hE had fled from the rehab along with his belongings which weren't much; a few pair of clothes which no more fit his thinner frame, his books, passport and her pictures.
Some paths we walk on and some appear below our treading steps, on their own. Here hE was on an entirely new path which had appeared similarly.
"I have no idea why the hell you are with us?" The chic spoke.
It was no surprise that The Chic was named so by the band of boys. She was as beautiful as beauty could be defined. Her eyes were faintly brown, the kind hE had known.
hE patiently listened to her complaining banter. "I simply don't understand, what was it that bossy found so unique in you? I have never seen a guy as stupid as you."
hE looked into her eyes, for a while the resemblance making him off balance but soon gained sanity and asked with a straight face, "So what's the stupidest thing about me?"
Now, The Chic was a bit shaken.
"No, I mean, go ahead tell me, what is it in me that repels you?" hE insisted. The Chic simply looked in the other direction.
The flight took off.
Blue Jacket had this thing with plane journey, he created havoc. "Freak freak I am going to be killed. Damn this adventure, damn you all. Freak! This thing is going to take us all straight to heaven."
"How can you be so sure?" hE asked.
Blue jacket looked amused.
"What?"
"I asked: how can you be so sure."
"Sure of what you freaking good man."
"Sure, that we all land up in heaven after dying. I mean it’s quite likely there isn't any hell or heaven at all."
Headphones on, Curly Hair was out of the conversation.
Beard was curiously observing the drama from a seat diagonally opposite.
The chic was kind of fascinated.
"Take a deep breath, and think of the worst thing that has ever happened to you."
"Are you out of. . ."
Before Blue Jacket could speak further hE put one of his hands on his blabbering mouth and the other on his eyes. "Now think" He said authoritatively.
The flying machine was up above the clouds, when he slowly took off his hand from his eyes and mouth.
"Freak I want to kill that guy. He is the worst thing ever happened to me."
Oblivion to the fact; who he was referring to, curly hair was lost in his music.
"He had once freaking worn my undies and passed onto me without freaking washing them. And can you believe? You freaking good man, I wore it. Yuk. Freak! Freak!! Freak!!!! "
The Chic asked with disgust "That's the worst that has happened to you?"
Blue jacket just gestured with a shrug of his shoulders.
Forty minutes into the flight everyone seemed settled.
But The Chic wasn’t.
She had met him just once, during the briefing with bossy. Bossy wanted him to be on this trip, not only because of the Parsi connection, but because he believed his presence would add some texture to the show.
She started warming up to him, more out of curiosity to know what lied beneath the facade that, she believed, hE was putting up.
hE removed a picture from his ethnic jhola (hand bag).
“This is my family.” hE said, handing over the picture to her.
Hesitatingly she took it. It was a black and white image and there were almost as many people in the picture as many a colony could house.
hE looked into her eyes, almost hinting to ask for more.
Getting uncomfortable with his gaze she asked, “Why are you showing it to me?”
“You wanted to know more about me, right?” hE almost read her mind, she thought.
hE started telling her everything about him, he never knew why, she didn’t resist any further.
“She would always say The Paankh (wing piece of chicken) is for you.
I hated the reference of body parts of a living thing with such anatomical words. Nevertheless I loved what she cooked especially the dum Biryani.
I would eagerly wait for the aroma from the aluminium container to escape out of the lid which was sealed with gluten. The moment the dried half-baked layers of flour would peel off, the aromas of meat cooked in deliciously laced spices and basmati rice would slowly sneak out to reach my nostrils.
And then, I would again hear those words, The Taang (leg piece) is for your Dad and here you go, placing both the wing pieces into my plate she would say, Both Paankh are for you.
For a moment the repeated use of that word would give me visuals of the bird when it would have been alive and swinging its wings with glee but the aromas out of my mom's cooking skills were far more tempting then my guilt. So I would happily enjoy the meal.
I would walk with him all the way to the liquor shop where country liquor, which would stink like hell, was sold. Within the small shop was hidden a small room, behind an equally stinky curtain made of old discarded gunny bags.
I would enter in with him and sit at one of the tables while he gulped the liquid and I ate peanuts. I never wondered, till a particular age, why on earth did my father take me along to a filthy place like that.
As a child, I was simply amused by the narrow lane through small huts which led us to this place called Madhya’s Den. The drunkards sometimes even fell in the gutter, which ran parallel to the narrow path.
The only den I was aware of was that of a lion. And the fallen drunkards appeared to me like clowns trying to act funny.
I held the same hand which had held the glass of that stinky filth and though I wasn't exactly sure but it felt, as if, I was guiding my father back home with my child like intelligence and baby like resilience. He was always a soft spoken person and during the entire journey and back from Madhya’s Den he would just speak to me once. Asking me if i wanted to buy something. For me the pleasure of hearing his voice was enough for asking anything else.
We lived in a suburb which was nothing less than countryside with open fields of radish and spinach, toddy trees intermittently putting their swaying heads up above the rest.
Our cottage was modest in its structure as well as its interiors. We had two chikoo (Sapodilla) trees and a plenty of mango trees around. I even have faint memories of snakes passing by in the tall grass that would have grown during the rains.
Our relatives lived mostly in the better part of the city. At least, they believed so. But our cottage almost always was for celebrations like Pateti (Festival of Parsi community) or New Year. It was maybe my Mom’s culinary skills or my Dad’s large heartedness, I couldn’t make sense. Or maybe it could have been simply the beautiful surroundings our humble abode offered to those otherwise snobbish clan who thought my dad had done a mistake by renting a cottage in a place which had only tonga’s (Horse carriages) to reach there from the station.
*Do catch up, next Friday, with your late afternoon cup of tea or maybe coffee, the story of hE continues.
If you feel something in the blog touched you,do write to me at nozzer.p@gmail.com
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