01

Chapter 1

He cleared his throat knowing she’d be annoyed with the intrusion. But it couldn’t wait.

She opened her eyes, still in a daze…the riyaaz always transported her to another zone. Her brows crinkled with annoyance. She hated being interrupted during the practice.
“You need to take the call, Anaisha. It’s about him.” The name was never uttered between them. That’s how it had been decided and agreed.

The tanpura slipped from her hand, a blasphemy which never occurred.
Gripping the mobile tight, her knuckles turned white, she whispered, “Aarti? You found him? huh…”, she listened to the voice of her friend from the yore as Aarti delivered the message she’d been waiting for. He stood aside pretending to straighten the brassware that didn’t need any arranging. He couldn’t hear the phone conversation. He saw his wife’s clenched palm on the mobile, other hand on the wall to support herself, and the strained breath that she was holding back. Her lips quivered as she whispered.”

“I’ll be there. I...I’ll reach by tomorrow latest. Don’t let him leave. Please. Just…take care…please. I’ll be there.”

“Hurry Shobha.” Those from her past called her by the name her mother had given her. “Hurry. He doesn’t have much time.”

She shut her eyes tight but only for a second. Time was of essence and she couldn’t waste any. Turning around she faced him. Their eyes met. His were calm but a storm lurked deep within. One that he had trained to control. She didn’t try to stop the tears.
“They…Aarti found him. He…he is dyin…”
“Go. Don’t waste time. Go.” Ranjit’s voice was barely a whisper. He turned around and walked away quickly before anything else could be said. Even in absence, he’s always there. Like he never left.
Resting her chin on her palm, Anaisha stared out of the window as the car sped towards Shimla airport. She didn’t notice the towering snow peaks she loved to gaze at or the rustling pines that always soothed her. She was far away. 15 years back into the past. Her past. The morning of the grand finale of the all-India music contest. She’d been a nervous wreck. No one could calm her. Amma had tried everything. Brewing her favourite adrak-elaichi chai, suggesting head massage she loved; nothing worked so finally she called Ashu, albeit grudgingly. Amma never approved of the quiet brooding boy who’d been her daughter’s shadow for years. Or was her daughter his shadow? But Shobha was such a nervous wreck that Amma had no choice.

Ashu entered the room that had been allotted to Shobha; she became Anaisha much later. He walked up to her and pulled her into his arms. Nothing more was said or needed to be said. Amma grimaced but left the room and signalling others to do the same. She fought back the urge to slap him. ‘Imagine his himmat, to barge in and embrace my daughter.’ She muttered silently. ‘Not a Namaste to me, not even a glance in my direction. He could have at least shaved and worn a cleaner shirt before coming here. Doesn’t he realize where he is coming and who he is here to meet?’ she sighed and reminded herself how right she was about him. He was just an uncouth boar. Wonder what Shobha saw in him?

 This was the only thing mother and daughter fought about. Ashu and his continued presence in Shobha's life.

It was a rainy afternoon when a drunk man walked into the Shaanti Co-operative society followed by a pint of a boy in shorts that hung limp on his thin frame and soiled shirt that had probably never been washed. Ten year old Shobha stood rooted, watching the duo. No one approached them. Father and son looked like mangy strays who stayed in the rain and came in with muddy dirty paws. The man reeked of alcohol. It was not even 1 pm. No one bothered to ask his name or offer help. He was labelled sharaabi from the very moment he appeared and the name stuck on. So while the drunk struggled to hold himself up, his scrawny son lugged their meagre belongings to the second floor kholi; everyone stood watching, their silence and reluctance informing them that they weren’t welcome.

Shobha walked up to the boy, “Maine Shobha. Tu?” her fair face, scrubbed clean of any dirt or malice, with a dimple on one cheek, hair oiled and combed tight into two pony tails above her ears. Everyone looked irritated. Why was Shobha talking to the boy in dirty clothes? She picked up a bundle and walked alongside the sullen faced boy.

“Ashu.” Came a mumbled answer.

Nobody liked the brooding, sulky Ashu but no one dared say a word. Shobha had decided he would be part of the gang, and no one dared to go against the angel faced, sweet as honey voiced Shobha, who if crossed was like a tornado unleased. Not just the children but even the grownups of the complex, her own mother grudgingly accepted Ashu because it was Shobha’s decision.

