The Homing Pigeons...

  Not all love stories are perfect, but then, neither are people

  Sid Bahri

  First published by

  Srishti Publishers & Distributors in 2013

  Copyright © Siddartha Bahri, 2013

  All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental. For authenticity and to aid storytelling, the author has used places, organizations and institutions that are real, however, there is no intention to imply anything else.

  Typeset by EGP at Srishti

  Printed and bound in India

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the Publishers.

  To my daughter Aadhira

  Acknowledgements

  It’s probably unfair to say thank you to only a few people but if I were to write everyone’s name who has contributed, it would end up larger than the book itself. So, here goes the list.

  My wife Puneet, for inspiring me and cajoling me to take this habit of writing beyond a hobby. The countless nights of writing and the move to Ranikhet wouldn’t have been possible without your support (even though, you threatened to divorce me a few times)

  My sisters Anisha and Sujata, for helping me believe that there is a life beyond the drudgery of a suffocating job.

  My mother Varsha, I don’t know if I’d have been able to write if you didn’t get me into the habit of reading. If you hadn’t fought with the librarian at the State Library in Chandigarh to get me an out of turn membership, then who knows…

  Shilpa Sharma Sikdar and Shelly Sharma, the two sisters and the two worst beta readers that I know. Yet, you have encouraged me.

  Amit Sikdar, my friend, for planting this thought in my mind. I can’t forget that evening on your balcony when you said, “Make a living out of doing what you love”. You are the next Steve Jobs.

  Mr. Vineet Panchhi, my old friend from my BPO days and one of the most versatile people that I have known. When I first spoke about having a book with a soundtrack, people looked at me as if I was crazy. There is only one man who understood. And took it a step further to have an exclusive album created, co-branded with the book. I wish to thank you immensely. Vineet is reachable at vineetpanchhi.com.

  Arup Bose, the editor, and Srishti Publishers for helping me fine-tune this manuscript into what it looks today. Your insights and encouragement have helped me make this piece of writing a novel.

  My readers, for being brave enough to pick up a copy from an unknown author. If you like this, I promise to give you better stuff in times to come.

  Aditya

  This is it. I have been trying to avoid this day for months, but now, it is finally upon me. I call out to the waiter and order my last drink from the last bit of money that I have in my pocket. The void that is created in my pocket is almost as stark as my bank account. I could’ve chosen to not drink today and lasted another week. The cancer of being broke would’ve killed me a week later that way.

  Just this morning, I withdrew a single one thousand rupee bill from the ATM that now seals my fate. There is a little over thirty-three rupees that I still own but the stingy ATM refuses to part with it.

  If my inebriated mind can still calculate, I will have just enough left after this drink to leave the waiter a small, ungracious tip. I can also choose to be ungracious and buy a ride back home. I think that people only need a ride when they are in a hurry or the distance is too great. Neither condition is true for me, so the waiter wins.

  I sit alone on an uncomfortable bar stool at Piccadilly Sipper, one of the few up market, standalone bars that exist in Chandigarh. My thoughts wander to this juncture in my life. A little over a year ago, my career had reached its zenith in the fastest-growing sector of the economy – banking. Little did I know that when Lehman Brothers caved in like AIG and Merrill, the tremors would be felt this far out. I was laid off, restructured as they had called it, and now my last saved penny is up for grabs.

  I always knew this day was going to come, for the signs were always there. First, the credit cards were maxed out, leaving the debt collectors to earn a living out of chasing me. They wanted their money back; I had to sell off my car to stave them off. Despite the momentary respite it brought, the situation didn’t improve. In the deep dungeons of a debt- ridden life, there is little respite. The home too was sold; it barely took care of the mortgage. My equity in the home was swallowed by the vicious snake that recession is turning out to be.

  When I lost my job, I thought about being an entrepreneur, like my father had once been, but I had no capital and no one wanted to bet on me. It doesn’t surprise me. If you present your credentials as someone who has just lost his job, it doesn’t inspire an investor’s confidence.

  I am living off my wife who brings in just enough money from her job to keep our heads above the water. Despite the situation, I am five drinks down, sitting on an uncomfortable bar stool in a seemingly luxurious bar. I shuffle to give my legs some space. The bar is obviously not designed to have customers taller than five feet eight and I struggle to fit in my six foot-one frame.

  The bar is located in central Chandigarh which houses the business district. It is ordinary to have the bar full, even on weekdays. But not tonight, for recession hasn’t exempted the bar either. The empty tables tell a story of woe and neglect. They aren’t used to not being occupied. They aren’t used to not being wet. They almost yearn to become a tree again.

  When the barman and the half-empty bottles on the shelves stop amusing me, I look around. Of the ten odd people who are here today, two sit at the bar. The lady, two stools away from me walks back from the washroom. I can’t help but notice that her walk is accentuated. It is seeking attention. She even manages to make a few turbaned heads turn.

