectful. Abbu won’t like it.’

  ‘No one likes anything I do!’ Aaina pulled her niqab back in anger and sat pouting, refusing to eat the khana Ammi offered.

  Naved smirked. This was the daily drama of the Farooqui household.

  ‘Girls should stay like girls,’ Ammi mouthed for the hundredth time to her rebellious seventeen-year-old, even as she threw back the girl’s veil and fed her forcefully.

  ‘I was feeling hot, Ammi,’ Aaina told her mother once her obnoxious brother was out of earshot.

  ‘I know. But you can’t answer back to men like this . . . they won’t take it.’

  ‘Men!’ Aaina rolled her eyes and tried to imagine a grown-up version of that monstrous younger brother of hers. ‘Ammi, he’ll never grow up.’

  ‘Chup!’ Ammi silenced her.

  ‘He won’t,’ she insisted, ‘because Abbu won’t let him.’

  Ammi’s eyes welled up with tears. Her daughter reminded her so much of herself, but aeons ago.

  ‘Mind your words,’ Naved said, walking into the mother-daughter conversation.

  ‘You mind yourself . . . you need to!’ Aaina gave it back.

  ‘Lower your gaze, when you talk to me!’ the boy mimicked his Abbu, riling up his sister even more.

  ‘That’s for boys failing twice in one grade. You should look down.’

  ‘Aaina!’ Ammi stopped her daughter from battling further. But the damage was done.

  ‘You wait, I’ll crush that crown you’ve got on your head,’ her brother slammed his fist in anger. Aaina had topped her class, so her jibe that he had failed stung. ‘College . . . now you see who lets you go . . . you wait now . . . ’ Naved threatened her, standing right before her and emphasized what he had said with an exaggerated shake of his neck.

  Aaina was almost in tears. College, education, freedom . . . how she craved these. This grudging, useless brother of hers would now go fill Abbu’s ears with rubbish, making her case impossible.

  Naved was not finished. He had more bones to pick.

  ‘Why have you not removed that nail polish . . . Abbu told you na?’

  Now Ammi sent him out of the room.

  Aaina looked down at her nails, painted blue to match her eyes. Very few things were not haram for a girl, nail paint being one of the few things her religion did not forbid. And how she treasured these little indulgences that were permitted—a miniature, flower-shaped wooden brooch to the side of her burqa, just where the niqab fell,
touching her shoulders. She even dared to walk out in high heels sometimes. These were tiny, harmless adornments, proclaiming her womanhood and making her stand out from the rest. Things, he noticed, thought Aaina, and smiled. Her mother gave her a questioning look.

  ‘Nothing.’ Aaina shook her head.

  Unconvinced, Ammi looked at her closely. Ammi was one person who could read into her heart. Scared, she skipped to hug her mother, hiding her face in Ammi’s ample bosom.

  No, it wouldn’t do to let her into her thoughts. Ammi would not be happy and would bar her from stepping out of the house alone.

  She could not risk that. Never. Her admirer, his flowers, his daily visits, all of it would have to stay a secret.

  In one emotional moment, two years ago, Ammi had mentioned how she loved dancing and would go for classes secretly. She had even performed with boys on stage. Then, her parents found out and got her engaged overnight. They married her off to Abbu soon after. And what had she become? Aaina sneaked up a glance, even as her arms stayed around her mother’s girth. Listless. That’s how Ammi’s eyes looked. Not expressive, alive, and burning with passion as a dancer’s should be. As Ammi gently disengaged and walked away to answer her son’s call, Aaina discerned in her mother’s gait a rhythm and grace that she had thought of as regular. Yes, it was there. Dead, but there.

