Happy Birthday! And Other Stories Part 18

*What?' he said irritably. *I thought you were on duty.'

*It's about ... the baby. It's turning a lot,' she said.

*What rubbish. It's not even been a month.'

*Well-'

*Just make sure that your precious client doesn't find out your dirty little secret. You need this job. That tharki Nandu has still not taken me back.'

Birju had worked at Nandu's Cloth House as a salesboy for only four months when Pinky joined as a cashier. Once their affair came to light, he was dismissed, but he solemnly declared that he'd work nowhere else but Nandu's. When Meenu found out, Birju was unapologetic, saying that his wife slept with others on the job, so why couldn't he? Meenu hadn't pointed out that it was Birju's idea-when he hadn't been able to find a job for over a year-that Meenu join Second Ishq.

Sensing movement near a curtain in the only lit room in the house, Meenu mumbled, *I have to go.' She went back to the living room and turned on the TV.

Night-time was falling and the first night was always unpredictable. Feelings had to be considered, expectations set, disappointments appeased and victories gained. In many ways it set the tone for the days that followed.

Meenu had learnt that men revealed who they really were only in bed; the older ones were particularly predictable.

Some of them would be upset at how swiftly life had pa.s.sed them by. They'd be angry with their children for not visiting more often and their grandchildren who'd already forgotten about them. They'd resent their employer of thirty years for giving them a measly watch upon retirement, their friends for giving priority to their families and their wives for being dead. They'd ask Meenu about things she couldn't know, had never thought about, and feel superior because of her ignorance. In bed they'd be ravenous, giddy with their own power, but become surly a few seconds later, with their lascivious but wasted manhood.

Not as perturbed by life but equally self-absorbed were the ones who couldn't believe that life hadn't yet revealed its purpose to them. They'd become infatuated by their soul and examine their existence under a microscope. Such men wouldn't debase their higher state of awareness with the plebeian act of s.e.x.

And then there were a few who took to incessant joking. They were done with the rigours of life, and responded to everything-including being asked what they'd like for dinner-with a *stop taking life so seriously'. In bed they'd be equally undemanding, only wanting Meenu to look supportive.

What kind of lover would Pramod be?

For dinner Pramod ordered in rice and gur-infused tuvar dal, but he refused to eat. Meenu ate alone, trying not to look ravenous, though feeling like she was at the point of collapse. He watched her with that same halfsmile, the kind that she usually gave clients, involved but not committed. She imagined that he too was thinking about her case file, sent to him for pre-approval and ridden with easy lies: that her name was Meera (which according to Sheeba sounded s.e.xier than Meenu); she was born in 1990 (1986); in Pune (not Raigad); had moved to Mumbai to study (she came here to work); and no, she had never been with a man before.

After dinner, he tossed the remaining food in the bin and rinsed her plate, refusing her offers of help.

Pramod then looked at Meenu and said, very softly, *I'd like you to come to my bedroom.'

Meenu quickly excused herself and ran to Chand's room. She opened her suitcase and spread out her things on Chand's bed: a cold-cream bottle, her cotton saris, the green gla.s.s bangles she liked to wear with most of her clothes, and a few sh.e.l.ls she'd collected on her one visit to Chowpatty beach. But they looked silly here, poor and out of place, so she put them back. She saw a pink lipstick on Chand's dressing table and applied that across her dark lips. There was a queue of perfumes too, in shapely crystal bottles. She dabbed on perfume from the emptiest bottle-imagining that it must have been used most frequently by Chand. She put it under her armpits, on her cleavage, below her earlobes, but not too much, knowing how costly perfume was. That done, she sniffed her skin critically, hoping that the smell of the slums-which Sheeba said she had-was gone.

Meenu walked to Pramod's room and stood at its entrance. It was painted in dull green and almost bare, in sharp contrast to her-or rather Chand's-room. He had a small wooden cupboard, and Meenu saw through its open door a few kurtas, in white and beige, some tan trousers, khaki shirts, a single grey safari suit, which she'd seen no one in this century wear, and mothb.a.l.l.s in different states of sublimation, strewn carelessly around the cotton handkerchiefs.

Pramod was already lying on the bed, looking small and lost in its expanse. The left side of the mattress was empty, waiting for her arrival. On the bedside table was a black-and-white photo of a severe-looking woman with a big mop of curly hair and thin unsmiling lips. Meenu crept into the bed, under Chandralikha's disapproving gaze, feeling like a thief. Tucking herself under the blanket, she waited for Pramod to offer himself to her. It was wiser to wait.