  She changes her seat, leaving only one stool between the two of us. She looks at me and smiles. I don’t, but she still stares at me. It isn’t extraordinary for me to invite a stare or two from the opposite sex. A lot of people tell me I am a looker. I am not so sure about today because I haven’t shaved in five days and haven’t clipped my nails in ten. The maid who comes to clean my wife’s home doesn’t care. She’s the only one who spends time with me these days. I am still wondering if I should’ve chosen a career in modelling.

  An instinct tells me that I am being keenly observed. I don’t pay much attention to it for you can never be too sure with alcohol. It can make you hallucinate. I focus on the glass, it’s almost halfway down. I don’t know why but tears well up in my eyes. I don’t know if she sees the tears but she asks me, “Hey, are you fine?”

  “Yes, barely,” I say.

  I bring the old-fashioned glass that holds my drink to my lips. I am happy in my self-pity, wallowing in the mud of my grief, and I don’t need a conversation.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” she asks.

  I didn’t say there was anything wrong but she wants me to talk about it. She seems eager to start a conversation. Even if I want to talk, I am not sure that I want to discuss it with a complete stranger. I will have to poke her with the metaphoric pole that will keep her away from me.

  “I don’t want to sound rude but please leave me alone,” I say politely.

  “I was only trying to help…,” she says. Her words trail off. I don’t know if I’ve offended her.

  I could’ve chosen to be quiet and let the conversation die but I find myself saying, “You can’t.”

  “You never know,” she says

  Maybe she thinks of herself to be a fairy; one of those who have three wishes to grant.

  �
��Very clichéd, but no, thanks,” I say in an even tone. Despite what I am feeling, not a hint of spite betrays my voice. Perhaps it is the humbling brought about by being penniless. I am amazed at my patience. I am still polite, even though the alcohol in my blood stream never lets me be.

  “We won’t talk about it. But can I buy you a drink?” she asks.

  She has her arms up in a defensive gesture, almost as if I have threatened to kill her.

  Alcohol is my nemesis. Till about four drinks, I consume it, and then it begins to consume me. I have crossed that mark till which I believe I can think rationally. I am five drinks high. With my last penny gulped down, her offer is tempting. I give in. I have heard of strange things happening. Who knows, she could be a fairy. Maybe this is the first wish she is granting me.

  “I’d appreciate that. Thank you,” I say.

  She beckons the waiter. A thin man with a large moustache, donning a black waistcoat appears by her side. In some way, he reminds me of a shrew. He has trouble understanding what she is saying. In Hindi, I ask him to repeat my drink.

  For the first time, I turn around and face her. She isn’t good looking in the bookish sense of the word; you know how the features aren’t fit for the face. Yet, there is something attractive about her; it could be the high cheek bones. She is dressed in a charcoal grey business suit with a cream-coloured blouse peeking through her jacket. A pearl necklace adorns her neck. She reminds me of my ex-boss’ secretary. I wonder why I always go back to those memories.

  I come back to surmising her. The lipstick, now chapped, was a bright shade of red; perfectly manicured hands, burgundy shoulder length hair, conditioned to perfection. Something about her reeks of south Delhi. That place has the highest density per square inch of these stylish women.

  I ask her, “Are you from around here?”

  “No, travelling,” she replies, confirming that my hunch is correct.

  “For business or for leisure?” I ask. It isn’t important as long as she is here, buying me drinks. I ask her because the least I can do in return for her graciousness is to maintain a conversation.

  “A little bit of both,” she says. She doesn’t find it worthwhile to elaborate

  “Where do you work?” I ask

  Strangely, our roles have reversed. I am the one asking questions. I was trying to avoid her until five minutes ago. Johnnie Walker can make you do funny things.

  “I work with an advertising company in Delhi. I am here for a product launch,” she says.

  “South Delhi?” I ask her.

  She is still nodding when the waiter comes back and places the drink in front of me. I add a little club soda to the drink. While I am happy that I have been able to deduce the mystery of her origin, it leaves me remembering my being laid off from my job in Delhi.

  “At least you still have a job,” I say dejectedly.

  “Why? Did you lose yours?” she asks.

  “I did. The bastard fired me about a year ago,” I reply.

  She has been successful in getting me back to the reality that I have been trying so hard to avoid.

  “Jobs come and go. You’ll find another one,” she says.

  “I have lost hope that I will find another one,” I say.

  I have been trying to get back into a job for about twelve months now. There isn’t a contact that I haven’t reached out to. There isn’t a head hunter who hasn’t stopped taking my phone calls. All I have to show for these twelve months of labour are two failed interviews. Both of them rejected me on the grounds that I was ‘too desperate’. Hell, I am desperate and can’t hide it.

  “Don’t give up hope,” she says. She sounds pompous, like a new priest at his first sermon. It is always difficult for a person with a job to empathize with someone who doesn’t.

  “Easier said than done,” I slur.

  I reach out for the Johnnie Walker and gulp the remains of it in one large sip. I am thirsty today. I am the quintessential desert that wants to drown its sorrows in alcohol.

  “My name is Adi, anglicized from Aditya,” I extend my right hand out to her.

  “I am Divya, pleased to meet you,” she says and takes my hand.

