Q & A Page 25

  ‘Odxifxn.’

  ‘Bloody bastard, you are making fun of me?’ the Inspector says angrily, and raises his baton to hit Shankar.

  I quickly intervene. ‘Inspector Sahib, Shankar has a mental problem. He cannot speak.’

  ‘Then why didn’t you say so before?’ He turns to his constables. ‘Let’s go to the next room. We won’t get anything out of a lunatic.’

  They search all thirty rooms during the next three hours, and eventually unearth a cache of currency in the room belonging to Najmi, the bearded poet, who claimed to be a Bollywood songwriter. We are all astonished to discover that our young poet is a part-time bank robber as well. Just goes to show that appearances can be deceptive. Well, I can hardly complain. The outhouse wallahs would be just as scandalized if they found out about my own chequered past!

  Lajwanti has come to my room to offer some crumbly fresh laddoos from the nearby Durga Temple. She is very excited.

  ‘Arrey, Lajwanti, what are the sweets in aid of? Have you got a raise?’ I ask her.

  ‘This is the happiest day of my life. With Goddess Durga’s blessings, the Sugarcane Officer has finally agreed to marry Lakshmi. My sister will now live like a queen. I am preparing for a wedding to beat all weddings.’

  ‘But what about dowry? Hasn’t the groom’s family made any demands?’

  ‘No, not at all. They are a very decent family. They do not want any cash. They have only requested some very small things.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like a Bajaj scooter, a Sumeet Mixer, five Raymond suits and some gold jewellery. I was, in any case, going to give all this to Lakshmi.’

  I am scandalized. ‘But Lajwanti, this will cost you a packet – at least a lakh rupees. Where will you get this money from?’

  ‘I have been saving up for Lakshmi’s wedding. I have accumulated nearly fifty thousand rupees. And I will borrow another fifty thousand from Rani Sahiba.’

  ‘Are you sure she will give you such a large sum of money?’

  ‘Of course. I am the best maid she has ever had.’ ‘Well, good luck then.’

  I continue to meet Nita, but the atmosphere inside the brothel stifles me. And I hate dealing with that shifty-eyed pimp Shyam. So on Nita’s suggestion we start meeting outside. She goes alone to see films every Friday. I join her. She loves popcorn. I buy her a big packet and we sit in the back row of the dark and dingy Akash Talkies. She eats popcorn and giggles when I slip my hand through her thin muslin dress to feel her soft breasts. At the end of the film, I come out of the hall hot and flushed, not knowing whether I’ve seen a family drama, a comedy or a thriller. Because I have eyes only for Nita, and I hope that our own story will turn slowly but surely into an epic romance.

  Shankar enters my room crying.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ I ask.

  He points to his knee. It is cut and bruised. I immediately become concerned. ‘How did you get hurt, Shankar? Did you fall down?’

  Shankar shakes his head. ‘X Akc Wqp Hz,’ he says.

  For once, I wish he could speak sense. ‘I am sorry, I don’t understand. Why don’t you come outside and show me how you got hurt?’

  Shankar takes me out and points to where the cobbled courtyard joins the main road. There is a little parapet in the corner, from which the kids in the outhouse are always jumping up and down.

  ‘Yxi Ukj Ozz Pdxp Akc? Dq Wqp Hz Dznz,’ Shankar says and indicates his knee.

  I trace the direction of his finger and nod in understanding. I reckon that he must have jumped down from the parapet and grazed himself. ‘Come, Lajwanti has a medical kit in her room. I will get her to put a dressing on your wound.’

  I fail to see the mangy little street dog with black spots huffing on the cobbled pavement just below the parapet, spit dribbling from its sharp white teeth.

  A new year has dawned, bringing with it new hopes and new dreams. Nita and I have both turned eighteen – the legal age for marriage. For the first time, I begin to think about the future and to believe I might even have one. With Nita by my side. I stop lending money to people in the outhouse. I need every penny now.

  Today is a Friday, and also a night of the full moon, a very rare combination indeed. I persuade Nita not to go to the movies, but instead to come with me to the Taj Mahal. We sit on the marble pedestal late in the evening and wait for the moon to appear beyond the jets of fountains and the rows of dark-green cypresses. First comes a glimmer of silver through the tall trees on our right, as the moon struggles to break free of the cluster of low buildings and foliage, and then, suddenly, it rises majestically in the sky. The curtain of the night is pushed aside and the Taj Mahal stands revealed in all its glory. Nita and I are awestruck. The Taj appears like a vision of paradise, a silvery apparition risen from the Yamuna river. We clasp hands, oblivious to the hordes of foreign tourists who have paid fifty dollars each for the privilege of seeing the Taj by the light of the full moon.

