One String Attached Page 5

  ‘But you can’t go alone. Abbu will not agree.’

  ‘I will ask Rehana to join me.’

  Ammi sighed and nodded. Maybe her daughter was right—Naved could be a pain at times. She did not want her girl to come back half-way, abandoning all thoughts of getting a new kurta made.

  Soon, Aaina was outside the noisy house, filled with relatives and vendors, and that nuisance of a Naved. She revelled in the joy of being by herself, after what seemed like an endless number of days. Out in the open, she breathed in lungfuls of the crisp, fresh December air and bounced along, enjoying her short walk. A rowdy group jostled past her, raising flags, singing raucously. Abbu had been right in cautioning Ammi. Never had she seen so many outsiders flock in here. Not even for Ramnavmi. There were policemen everywhere. Too much noise and movement . . . a carnival-like boisterousness was in the air. The town did not seem like her town today.

  Aaina decided to hail a rickshaw for safety. She was on her way, unaware that the day would change the course of her life.

  10

  Even the most spacious tailoring shop in Ayodhya could get cramped at festival times. And in the hot and dusty north Indian towns, a significant drop in temperature was probably a bigger thing to celebrate than even the festivals on the calendar. Everyone wanted to flaunt new dresses and look their best with the changing season. The slight nip in the air had brought in a lot of business the master tailor’s way.

  The seventy-year-old asthmatic Masterji defied his age, gliding from one customer to another with the ease of a ballet dancer. He bent down to measure the lehenga length for Mrs Tiwari’s daughter, handed over a finished package to another customer, squatted again to resume measurements, and lunged out to reach for the style book demanded by a new entrant. Mrs Tiwari could not help but praise his agility as she saw the old man rise to every demand without a sharp word or any show of irritation.

  ‘Your attitude, Masterji . . . today’s boys don’t have it,’ she gushed. ‘No wonder everyone comes to you.’ The old man blushed and shook his head.

  More people trooped in and Mrs Tiwari had to make way for them.

  While he was dealing with a fussy trio—who had ordered a batch of seven salwar kameezes they insisted had to be designer copies and kept flipping on which style they wanted on which fabric—a rickshaw pulled over and Aaina stepped out.

  ‘Assalam Walekum, Chacha! Aaina Farooqui.’

  ‘Walekum Assalam, beti,’ he responded. The Farooqui family had been getting their clothes stitched by him for years.

  ‘Chacha, it is Salma’s nikah. I need to get a kurti stitched urgently.’

  ‘When do you want it beta?’ he asked, looking worried.

  ‘On the fifth of this month Chacha,’ she said nervously, looking at the crowd.

  ‘Not possible,’ he replied with a sigh, confirming her fears. ‘There are too many orders already,’ he said, looking around.

  ‘But I never get it done from anyone else,’ the girl pleaded.

  ‘You should have come earlier, mohtarma,’ the old man replied.

  ‘Okay, sixth,’ she bargained. ‘I will pick by noon . . . by then you can surely manage.’

  ‘Not possible before the twelfth,’ Masterji declared, noting down the designs finally shortlisted by the picky trio.

  ‘Chacha!’ she was pleading now.

  ‘Try to understand . . . it is already the third, how can it be done in three days?’

  ‘I will do it.’

  All heads turned to the voice emanating from somewhere inside the shop. Someone got up from behind the sewing machine at the back and came forward.

  Aaina gasped. It was Shivam.

  ‘Chacha?’ Aaina turns to the old man, unsure about what Shivam was doing in the tailoring shop.

  ‘He’s my shagird,’ smiled the old gentleman. ‘He’s training under me.’

  ‘Oh!’ She blushed a bit and looked down.

  ‘I can make it,’ repeated Shivam looking at her intently.

  The old man was not so sure. ‘This is a nikah ki kurti. You have not done this type before.’

  ‘One learns by doing only na, as you say. I will learn.’

  ‘It won’t be easy . . . and in such short time.’

  ‘I will work day and night on it . . . give it all I have . . . ’ he stated, still looking at her.

  ‘You will, I believe you, young man . . . but still I am not sure you should take it,’ replied Masterji. ‘There may be an issue . . . ’

  Aaina interrupted him, ‘Let him do it, Chacha.’