  Watching Ammi pamper the youngest male member of the household, Aaina mourned the passing away of the passion. Ammi now looked like a pillar, polished to reflect the whims, fancies and beliefs of her husband. A husband who got swayed by whatever was trending in the community at that particular moment, like that illogical fatwa against wearing nail polish by a random cleric a few months ago. Abbu had been after Aaina about the nail polish since. Sometimes, Abbu acted progressively. It was in one such instance that he decided to give both his children the best education available in their city. At most other times though, he went by rusty beliefs, framing ever-new rules, making them binding on the family, especially on its female members. Ammi weathered it calmly, striking a harmonious balance with her domestic responsibilities.

  Aaina refused to become another Ammi. She prayed and believed in all the teachings. But she also believed in herself . . . her thoughts . . . her desires—the sweet and sour churning that went on inside her. It confused her at times but also made her sing and skip and smile so often.

  So she fished out the tiny bottle of nail paint from the drawer in her corner cupboard and began touching up her nails.

  ‘Ouch, your nail dug in!’ yelped Shivam, pulling his head away.

  ‘So stay still na.’

  A soft whack on the back nudged Shivam to sit up again. And ma resumed the head massage. She was doing his champi—pouring hot coconut oil onto his scalp and rubbing it in by pressing and drumming her palms rhythmically on his head. But her boy just could not sit in one place—turning to talk to Babloo, bending to look at something, picking up another thing. It was a heroic effort to get the oil in without it dripping all over his face and shirt. In all that clapping and stroking to coax the oil in, she now needed to ensure that her nails did not bite his skin.

  ‘Have you fixed the meeting?’ Shivam asked his friend as his mother cupped her palm, poured oil in and rubbed the back of his head.

  He got no reply. He had to turn his head to find Babloo lost in a world of his own—head bobbing in tandem with whatever was playing on his Walkman. Shivam leaned across and yanked off the headphones.

  ‘What man!’

  ‘What . . . what?’ Shivam countered. ‘Get lost! And take that damned gadget out with you.’

  ‘Arrey, Bhaiya, I won’t use it,’ Babloo promised. ‘But you’ve got to hear this remix. I got it done myself, in the studio.’

  Shivam dismissed it with a desultory wave of his hand.

  ‘Once, Bhaiya, once. Just listen to it once. I promise you won’t want to hear anything else!’

  ‘Chup bey! You say this for every new song you get.’

  ‘You don’t take me seriously na,’ Babloo whined, ‘I’ll show you . . . few years, and I’ll show you.’

  Shivam sniggered.

  Babloo ignored him and chimed on. ‘My future’s in music. Only music.’

  ‘And mine in blue eyes . . . only blue eyes.’

  The words were out even before Shivam realized he had uttered them.

  ‘Blue eyes?’ His mother caught on immediately, her hands slowing down.

  ‘Shivam is talking of Shiva . . . ’ started Babloo, trying to deflect her.

  But she cut him short. ‘Yes, I’m sure he looks deep into god’s eyes.’

  ‘Arrey, my ma is smarter than you, lallu!’ Shivam laughed.

  ‘But not my son.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning . . . he chooses the wrong path . . . always,’ said his mother.

  ‘The one who listens to Nusrat Ali can never be wrong,’ declared Babloo.

  ‘Again, Muslim. Even in songs, why it has to be a Muslim?’ She gets annoyed. ‘What’s it with you boys? Have you forgotten you are Hindu?’

  ‘Don’t talk like Baba,’ Shivam said.

  ‘Gulshan Kumar’s bhajans won’t burn your ears,’ she persisted.

  ‘But they will fry his heart for sure,’ replied Babloo, winking at his friend.

  ‘Baba was right. I should look for an achchi girl . . . she’ll set him right.’ Ma’s pronouncement riled up Shivam.

  ‘And who’ll feed and clothe this achchi girl of yours? You? Baba?’

  ‘Thank God! At least you realize she will be your responsibility,’ his mother said, folding her hands. ‘Soon, very soon, this stitching ka bhoot will also vanish. Craze, that’s all it is.’

  ‘You vanish now, Ma. My skull’s cracking with all this achchi talk,’ Shivam swung away from her grasp and jumped up. Just managing to save the oil bottle from being knocked down by him, his mother hoisted herself up.