                                                   ****

“Pagli! Kya hua tuje. Today is the day you’ve waiting for and you’re losing it. For years you’ve singing and I’ve had to listen to your awful voice,” he teased her, “And when the day has finally arrived, you’re losing your shit. Stop being an ass.” He pulled her hair free by tugging off the scrunchie that held her hair in a messy bun. Her brown luscious mane tumbled in his palm. He tugged at her hair and she titled her head back. It had always been his thing with her. To pull off the band that held her hair. Since childhood, when they played pitthu in the back alley. Then she used yell at him and make a face; later as they grew and as did their passion for each other, their games became less childish. He pulled her hair and let it tumble on his face while he kissed the hollow at the base of her neck. Sometimes, as her hair cascaded over him, he unbuttoned her kurta and rubbed his lips on her soft young breast making her shiver and squeal all at once.

He wrapped his arms tight around her, as they stood in the small make up room. An air conditioner rattled noisily, making more noise than cooling. But Shobha didn’t bother about anything anymore; all that she needed, she had in her arms. His arms around her, tight yet comforting. His paint stained fingers splayed on her spine, gently rubbing her shoulder blades making her shiver yet calmed her down. The mad world stopped spinning when his arms went around her. She buried her face in his shirt which had seen better days. The smell of nicotine and oil paint.

“I’m scared Ashu. My dream is there…right there. What I’ve lived for, dreamt all my life is about to come true and I’m terrified.” She whispered to him.

“I know you’ll win. I believe in you. I do. You’re an awful singer but you’re the best.” He teased her again as he cupped her face in his palms and kissed the tip of her nose. “Koyal.” That was his moniker for her. He called her by that name all the time and no one dared to call her by that name. She was his Koyal. She sang for him. Even when she sang for others, at functions; she sang for him, thinking about him and of him.

He calmed her down, soothed her frayed and harried nerves but deep inside her heart fluttered. She wasn’t nervous about the finale or the outcome. She knew she would win. She’d never been surer of anything as she’d been sure of her win. It wasn’t arrogance, she didn’t have any. She knew it in her heart that victory would be hers. Like the day she first saw Ashu in the courtyard with her father. Alone, lonely, confused and scared. She’d known he would be her friend and she would be his. Much later when everyone in the complex had accused Ashu of stealing Asha Tai’s gold  chain, she’d known he’d taken it but stood firm and looked everyone in the eye and said he hadn’t. She’d told everyone they had been together all night, the night of the alleged robbery. She became his alibi despite knowing he had taken it. Her mother’s clouded face didn’t dissuade her. She had stared back at her mother till the latter was forced to look away.

Later in his room, she had locked the door, walked up to him slapped him hard and said, “Give it to me.”

“How do you know, I…” he couldn’t complete the sentence, looking away.

“I know.” She had cupped his face and  forced him to look her in the eye. She also knew why he had stolen it. To buy the easel, canvas and more paint.

“I’m here Ashu. Tell me what you need and I’ll get it for you.” She’d hugged him tight, stood on her toes to reach his lips, and kissed him long and hard till she couldn’t hold the tears any longer. “I’m all you need Ashu. I’m here for you. For ever. Don’t ever do something like this.” She had made him swear.

So that afternoon when Amma called Ashu fearing her daughter was having a panic attack before the grand finale; she wasn’t. She worried about what would come after. Somewhere deep inside she knew she was on a path that would take her away from Ashu. She would lose the man she loved. The only man she’d ever loved. He was the air she breathed. The melody in her songs. And she knew her win would take them on different paths. She shook away those thoughts that afternoon, clung on to him, kissed him tenderly.

“Hey, what happened? You aren’t drowning Koyal. You’re going for a contest.” He’d looked surprised when she’d clung to him, her eyes taking in every inch of his rugged face, lined with worry and sleepless nights. She’d touched his fingers, nails chewed, some cut hurriedly. Paint smudges which he never bothered to clean up. And the smell of nicotine that was now part of his flesh. She kissed them again and again. There was a slight tremor in her touch, her fingers curling into a fist on his crumpled shirt. Her kiss, her eyes lingering on his face as though trying to memorise something she already knew by heart. Just seeing it for one last time. He’d sensed her fear and bundled her into his arms.

“I’m here Koyal. Right here, next to you. I’m not going anywhere. OK? Don’t look scared bachchu. Do me proud, Koyal. Go win it and make it your world.” Ashu had smiled and kissed her deeply.

Had he known that afternoon as they made love? Biting, clawing each other, inhaling each other’s smell and soul as though it were the last time. She’d wondered many times, later, thinking about that frenzied afternoon of love making; had he also known she was about to walk away from him?

Write a comment ...

Kanchana Banerjee

Show your support

If you enjoy reading what I write, do leave a small contribution to support me.

Write a comment ...