Pramod turned to face her.

*Can I hold you?' he asked, almost shyly.

*Of course,' she smiled, not too brightly, for her gestures had to be contained, devoid of carnal experience.

He held her then, and she inhaled his smell of cigarettes and mothb.a.l.l.s, which wasn't wholly unpleasant. He lay like that for a few minutes, maybe ten, and then sighed. She wondered what he would do next and hoped he'd be gentle for the sake of the baby. Not knowing was the worst part of the job, as the cigarette burn on her wrist from a previous client reminded her. Pramod leaned over and ... switched off the lamp. Soon, anch.o.r.ed with his arm on top of her, he was fast asleep.

There was no desire in Pramod's body.

*Oof,' Meenu pouted angrily for the second time that day.

If Pramod wasn't going to let Meenu impress him with her b.r.e.a.s.t.s or her cooking or her performance in bed, how would she ever win him over? All her tricks were wasted on this man.

*Oh Chand,' she heard him murmur. *How I've missed you.'

Meenu took a long, deep breath. There were worse things, worse men, she mollified herself. And it had been a long day. Meenu put the blanket over her face and fell into a light snooze.

This is the life, Meenu thought, slipping on a diamond bangle, admiring the fresh coat of blue nail polish she'd applied this morning, the only reason for which she lifted her fingers nowadays. She stared at her reflection in the mirror; her face was still hers but it had a new glory on it. Her eyes, larger than ever and rested, were bright things, shining like stars as she applied mascara to them. Her skin, pampered with those creams in tiny jars-that Chand must have used-was soft, making it easy for the foundation to mask her pimples and dark spots. Why, even her nose-which she'd always resented for its largeness-appeared smaller, almost pet.i.te, like those of rich ladies, after she clipped on the diamond stud that Pramod so liked on her.

Whoever said that wealth couldn't buy beauty obviously had neither.

Swathed in a neeligunji paithani sari with a coral set, Meenu walked into the living room where Pramod was waiting for her. The curtains in the house were all drawn and she imagined that anyone looking in from the other Matru Ashish buildings, from the bus stop below and the pav-bhaji stand across the road, would think that she was the owner of this large house, its big empty rooms. She walked taller and straighter then, regally she hoped, like Chand probably had.

Despite not being able to use any of her talents on him, Meenu had taken a liking to Pramod. Each day, after she woke up at leisure just before noon, he'd be waiting for her in the living room, tea kept warm in a kettle. Pouring it out, he'd share with her some news of the day, the BJP's Gram-Chalo Ghar-Chalo Abhiyaan that he admired, or his mounting fear of potential chemical warfare in Syria. She'd pretend to listen, to understand. Then, once she was fully awake, they'd play cards, spending the most time on sath-aath and satte pe satta. Pramod taught her chess, checkers, scrabble and even his terrible card tricks.

He didn't ask why her belly was swelling right beneath him; thankfully he didn't even call her agency about it. Instead he hired a maid to cook foods that she craved, even ordering in special treats for her and watching her wolf them down, as if she really was his Chandralikha.

The only thing he kept from her was his illness, and if she asked him, he'd tell her not to worry about it. But she was worried. His arms were getting lighter around her every night, in fact they were becoming almost weightless, his face had become thin and doughy, like a badly made crepe/dosa, his hands trembled all the time, and his already small appet.i.te had become negligible. What do you have, she'd persist, and sometimes, when he was in the mood for frivolity he'd reply, *The guilt of a man who wronged a woman that loved him. But I'm making up for it now, am I not, my Chand?'

A few nights later, Pramod did not come out of his room after the nurse had left. Meenu waited for him in the living room; he didn't like her to enter his room until it was bedtime. But an hour pa.s.sed and she grew concerned. She walked tentatively to his door and seeing that it was open, peeped inside. She saw then that the room had changed. There were bottles of pills lying around, nitrile examination gloves left behind by the nurse, tie-on face masks, transparent film dressings, Braun syringes, a large MP30 Philips monitor. There was a strong antiseptic smell. Pramod had converted his bedroom into a hospital room.

What was this man dying of?

He didn't say anything when he saw her, but continued to lie in bed, his hand over his face. Trying to cheer him up, Meenu put a pretend stethoscope on his chest, and said in mock sternness, *Where does it hurt, beta?'