  I gaze at the Taj and then I gaze at Nita. The sterile perfection of the Taj begins to pale in comparison with the flawless beauty of her face. And tears start falling from my eyes as all the love I have bottled up in my heart for eighteen long years comes out in a tumultuous rush. I sense an emotional release like the bursting of a dam, and experience for the first time what Emperor Shahjahan must have felt for Mumtaz Mahal.

  This is the moment I have been waiting for all my life and I have practised for it well. Najmi, the bearded poet, left a book of Urdu poetry for me before going to jail, and I have memorized several romantic verses. In a burst of inspiration, Najmi had even composed an original ghazal in praise of Nita, for my use. It went something like this:

  Your beauty is an elixir,

  Which has given an orphan life,

  Lovesick I will die, from the grave I will cry,

  Should you decline to become my wife.

  I also recall many immortal dialogues from famous celluloid love stories. But sitting with Nita under the moonlit Taj Mahal, I forsake the world of poetry and films. I look into her eyes and ask her simply, ‘Do you love me?’ And she replies with just one word, ‘Yes.’ That one word holds more meaning for me than all the books on poetry and all the guidebooks on Agra. And when I hear it, my heart takes a joyous leap. My mighty love breaks free of the earth, takes wing and soars into the sky, like a kite. And then, for the first time, the Taj Mahal feels like a living house instead of an impersonal tomb; the full moon over our heads becomes a personal satellite, shining a private light, and we feel blessed to be bathed in its celestial glow, in our own exclusive heaven.

  Shankar comes running to my room. ‘Ykhz Mjqyfgu. Gxesqipq qo ynuqic,’ he announces and directs me to Lajwanti’s room.

  Lajwanti is crying on the bed. The drops falling from her eyes like little pearls and darkening the fabric of her creaseless bed cover seem out of place in the spartan neatness of her room. ‘What’s wrong, Lajwanti? Why are you weeping?’ I ask her.

  ‘Because of that bitch Swapna Devi. She has refused to give me a loan. Now how will I pay for my sister’s wedding?’ she says and wails again.

  ‘Look, nobody in the outhouse has that kind of money. Can’t you get a loan from a bank?’

  ‘Huh, which bank will lend to a poor maid like me? No, now I have only one alternative.’

  ‘What? To cancel your sister’s wedding?’

  Anger flashes in her eyes. ‘No. I will never do that. Perhaps I will have to do what our poet Najmi did. Steal the money.’

  I jump up from my chair. ‘Are you out of your mind, Lajwanti? Don’t even think about it. Didn’t you see how the police took Najmi away?’

  ‘That is because Najmi was a fool. I have a foolproof plan, which I am going to share with you because you are like my younger brother. Don’t mention this to anyone, not even to Shankar. You see, I have seen the location of the safe where Swapna stashes all her precious things. In her bedroom there is a huge framed painting on the left wall. Behind the painting is a hole where a ste
el safe is embedded. She keeps the keys to the safe underneath her mattress, in the left-hand corner. I secretly observed her opening the safe once. It is full of money and jewellery. I am not going to steal money, because that will be detected immediately, but I am thinking of making off with a necklace. She has so many in that safe, she wouldn’t even notice. What do you think?’

  ‘Lajwanti, Lajwanti, listen to me. If you consider me to be your brother, then follow my advice. Don’t even think about this idea. Trust me, I have had many brushes with the law and I know your crime will eventually catch up with you. And then, instead of participating in your sister’s wedding, you will be grinding a mill in some jail.’

  ‘Oh, you men are all sissies,’ she says in disgust. ‘I don’t care what you say. I will do what I have to do.’

  In desperation, I turn to my trusted old coin. ‘Look, Lajwanti, if you don’t believe me, that’s fine. But believe in the power of this magic coin. It never sends you the wrong way. So let us see what it says. I am going to toss it. Heads, you don’t carry out your plan, tails, you do what you want. OK?’

