The wait for the end... Part 5

After a controllable flood, damage worth a few million rupees and despoliation of a few suburbs, the monsoon showers of Mumbai seemed gratified. The city’s commotion was upbeat. The schools and colleges were buoyant. The taxi drivers, rickshaw riders, fruit vendors, pedlars floated about the city. Not a chance of making a few bucks was missed. The “Spirit of Mumbai” was restored. The rains did manage to do considerable damage but even after determined efforts, it could not subordinate the Mumbaikars.

Neeti had taken an off from office for more than a fortnight now. Her boss was vexed. Her colleagues were worried and Ramu was perturbed. She had switched off her cell phone for long durations for most days. When the cell was switched on, the calls went unattended. Reaching Neeti had become a major concern in the office and a catastrophe for the handful of friends Neeti had. Sushant, her suspicious boss, even offered her an unbelievable hike and a tempting promotion in the near future. But Neeti, instead of jumping up with joy, turned down the offers and reassured Sushant that she had no intention of switching companies. Ramu made a short trip to her flat, while on an errand and returned disturbed himself.

On a certain Wednesday, Ramu noticed that Neeti’s cubicle phone had been ringing incessantly. He decided to receive the call the next time the phone rang. In a matter of few minutes, the phone did ring and Ramu, without wasting any time, picked the receiver and pulled the cradle nearer.

“Hello! Neeti’s desk.”
“Ji hume Neeti se baat karni hain.” There came a polite reply.
“Aiyo Sir Neeti nahin aaya office. Woh nahin aayega kuch dino ke liye”
“Acha? Aisa kyun?”
“Sir details nahin malum. Aap kaun bolta ji?”
“Ji main... Main unka ek dost hun. Kashif. Woh mobile bandh rakhtin hain tho maine yahan call karna munasib samjha.”
“Kya samjha Sir?”
“Huh?? Woh... tik samjha”
“Oh wokay wokay. Sir woh cell phone bandh karta hain. Disturb nahin hone ka thoda time.”
“Ji acha. Shukriya! Khuda-hafiz.”

The conversation left Kashif in a tizzy. Ramaswamy’s words played over and over again. What could have gone wrong with Neeti, after all? He imagined the worst. Every second seemed more and more difficult to pass. He looked up at the ceiling, stopped his breath for a few seconds and shut his eyes. The sound of his silent breath also seemed disturbing. He took off the Rolex watch from his left wrist and placed it on the table. He felt the urgent need for silence. Vanilla-plain silence. In a few minutes he opened his eyes, replayed the recent telephonic conversation for the umpteenth time and gauged the options he had. He could choose to sit and wait, till Neeti took her time and then approached him. Or he could go to her place, uninvited and even feeling unwanted. He knew himself too well.

The drive from his Worli apartment to Bandra seemed never ending. The minute Kashif reached Neeti’s society premises; he shoved the car in some corner on the road, without even glancing if it was a ‘No Parking’. He took huge steps and reached the floor where Neeti lived. He was about to knock the door when suddenly he felt a receding force within. Thoughts of what Neeti would think came gushing down. She could think he was prying. Or maybe even acting like an opportunist. He sat on the first step and looked down at his slippers. It now occurred to him that he had rushed in his ordinary slippers, he had carried no wallet and to top it all, he had worn lemon yellow pyjamas. Here he was just a knock away, from the love of his life, dressed perfectly for a slumber party.

Some self-reprimanding and gritting of teeth gave Kashif the courage to knock the door. He knocked it lightly the first time, as if to make sure he had the courage to do it again. Then the second time he hit the door a bit harder. There was no response. He knocked even harder. This time, a petit voice called out “Who’s there?”

Kashif realised he had to act cheeky now. If he mentioned his name, the door wouldn’t open, obviously because none of his calls were answered or returned. “Bill madam”

Neeti didn’t bother to look through the peep hole. The reply convinced her to open the door. When she did open the door wide enough, she saw Kashif stand in front of her. She looked him in the eye, turned back and went into the kitchen. Kashif came in, closed the door behind him and sat in the corner of a sofa, scared and alarmed.

Neeti had grown pale. She looked different. Her complexion had grown a few tones lighter but didn’t glow. Her nose was red and the skin was worn out. She had developed a cognisable amount of dark circles and looked ill. Kashif heard a few harsh coughs from the kitchen. Neeti walked out with a tray of two steaming mugs and placed it on the side table. She handed Kashif, tea and had prepared coffee for her herself.