But Pramod didn't laugh, didn't even respond.

She saw then that there was an electrode strip stuck to his left leg. It was partially peeled off, a few strands of hair stuck to it. The nurse probably forgot to remove it and Pramod must have tried to pull it off.

Some evenings, when his bedroom curtains were not completely drawn, Meenu would peek in through the terrace and see the nurse put grey wires on the electrodes plastered to his ankles, chest and wrists. She never dared to ask Pramod what they were for.

Meenu told him to hold steady and gently pulled the strip away, watching his reaction. He didn't flinch, but a tear rolled down his face.

*Am I hurting you?' she asked in a concerned voice.

*You can never hurt me, Chand. It's always me who hurts you.'

*Don't say that,' Meenu said, genuinely. She couldn't imagine Pramod hurting anyone, least of all his Chand.

He sat up and took her face in his hands. *It was all my fault, Chand. My fault that we couldn't have kids. The doctor told me I was impotent but I never let you know. No, I told you that it was your fault and let you live with that guilt.'

Meenu looked at him, mystified. Then he was sobbing in her arms.

*Even on your deathbed-' he continued *-when you said I should've never married you ... so I could have sons to take care of me ... I didn't tell you the truth. I let you leave in agony. Shame on me. Shame on me.'

His voice was so heavy that it reminded Meenu of how old he actually was.

Meenu cradled him against her chest as he cried, rocking him to and fro, stroking his hair, his face, and his arms. Every time he moaned *Chand!' through the night she held him closer, willing his pain to go away. And in the early morning light, when all was still, Pramod was finally silent. Meenu still held him.

All of a sudden his hand slid across her body. It rested on her right thigh, stroking it. His lips began planting wet kisses on her chest, her neck and the corner of her mouth.

Her moment of glory had finally arrived.

Meenu quickly unhooked her blouse, kneeled down and took him in her mouth.

But there was nothing.

It was as if someone had placed a deflated latex balloon on her tongue.

Meenu stood up, feeling frustration to the point of anger. What good was this man?

Then she saw the way that he was staring at her swollen belly. And it seemed to her that for the first time Pramod was taking her in: acutely, as if her image had just flashed before his eyes and been quickly swallowed. Finally, he was gazing at her the way other men did.

Meenu kneeled down again and there it was: like a lola, in all its magnificence.

The next day, Meenu awoke before Pramod. She went to the terrace for a stroll and plucked some magnolia. She put the cut flowers in a vase. Then she opened the diamond-shaped v.i.a.g.r.a tablets that she no longer needed and dropped them into the water. They would keep the flowers fresh for longer.

Pramod slept late into the afternoon and by evening he seemed almost happy, as if purged of something. There was a glow on his face. And his smile was reaching his eyes.

He called Meenu to the terrace. *Chand, I want to give you something.'

And right there, in the shimmering rays of the setting sun, Pramod pulled out from his pocket the most exquisite golden kada that Meenu had ever seen; it was crafted with intricate filigree and meenakari work, and set with polki stones.

*Do you remember when we first came to Bombay and had no money?' he said. *I'd promised you then that one day I'd buy you the thickest bangle I could find. I stayed with your father, unheard of for men in those days, took the bus, didn't even have paan outside, scrimping and saving for months before I could afford this. I gave it to you on our second-year anniversary and even though I got you bigger and better jewellery through the years, you never took this off till your dying day.' He slipped the bangle with some difficulty onto Meenu's now-plump wrist. *I want you to start wearing it again. Never take it off.'

Meenu knew then that Pramod's wealth, his immense property, this lovely terrace, was all hers. This feeling was reaffirmed the next morning when Sheeba called on Meenu's mobile phone, breaking the agency's no-calling rule, to congratulate her. *Your client has extended his contract for three more months. And he's paying even more this time. You've made the agency rich, and yourself even richer, I'm sure.' Her slightly bitter sign-off made Meenu realize just how significant all this was.

Ninety days and ninety nights were all Meenu needed for her life to change. Once Birju saw what Meenu had been able to get for them both, he'd leave that Pinky woman. They'd install a swing on the terrace for their child to play on and a giant flat screen TV in the living room, where they'd watch Sallu Bhai's movies. Every day they would eat chapatti filled with ghee and shakkar, and she'd buy Birju one of those iPods that all the rich people had.