  Back in his room and out of earshot, Shivam accosted Babloo again.

  ‘Did you fix the meeting or not?’

  ‘Arrey, Bhaiya, have some patience.’

  ‘Abey, Gulshan Kumar ke clone, one more gyan you give . . . I’ll remix you into a Bhojpuri number.’

  ‘Bhaiya, have faith. I’ve told Babita di to fix it,’ Babloo said. ‘She’ll confirm tomorrow.’

  ‘Tomorrow . . . how will I sleep tonight?’

  Babloo shook his head and left his friend sighing.

  7

  It was Monday. A new week had started, and with it, something new began for Aaina. After the classes, she did not hail a rickshaw to take her straight home. Instead, she opted to walk up to the sweet shop that doubled as a restaurant, with her friend Rehana.

  Even her burqa was of a different colour—silver-grey with a lacy hijab veil. Rehana was cloaked in the regular blue. The girls occupied a table at the back. The sweet shop boasted of only six tables. Babloo was sitting at the next one, diagonally opposite to them. With him was Shivam, fidgeting more than sitting.

  No one spoke at either table.

  Four-five minutes crawled by.

  Babloo decided to change this. He opened his mouth.

  ‘I’m Babloo. Babita didi, my sister . . . she called up na . . .’

  Shivam pinched him hard under the table.

  ‘Ouch!’

  He took over.

  ‘Shivam. Hi! I’m Shivam.’

  But that was all he managed. An awkward silence descended over the tables once again.

  Aaina and Shivam sat facing each other, saying nothing.

  Rehana decided to perk things up by leaving.

  ‘Toilet,’ she said to her friend, who held on to her robe.

  Babloo took the cue. ‘Forgot to lock my cycle,’ he blabbered, jumping to follow her out, wanting to give the love birds a chance.

  Shivam sat mulling over what to say.

  Babloo returned to whisper into his ear, so loudly that Aaina overheard him.

  ‘Tell her . . . why you are wearing this
shirt . . . tell her . . . why you chose blue only . . . ’

  Shivam looked embarrassed.

  She lowered her gaze.

  Shivam fumed. This singer would kill him with his well-intentioned ways. He dismissed him with a shove of his elbow, and started talking before Gulshan Kumar could drop in again to help.

  Her eyes were cast down, staring at some invisible spot on the table.

  ‘Look up,’ he urged her.

  ‘Why?’

  But she lifted her gaze and looked right into him.

  ‘Your eyes . . . ’ he couldn’t help but say.

  ‘My eyes . . . ’ she needed to hear it.

  ‘They drown me with their depth, like blue waters.’

  ‘And . . . ?’

  ‘I’m obsessed with them. ’

  ‘Tell me something new,’ she replied, her eyes dancing with mischief. ‘Else . . . else, I’m going.’

  ‘You can’t,’ he asserted. ‘Not before you show me your full face.’

  Her eyebrows rose in an unspoken question.

  ‘Lift it . . . I want to see.’

  ‘Here?’ Her eyes opened wide in horror. ‘Are you mad or what!’

  ‘No one knows you here. Except me.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘A glimpse please,’ he pleaded.

  ‘Why should I? What do I get?’ she played along.

  ‘I’ll tell you something you don’t know.’

  Her brows arched up in wonder.

  ‘Shivam, beta!’ Someone called out, freezing the boy’s blood and forcing him to turn around.

  It was Srivastav uncle, the neighbour who was always waxing eloquent about his son, Amulya. He had just entered the sweet shop and caught the boy sitting there alone.

  ‘You are alone?’ he asked, as he walked up to Shivam.

  ‘I’m waiting for a friend,’ Shivam said, recovering from the shock.

  The man nodded.

  ‘And you, uncle?’ he repaid the courtesy by asking about him.

  ‘I came to buy some sweets. Amulya has cleared his job interview na . . . that big Bangalore IT company, you know,’ said the forty-five-year-old, chest swelling with pride.