  ‘OK.’

  I flip the coin. It is heads. Lajwanti sighs. ‘It looks like even luck is against me. OK, I will go to my village and try to raise funds from the headman, who knows me. Forget that we spoke.’

  Three days later, Lajwanti locks up her room, takes a week’s leave and departs for her village.

  ‘I want you to stop working as a prostitute,’ I tell Nita.

  Nita agrees. ‘I don’t want to die before I am twenty like Radha. Take me away from here, Raju.’

  ‘I will. Should I have a chat with Shyam about this?’

  ‘Yes, we must get his agreement.’

  I speak to the pimp the same evening. ‘Look, Shyam, I am in love with Nita and I want to marry her. She will no longer work in the brothel.’

  Shyam looks me up and down as if I am an insect. ‘I see, so you have been giving her all these stupid ideas. Listen, you bastard, nobody tells Nita to stop working. Only I can tell her that. And I don’t want her to stop working. She is the goose which lays the golden eggs. And I want those eggs to keep coming for a long, long time.’

  ‘That means you will never allow her to marry?’

  ‘I can allow her to marry, but only on one condition. That the man who marries her agrees to compensate me for my loss of earnings.’

  ‘And how much is your estimated loss of earnings?’

  ‘Let’s say . . . four lakh rupees. Can you get me that sum of money?’ He laughs and dismisses me.

  I check my savings that night. I have a total of 480 rupees. Leaving a shortfall of only Rs. 399,520.

  I feel so angry I want to strangle the pimp. ‘Shyam will never agree to you marrying me,’ I tell Nita the next day. ‘The only option for us is to run away.’

  ‘No,’ Nita says fearfully. ‘The brothel people are bound to find us. Champa tried to run away last year with a man. They found her, broke the man’s legs and starved her for ten days.’

  ‘In that case I will just have to kill Shyam,’ I say with a malevolent glint in my eyes.

  ‘No,’ Nita says vehemently. ‘Promise me you will never do that.’

  I am taken by surprise. ‘But why?’

  ‘Because Shyam is my brother.’

  A jeep with a flashing red light has come to the outhouse. Constables pour out. This time there is a new Inspector. We are all called out again. ‘Listen, all you good-for-nothings, something very serious has happened. Someone has stolen a very precious emerald necklace from Swapna Devi’s house. I have a strong suspicion that the thief is one of you bastards. So I am giving you an opportunity to make a clean breast of it, otherwise when I catch the thief I am going to give him a hiding.’

  I am immediately concerned about Lajwanti, but when I see the lock on her room and remember that she is in her village, I heave a sigh of relief. It is good she dropped that ridiculous idea of stealing a necklace. She thought Swapna Devi wouldn’t notice the loss, and now the police are on to it in a flash.

  One by one all of us are questioned. When Shankar’s turn comes, the same scene is re-enacted.

  ‘Name?’ asks the Inspector.

  ‘Odxifxn,’ replies Shankar.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Q Oxqa Hu Ixhz Qo Odxifxn.’

  ‘Bastard, trying to act smart with me . . .’ the Inspector says through gritted teeth. I explain again and the Inspector relents. He waves Shankar away.

  This time the policemen go away empty handed. Without any necklace and without any suspect.

  The same evening a mangy little street dog with black spots dies near the Taj Mahal. No one takes any notice of this fact.

  Lajwanti returns from her village the next day and is immediately arrested. A sweaty constable drags her from her room to the jeep with the flashing red light. She wails inconsolably.

  Helplessly I watch the spectacle unfold. I am with Abdul, who works as a gardener in Swapna Palace.

  ‘Abdul, why are the police taking Lajwanti away? Why doesn’t Rani Sahiba do something? After all, Lajwanti is the best maid she has ever had.’

  Abdul grins. ‘Madam has herself called the police to arrest Lajwanti.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Because Lajwanti stole the necklace from her safe. The police searched her house in the village and found it today.’

  ‘But how did Swapna Devi know it was Lajwanti who stole the necklace? She wasn’t even here when the robbery took place.’

  ‘Because she left behind a tell-tale sign. You see, she did not go to her village straight away. She stayed in Agra and waited for an opportunity to break into the house unnoticed. When she finally entered the bedroom to steal the necklace, Madam was at a party. But just before leaving for the party, Madam had combed her hair on the bed and there were a few of her pins and clips lying on the satin bedspread. When Madam returned late at night, she discovered all her pins and clips neatly arranged on her dressing table. This immediately alerted her. She checked her safe and found a necklace was missing. So she knew instantly that it could have been none other than Lajwanti.’