It was going to be first cla.s.s!

It was a sticky night. The moon was the colour of jaundice and the stars flashed like worn-out headlights. Meenu was unable to sleep, watching Pramod curled in bed, his features slack, snoring. All of a sudden she heard the sound of footsteps. Meenu saw a shadow outside their bedroom window. She sat up in fright. Someone was on their terrace. The intruder must have climbed up the two floors using the pipe. Meenu shook Pramod but he didn't wake up, comatose from the vast number of pills he'd started taking. When she removed Pramod's hand, it slumped limply against her waist. Meenu crept outside to the living room to get her mobile phone. She would call the police. But what was the number? 111? 100? 911? When she leaned forward to pick up the phone, her eyes fell on a figure dressed in black standing behind the terrace's sliding door. Meenu screamed.

In the moonlight a familiar face was revealed. Birju. It was Birju!

What a relief! And what joy!

She was seeing her husband after what-four, five months? And he'd come all the way from Byculla to see her; perhaps he missed her.

*What's wrong?' Pramod shouted from the room, his voice sounding frail and distant, still sleepy.

*Nothing is wrong,' she shouted back. *I saw a big ... c.o.c.kroach. Go back to sleep.'

Meenu walked out to the terrace. She smiled at her husband; he didn't smile back.

*I'm so happy to see you,' she said. *How I've missed you. Munna has missed you too.' She patted her stomach. Even in the darkness, Birju looked pale, lean, much like Pramod. He didn't say anything, just stared at her.

She continued, *You must be missing me too, I know. But you really shouldn't have come here. I'll lose my job if they find out that I gave you my client's address.'

Birju didn't reply and for a moment Meenu wondered if she was hallucinating, perhaps dreaming that he was here. But no, he was blinking furiously, his eyes bloodshot.

*Are you okay?' she asked him, becoming concerned.

*No, I am not okay,' Birju said, his voice heavy and raspy. *There's no money left at home. I called that Sheeba woman for an advance but she said that I'll have to wait for another two months.'

So he was here only to get money. Meenu tried to hide her disappointment. *You know I don't get paid till the end of my duty, Birju,' she said slowly. *And you told me that you were going to find another job.'

*Job?' he snarled. *Nandu's men have told everyone that I'm useless, that I steal money and sleep with the women employees. No one wants to hire me.'

So he was probably still with that Pinky woman.

*But what can I do? I only have the little cash I took when I left home,' Meenu said.

*Liar-' he spat on the ground. *You live like a princess in this big house, eating like the b.l.o.o.d.y pig you've become, while your husband starves. Have you no shame?'

*Don't say that. I am doing all this for us only, for Munna and you,' she pleaded. *I really have nothing or you know I would've given it to you.'

*Bring me money from that big house then. I'm sure your lover can spare some change.'

*He doesn't give me cash, you know that. I don't even know where he keeps it.'

Meenu saw a shadow behind Pramod's bedroom curtain. She ducked behind a large rubber plant and pulled Birju behind her. *You have to leave. I have to go back inside or everything will get ruined. I'll ask Sheeba to send you an advance.'

Birju pushed Meenu on her chest.

*I'll ask Sheeba to send you an advance,' he mocked. *What a mem you've become. You think it's your lover's agency that they'll give you whatever you want? I want some money now.'

Meenu looked over at the house in fear. *Don't shout, Birju. He's not deaf. You really shouldn't have come here.'

*I'll walk into the house and slit your old man's throat if you don't give me something.'

*Birju, don't talk like that. He locks everything before going to sleep.' It was true. *I really have nothing to give you,' she said, in tears now.

*What's this, then?' Birju asked, holding up the thin gold chain around her throat. *And this?' He clutched her wrist tightly and looked at Chandralikha's kada. *My G.o.d, you have a treasure in your hand, while you pretend to be poor.'

*It's not mine,' she whimpered.

Birju chuckled. His brown teeth glistened malevolently in the dark night. *Not yours? Then you shouldn't be wearing it,' he snarled and wringed the kada off Meenu's wrist.

*Don't,' Meenu cried out loudly. *Pramod will find out and throw me out on the streets. All my hard work will be wasted. We'll get nothing. Please. I beg you.'

Birju pushed Meenu again, hard this time. She fell against a money plant and grabbed its trellis to break her fall. She spun around and shouted, *Stop, Birju!' but he had vanished into the night.