  I can’t help but notice the inordinately large rock that adorns her ring finger. Married? Engaged?

  “Should I have him repeat your drink?” she asks.

  “No, thank you, but I’ve had my fill. I should get going,” I say. I am sober enough to be mindful of not overstaying my welcome.

  “Come on, have one. I was just beginning to enjoy your company,” she says coquettishly. I think I see her flutter her eyelashes.

  I contemplate her offer; what will I do now that I have no money? My future looks a dark shade of black and if the future looks imperfect, then the present must be cherished. I don’t take long to give in a second time.

  “Just one more, and remind me to drink it slowly,” I say. The effects of the alcohol are apparent in my ever-deteriorating slur.

  “We’ll have a repeat for both of us. On my tab,” she calls out to the barman. He went to a school where they taught him English. He understands.

  “I’ll be back,” I excuse myself

  I get up from my stool to find my way to the men’s room. I bang into at least three chairs that are not in my way as I make the long serpentine walk to the men’s room. I open the fly of my Calvin Klein jeans. It is one of the few prized possessions that recession has been unable to take away. I pee, swaying from side to side. My head is spinning. I look at my reflection in the mirror. My eyes are bloodshot; they could be of a ghost in a horror flick. I know that I should have said no to the last drink.

  I wish I had another five hundred rupees that would buy me something to eat. I know that the chef rapes the Chicken Tikkas before he sends them out, even then. Somehow, I make my way back to the bar: a laborious walk, holding on to every piece of furniture that can stop me from falling down. I sit on the stool and continue the conversation with her.

  “How’d the product launch go?” I ask.

  When it comes out of my mouth, I know it doesn’t sound like the question I asked her but I have to talk. She must believe that I am sober.

  “Went off pretty well. It’s a new brand of lingerie,” she says.

  The conversation hits a dead end. What can I ask her from here, what’s your size?

  “Do you have family?” she takes a cue from what I’m thinking.

  “I am married; wife works in the media. No kids,” I slur.

  The barman puts the drinks in front of us. I attempt to put the club soda into my drink. I falter; the club soda spills onto the bar. The barman is trying to clean up when she asks, “Where is she? Why are you alone?”

  I want to tell her that we don’t get along very well but I think it might be too much tragedy for her to handle.

  “She’s out covering an event. She’s been running the house ever since I lost my job,” I say.

  “You’re drinking?” she asks provocatively.

  Even in my intoxicated state, it isn’t difficult to figure what she wants to imply. I am living off her money and I am drinking. I am, and worse still, I am not ashamed to accept it anymore.

  “Yes. It’s not ideal but I’m dwinking,” I say.

  The effects of the alcohol are telling. I am slurring like a man who’s just had a stroke. My head spins and I have a sudden urge to spew the contents of my gut onto the bar counter.

  I excuse myself and manage to walk like a snake towards the men’s room. I vomit at the door. I am relieved, but have some more coming. I gingerly step past the remains of whiskey that lie on the floor, but I have barely walked two steps before I slip and fall on my buttocks. I was a sportsman and I’m used to falling. But yet, it hurts. The Calvin Klein jeans are soaked up in the muck that was once a premium whiskey. Incidentally, this is the last thing I remember.

  Radhika

  It is freezing out in the open today. The evenings are expected to be chilly in November but this year the col
d is bitter. I’m standing alone in a crowd of five people when I see an old man walking towards me. He’s wearing a pyjama and has a thick shawl wrapped around him. He’s miserably out of place among everyone else sporting their riches. I recognize him as the owner of the farmhouse we’re in.

  “Who is Radhika Ahuja?” he asks the crowd.

  I want to tell him that I am the mother of the woman getting married today. I am the widow of a man who passed away nine months ago. In fact, a very rich widow. My husband died and bequeathed me a house in South Delhi which even in these times of recession is worth a little over ten crores.

  I am so bored that I only say, “I am.” “We need an advance,” he says

  I want to tell him that I don’t deal with all this nonsense. I have people who work for me. I only sign cheques because that’s what my husband’s will wanted me to do. He’s left behind a will that leaves me a custodian and the veritable guard dog of his wealth. He’s left me in charge until my step-daughter gets married. Incidentally, that day is today.

  I am so uninterested that I only direct him to the accountant. He walks away. He doesn’t remember me, but I do.

  It was about six years ago when I got married at the very same place to Vimal Ahuja. He was then, a man in his early forties, and I was only twenty-five. Back then, the setting had been similar in this farmhouse on the outskirts of Lucknow. My parents sat next to me to do the kanyadaan, the Hindu ritual directing the daughter to be donated to the groom. They were inexperienced; they had two sons before me. They had qualms that the groom was eighteen years elder than me and had a daughter, Meera, who was seventeen. They had asked me to reconsider, but I was sure. After all, he was rich.

  The lady in the blue sari asks me, “What’s the date today?” I know it is November, but it leaves me feeling that it’s August. It is almost Independence Day tomorrow. With my step daughter Meera getting married today, my responsibility will end. It will leave me with a freedom that I have almost given up on.