  I thump my forehead. Lajwanti couldn’t resist being the perfect maid, even when on a mission to steal!

  I try to intercede with Swapna Devi on Lajwanti’s behalf, but she rebuffs me with icy disdain. ‘I run a household, not a charity. Why did she have to arrange such a lavish wedding for her sister? You people who are poor should never try to overreach yourselves. Stay within your limits and you will not get into trouble.’

  I feel genuine hatred towards her that day. But perhaps she is right. Lajwanti made the cardinal mistake of trying to cross the dividing line which separates the existence of the rich from that of the poor. She made the fatal error of dreaming beyond her means. The bigger the dream, the bigger the disappointment. That is why I have small, manageable dreams. Like marrying a prostitute after paying off her crooked pimp brother the minor sum of four hundred thousand rupees. Only.

  I have barely recovered from Lajwanti’s arrest when another tragedy strikes me.

  Shankar comes coughing to my room and flops down on the bed. He looks tired and complains of pain in his arms and knees. ‘Q Xh Oqyf,’ he says, flapping his hands.

  I check his forehead and find he has a slight fever. ‘You have caught a chill, Shankar,’ I tell him. ‘Go to your room and rest. I will come round soon to give you some medicine.’ He gets up from the bed and tiptoes to his room. He seems restless and irritable.

  Later that night, I give Shankar some painkillers, but his condition continues to deteriorate. By the second day, he is becoming violent. He is unable to move his arm and shrieks when the light is switched on. With great difficulty I manage to take his temperature and am shocked to discover that it has shot up to 103 degrees. I immediately go out to call a doctor. The physician working in the government dispensary flatly refuses to come with me, so I am forced to go to a private doctor. He charges me eighty rupees to come to t
he outhouse. He examines Shankar and asks me whether I have noticed any recent cuts or bruises on him. I tell him about the grazed knee. The doctor nods his head and pronounces his diagnosis. Shankar has got rabies – probably from a mad dog. He should have had a series of injections of human diploid cell vaccine and human rabies immune globulin as soon as he was infected, but now it is too late. His condition is very serious. He will soon develop an aversion to water. He might show signs of agitation and confusion and even have hallucinations. He could have muscle spasms and seizures. And he may stop speaking completely as the vocal cords become paralysed. Finally, he will slip into a coma and stop breathing. In simple language, he will die. And all within forty-eight hours.

  The doctor explains this catalogue of horrors in his normal bedside manner. I am utterly devastated. Even thinking about Shankar’s death brings tears to my eyes. ‘Doctor, is there absolutely nothing that can be done to save Shankar?’ I implore him.

  ‘Well,’ the doctor hesitates. ‘There was nothing till a month ago, but I am told a brand-new experimental vaccine from America has just been imported to India. It is called RabCure and is only available at the Gupta Pharmacy.’

  ‘The one in Rakab Ganj?’

  ‘Yes. But I don’t think you can afford it.’

  ‘How much does it cost?’ I ask with a sinking heart.

  ‘Approximately four lakh rupees.’

  I reflect on the irony of the situation. Shankar’s treatment requires four lakh rupees and Nita’s pimp has also demanded exactly this amount. And I have the princely sum of four hundred rupees in my pocket.

  I do not know where I will get money from for Shankar’s treatment, but I know that he cannot be left alone, so I decide to take him to my room. I pick him up in my arms. Even though he is almost my age, his body seems weightless. His hands and legs droop limply by his side, and it feels as if I am not carrying a living person but a sack of potatoes. I deposit Shankar on my bed and lie down on the ground, in an exact reversal of what he did for me almost two years ago, although it now seems like twenty.

  Shankar tosses and turns and sleeps fitfully. I too have a difficult night, my sleep interspersed with nightmares about mad dogs and babies who speak only in nonsense syllables. And then, suddenly, in the middle of the night, I seem to hear the words ‘Mummy, Mummy’ shouted loudly. I wake up, and find Shankar sleeping peacefully. I rub my eyes and wonder whether Shankar’s dream had unexpectedly intersected with mine.