  The old man looked from one of them to the other. He was still not convinced. The number of orders he had was overwhelming. There was no way he could accommodate this too, on the off-chance something went wrong.

  ‘You see,’ he told them both. ‘I will not take responsibility for this.’

  ‘I won’t let you down,’ Shivam assured his mentor.

  The old man motioned Aaina inside for the measurements. For a close-fitting nikah kurti, her six-month-old measurements wouldn’t do.

  The trio at the counter, watching the exchange with curiosity at first, was getting impatient. One of them drummed her fingers on the wooden counter top. Masterji turned his attention back to them.

  Aaina entered the tiny curtained enclosure at the far end of the shop. Shivam followed her with a measuring tape slung around his shoulders, a tiny notepad and pen in his hands, and a heart that was beating at four times its normal speed.

  ‘What you doing here?’ she asked urgently in a whisper, the second he stepped in.

  ‘What you are seeing me do now.’

  ‘Darzi! Are you really a tailor?’

  ‘Trying to be one,’ he said, smiling. ‘It is my passion.’ He paused for a second and added, ‘My second passion’.

  She did not dare ask about his first passion.

  Shivam came close, slid the tape off his shoulders and started measuring her. He began with the shoulders, holding the tape taut to note the distance between the shoulder blades on her back. He went on to the neckline, tracing its width at the back, slipped the tape down diagonally in the front then, stopping a few inches below the neck to know how deep she wanted the neckline to be.

  ‘This much will do, or more,’ he checked.

  She didn’t say anything.

  ‘Aaina?’

  ‘This is okay.’ It took her a minute to confirm it. First, finding him here, then this nearness . . . Aaina was melting with shame.

  He was conscious of their proximity too. Yet, he fought to sound normal and do his job. He wound the tape around her arm and reeled off a number that he jotted down on the pad.

  Aaina watched him through her niqab. His touch, his words, even his breath affected her acutely.

  ‘How long you want your sleeves to be?’ Shivam asked. He ran his measuring tape down her shoulder, till it reached the elbow, and waited.

  ‘Whatever you think is fine.’ His fingers on her arm were clogging her thoughts.

  Shivam looked up into her eyes then. He had been avoiding those oceans until now . . . scared of losing himself again in their depths. They looked even more alluring today—twin pools, shining blue and laughing at his confusion.

  Getting bolder, he reached out to touch one of her cheeks over her niqab, making her shiver.

  ‘Show me your face . . . ’ he pleaded.

  ‘Why should I?’

  Her question threw him off. He peered into her eyes again for an answer. And got it. She was playing with him. The blue orbs were teasing him, dancing with mischief. Such a devil, she was! Her impish ways . . . that hint of wickedness . . . this had made him her slave.

  ‘Okay, tell me, what should I do to see your face?’

  Pat comes her answer. ‘Beat me at kho-kho, that’s what I want.’

  ‘Kho-kho?’

  ‘Yup. My friends said you cannot run . . . You only stand and stare,’ she said with a laugh.

  He resumed the measurement and laughed with her. T
hen he positioned the tape around her chest. Both held their breath as he noted down the measurement.

  ‘Breathe normally,’ he told her comfortingly while circling her waist with the tape, just above her belly button.

  ‘So, you really know a lot about this,’ she remarked, as the tape reached her hips. She was trying to dissipate the tension.

  ‘Yes,’ Shivam replied, standing straight again. ‘Told you, it is my passion,’ he locked eyes with her and continued, ‘second to just you.’

  She hit him playfully on his arm. And the tension was broken.

  He held her hands in his and implored her again to lift her veil and let him see her.

  ‘Okay, I will. But first you. . . ’

  ‘I will,’ he cut her. ‘I will beat you at kho-kho.’

  ‘No, you can’t,’ she shook her covered head fiercely. Suddenly, she remembered something. ‘Oh and I can’t come on Saturday now. Abbu has stopped all outings till my cousin Salma’s nikah.’

  ‘Stopped all outings?’ Shivam repeated it as a question. ‘But you will have to come for your final kurti fitting?’ He looked disheartened.

  ‘Okay, I will sneak out, somehow,’ she told him, aghast at his fallen face. ‘And . . . ’

  ‘Shivam!’ Masterji called out from the counter.