“Mujhe pata hain aap chai peete ho, coffee nahin.”

Kashif looked at the small girl sitting in front of him, who had grown even smaller in size now. He didn’t know what to reply to the meticulous observatory remark Neeti just made.

A long pause of silence prevailed. Neeti sipped endlessly till she finished her cuppa.

“Yuhu! I finished first... Main race jeet gayi.” The feeble attempt to make merry was dismissed by both. Yet Neeti smiled. Kashif opened his mouth to say something just when the door bell rang; a furious ring this time. Neeti hurriedly opened the door and saw her neighbour standing.

“Oh! Hello Uncle!”
“Neeti your guest has parked his car on my lot. Please ask him to move it.” The reply was curt.
“Sorry Uncle. He may not have realised.”
“Where should a man in his late seventies find new place to park his old Bug? I have been parking there since 30 years now.”
“Sorry Uncle.” Neeti didn’t need all that talk at this time.

Neeti quickly informed Kashif about the problem. He, without wasting a minute, picked his keys and went to the door. Suddenly he turned back and said to her “Neeti chalo!”. There was no asking or pleading or requesting. It was an order. Neeti didn’t attempt to disobey. She instead obliged him.

A few quick steps and they reached his brand new Chevrolet sedan. Neeti didn’t notice the change in vehicle and stood next to the car. Kashif unlocked the car remotely and sat behind the wheel; then told Neeti to get in. Neeti numbly sat next to him and uttered no word of reluctance. Kashif drove smoothly and seemed disinterested in the new car or its features. This car, for now, seemed nothing more than a utility.

After a whole hour of driving and utter silence, with the exception of a few horns of other vehicles, Neeti spoke.
“Woh aaya tha. Kuch din pehle. Mere ghar pe.” Neeti kept looking ahead, into a huge zero.
Kashif gave her a quick look, just to make sure she was comfortable talking about this.
“Hamari kaafi behes hui. Woh ek hafte pehlese hi Mumbai mein tha par usne call karna jaayaz nahin samjha. Aane se pehle bhi usne call nahin kiya.”

Again a hurtful silence prevailed. But this time, not for long.

“Maine usse pucha hamare future ke baare mein. Pehele tho usne kaha woh tayar nahin hain.”
Neeti choked. There was nothing that could hold her tears back. She wept.
“Maine fir zor diya. Aur usne saaf mana kar diya. Woh apna career banana chahta hain. Main uske aade aa rahi hun.”
The words she uttered killed her from within. She grasped how difficult it was for her to say this; whereas for Aman, the same words spurted like a casual ‘Hi’ or a ‘Hello’.

Kashif stopped the car near the Marine Lines. He knew this was the only place she would want to be. For that matter, any person who lives in Mumbai knows that Marine Lines is the place where you can be yourself without any glitch. Happiness, sorrow, joy, anxiousness, remorse; you could share all of it with the Arabian Sea. The sea takes in all that you give it. It listens like a loving and patient grandmother. Occasionally, it does reply with a gush of water.

Neeti sat on the famous Marine Lines platform. She didn’t face the wide ocean today. She rather faced her back to it and sat looking at a tall building housing a plush seven star hotel. Kashif stood with hands folded-crossed in front of him.

“I love him. I want to be with him.”
Kashif needed no translation. He knew what it meant and that hurt.
“Neeti usse firse ek baar baat karlo.”
“Kashif woh nahin chahta mujhe abh. Woh mujhse duur jana chahta hain.”
“Neeti kya main usse baat...”
Neeti looked up at him immediately and promptly replied “Nahin. Kabhi nahin.”

Neeti began wallowing. The situation seemed to grow worse with her cries. Kashif sat next to her and kept a hand on her head. He let her cry. He placed her head on his shoulder, took out a white, neatly folded handkerchief from his pocket and wiped her face. Neeti wept harder. Kashif’s T-shirt was partly soaked at the right arm corner. He didn’t flinch for a second. He sat still, still keeping his hand on her forehead. He felt helpless. He knew this period was there to stay for a while. And it was painful and would grow even more in a few days; not only for Neeti but for him as well. After all, love is like a crescendo. For the fortunate ones, its’ like the periwinkles which never cease to bloom; but for the unfortunate or unlucky ones, its’ like an incurable cancer growing within, quietly and secretly, deceiving and making illusory promises.

Neeti’s soft weeping continued and Kashif knew the wait for the end had begun.