  She let go of his hands and hurried out of the curtained enclosure, with a promise. ‘And you can see my face too . . . if . . . if your kurti fits me just the way I want it to.’

  ‘It will,’ he promised.

  He followed her out, picking up his tape, pen and notebook from the stool inside.

  There are no more customers at the shop now.

  ‘You told him how you want it?’ Murshid Mia checked with Aaina as she was about to leave. She nodded.

  ‘Yes, he is a bright boy.’

  Aaina nodded and was almost out of the shop when the senior tailor called out, ‘Aaina beti, did you give the fabric? Where is it?’

  Aaina turned around to look at Shivam. She had forgotten all about it! Ammi had told her to buy the fabric on her way. Shivam had occupied so much space in her head lately that every other thing had slipped away. Annoyed with herself, Aaina held her head and cursed herself.

  ‘She gave it to me,’ Shivam told Masterji. ‘It is fine, I’ve seen.’

  Masterji nodded and moved on to other things.

  Aaina looked from the one to the other . . . not having understood what had happened. Shivam tilted his head sideways, ever so slightly, telling her he would take care of it. She looked at him, and knew that he would. Her smile reached her eyes.

  11

  Rehana, Seema and Meher were talking all at once, above the commotion that filled a house bursting with relatives. Aaina gave up trying to figure what anyone was saying.

  ‘Find a quiet corner na,’ shouted Rehana into her friend’s ear.

  ‘Don’t burst my eardrum,’ cried Aaina, drawing away.

  Ammi overheard this and felt sorry for her daughter. The girl had been her right hand through the preparations, staying up from sunrise to late nights, at the beck and call of not just her Ammi but also the five aunts who were staying with them. She had never seen this side of her daughter. Though lost at times, forgetting where she’d kept something or who she’d carried the message for, Aaina had run from room to room, up the terrace too, fulfilling everyone’s wishes. She deserved a break.

  ‘Go out with them for some time,’ Ammi whispered in her daughter’s ear, allowing her to spend some time with her friends. This made her squeal with joy.

  The very next minute, she pranced out to the street with her friends, thrilled to breathe in the open air.

  Rehana laughed, watching Aaina skip. ‘You act like you been locked up since ages!’

  ‘Forty hours madam . . . and how slowly each hour has passed.’ Aaina struck a dramatic pose like a Hindi film heroine as she spoke and the group doubled up with laughter.

  At a street side stall, as they waited to be served the tangy, spicy chaat, Aaina told them about her encounter in the tailor’s shop. ‘So movie-like . . . ’ drooled Meher.

  ‘Lucky you! I’ve never found anyone, no matter where I go,’ lamented Rehana. ‘Be it tailor or grocer.’

  Seema added, ‘I feel worse. I don’t even have a burqa, still, no boy climbs a water tank to stare at me.’

  This sent all four tittering again.

  ‘Saturday,’ recalled Meher. ‘You were to meet him on Saturday, na?’

  Before Aaina could open her mouth, Seema interrupted, ‘The nikah is tomorrow. How can she leave?’

  ‘Exactly!’ agreed Meher. ‘But what about now? . . . Who’s stopping her?’ She raises her brow.

  The four girls looked at each other and were suddenly excited. Minutes later, the idea took the shape of a plan. Rehana dialled Babloo’s sister from a shop. She knew Babita didi. Through her, she sent a message to Babloo and his friend.

  ‘Tell them we are playing kho-kho on the grounds behind the Company Bagh.’ Before the shopkeeper could suspect anything, Rehana disconnected the line and walked out.

  ‘Done,’ she informed the trio waiting outside, rubbing her hands in glee.

  ‘Now, we’ll see how strong her love is. And how deep.’

  ‘Yup, we will know today. Maybe, it’s just a passing fancy.’

  The girls ribbed their friend even as they hurried to Company Bagh. There was not much time. Aaina would have to return home soon. She hurried along with them, both nervous and excited.

  Fifteen minutes later, as the girls poured out of their rickshaws, they found the boys already waiting outside the gates.

  ‘Wah!’ Meher let out. ‘Your hero beats the movie-wallah hero.’

  ‘Arrey, this hero is unemployed, so totally free.’ It was Seema now. The three girls went on like this, giggling as they ushered their friend in.

  Behind the girls, the boys entered the empty grounds adjacent to the famous Company Bagh.

  ‘Here, I am,’ Shivam announced to his girl, once they were inside.

  ‘I can see that,’ she replied. ‘Say something I don’t know.’

  ‘I can say a hundred things but your eyes . . . ’ Shivam stopped to gaze into them, ‘your eyes make me lose my mind . . . my voice . . . everything!’

  ‘Watch it!’ Rehana cautioned her friend playfully. ‘It is only that blue colour he is after.’

  ‘My kurti . . . how is it shaping up?’ Aaina asked, changing the topic.

  ‘You see for yourself on the sixth.’

  ‘Why don’t you show him your face,’ Babloo butted in. ‘That will fire him to work better.’

  ‘I will . . . if he can catch me,’ replied Aaina, taking off her sandals.

  Shivam and Babloo looked puzzled as the girls sat down in position for a game of kho-kho. Aaina stood waiting at one end of the file.

  ‘Catch me,’ called out Aaina.

  ‘What’s this Bhaiya . . . are they mad!’

  Deaf to his friend, Shivam threw off his sandals and began chasing Aaina, both running barefoot on the grassy grounds. But she was too fast. Even with the burqa billowing behind her in the December breeze, she stayed a foot and a half ahead of him all the time.

  Shivam was fit and raced with all his might. He came within touching distance of the flying end of her black robe . . . but that was about it. She scampered ahead before he could close the gap.

  By the fourth round, Shivam was panting and gave up. He dropped down on the grass, breathing heavily while Aaina now stood laughing with her group.

  This got to Babloo. ‘This is unfair,’ he pronounced. ‘You challenged Bhaiya in your game. Not his.’

  But before anyone could say anything, Rehana pointed out that it was getting late and that Aaina needed to be home.

  ‘See your own face now. Loser,’ she mocked him, on her way out of the grounds.

  ‘You won’t get your kurti until you show your face,’ he countered.

  ‘One defect,’ she said, in her rush to g
o out, ‘if I see one defect, I won’t show you even my toe.’

  ‘Done!’

  With that, Shivam bounced up from the grass, brushed off the dirt clinging to his pants and walked out with an arm flung around Babloo’s shoulders. They could hear the girls giggling as they boarded their rickshaws.

  ‘Bhaiya, will you be able to manage the kurti?’

  Shivam did not reply. Babloo got on a bicycle beside him.

  ‘That’s your only chance, Bhaiya. Otherwise she won’t budge.’

  Shivam pedalled on silently, with Babloo a bit behind him.

  ‘Now where are we going?’ Babloo asked as Shivam took a different turn.

  ‘Murshid Mia’s.’

  ‘Murshid Mia’s? Now?’ Babloo pedalled furiously after his friend, who had taken the evening off from the old man.

  ‘Till I don’t finish the kurti, that’s where I shall be,’ said Shivam.

  ‘Sew up your brains also, Bhaiya. You seem to be losing them,’ said Babloo.

  All Shivam could see was Aaina, hiding behind his mother as he chased her around their courtyard. He smiled. One day . . .

  12

  Like she had forgotten to get the fabric, Aaina had also failed to tell him what sort of bottom she wanted for her kurti. A churidar would have been the easiest. But every other girl at the gathering would be wearing similar fitted pyjamas. So Shivam rejected the idea outright. He explored more exotic options. All of Wednesday, he sat yo-yoing between a sharara and a gharara. These flared pants from the Mughal times had become trendy; Hindi film heroines were dancing in them in recent blockbusters. He was in a dilemma. His girl would rock in either.

  Wide-legged and flaring, the sharara oozed class and a bygone era. He could see her sashaying around in them, graceful and seductive. But that minx in her . . . would it not get stifled in all that show of elegance. Shivam nodded at this new thought. Something sassy, she needs. A gharara then. Tight-fitted and ruched at the knees, only to flare out dramatically under, this was more in tune with her personality. Paired with a body hugging kurti that steals every single heart in the walima hall. No, that she was not allowed to do. She was destined only for one heart—his.