The wait for the end ... Part 8

How can Mumbai be described in a word? Will ‘pandemonium’ work? How about ‘dreamland’? Commotion? Extravagant? It would be a very difficult question to answer. Nonetheless, the answers that would pour in would be far too many for a normal 320 GB computer to store and still insatiable. This city has the same gift for all, that is, a dream.

It is said Mumbai has a place for everyone. Sea-facing villas, flats, shanties, streets, pavements, all are housed in Mumbai. There is not a vacant spot left in this bewitching city but still it never complains. It accepts one and all with open-arms. Thus, not surprisingly, the count of people, dwelling here, is not something to be given a thought to. The number is not worth remembering since every passing day will have yet another train, reaching the Mumbai railway station and delivering a new package of dreamers.

So is it possible to be alone in Mumbai? In fact, a better question would be “Is it possible that a person becomes a loner here?” The chances seem quite low, if one stands near the window overlooking the traffic on Peddar road, in Bandra, Worli, Dadar or any place which has a Mumbai pin code. This would be an optimistic thought. But, how about someone who has a sunken heart and watches outside the same window, looking at nothing? Does this city have something for such people?

Months passed by. Neeti counted days, followed by weeks and then months, since she last spoke to Aman. Aman did call her a few times. Once after 2 months, then after 3 months and then yet again after 3 more months. She had made a mental note of all these calls, the dates and always thought that every call she received would be the last someday. He was drunk whenever he called. He said that he loved her and would die without her. Each call of this kind made a nerve so sensitive within her, to the extent that she cried with pain and agony. She wondered if the man ever thought of what she went through when she heard all that stuff. Is this how she was supposed to be treated after a yearlong relation? Is this how a woman is treated? Do her tears have any value? Neeti had developed a very low esteem.

She tried to distract herself with various things around her. She had begun interacting with her Parsi neighbour, Mrs. Cowasjee, an elderly lady, living with her retired army-official, cricket maniac husband. Mr. Cowasjee loved his newspapers. He had himself delivered 3 newspapers every day. One in Parsi, the other in Marathi and one in English. Neeti found it funny, but dared not to question the short-tempered, white moustached ex-army man.

Neeti had made a few new friends through her colleague, O’deth. They met quite often and went clubbing on Saturdays. Neeti did not like clubs but went there only for the deafening music. O’deth made sure that Neeti was never left alone on Saturdays and Sundays. Especially since she had seen Neeti crying once in the office washroom and had eventually got to know about Aman from her. After listening to Neeti’s sad story, O’deth had managed to say just one line, “Neeti, he’s digging a grave for himself.” Neeti was too agitated then and ignored the comment considering it trivial.

It was the third Saturday of the month. 3 months had already passed by since Aman’s last call. Neeti was expecting a call anytime now. She woke up around 9 am and sat on her soft white bed looking at the heap of clothes on the chair. The clothes had over-piled up and a washing spree was long due. She thought to herself about the washing and imagined her hands soaked in white foam and wrinkled because of the over-exposure to water and alkalis. A world war awaited her today, at that thought she smiled and with a quick jump she stood up to get ready for office.

An hour later, while she was applying jam to the slice of bread, there was a knock on the door. She took a big bite, enough to suffice for the 5 steps from the table to the door.

“Good morning Aunty.” Neeti smiled. It was Mrs.Cowasjee in very pretty blue A-line dress.
“Good morning Dikra. Chaloo Ni. Come to my place right now. I have something for you.” Neeti smiled again noticing the polished English accent the lady had. Mrs. Cowasjee was always well dressed and had an enchanting, refined English accent that could make even a British conscious.
“Stop smiling. I know you like my English accent and that is why I flaunt it.” The lady put out a small teasing laughter.
“Aunty, my English is also good. You know yesterday Uncle was saying that I speak better than you.” Neeti laughed loudly and patted the lady on her shoulder.
“Really! Since when did you stop being afraid of my handsome Ronnie?” Mrs. Cowasjee had hit an ace this time and Neeti understood she had lost the case now. Neeti smirked and Mrs. Cowasjee winked.

Dumping her stuff in the bag, Neeti quickly locked the door and went along with Mrs. Cowasjee. On entering the Cowasjee residence, Neeti saw the table, set for three. Mr. Cowasjee stood up and greeted Neeti cordially. He quickly fetched two glasses of water for the ladies.

“Thank you Uncle.”
“Welcome Neeti. I hope you are doing well.” Mr. Cowasjee was a man of little words. He only passed statements and hardly questioned.
Neeti realised it was no question and hence only smiled back.

“Dikra, sit here. I have made Akuri. Ronnie darling read those newspapers later. Come for breakfast baba.”

Mr. Cowasjee dutifully put aside the newspapers and sat in his usual place at the breakfast table. Mrs. Cowasjee and Neeti were engrossed in their conversations. Mr. Cowasjee hardly looked up from his plate. When he was done, he stood up and excused himself.

“Don’t worry about him. He’s very silent. Manufacturing defect che. It doesn’t mean he does not like you. ” Mrs. Cowasjee could feel the discomfort Neeti had in the presence of Mr. Cowasjee.
Neeti smiled and said “Not at all Aunty.” She later added, “I must say he is very handsome and so stylish.”
“Hey! He’s mine.” Mrs. Cowasjee laughed loudly. Neeti blushed and laughed too.
“But Aunty, why 3 newspapers?”
“Parsi because of community related news. Marathi because he studied Marathi on his own and likes the language. English because he is a high-nosed army man. Pagal che!” Mrs. Cowasjee stood up and took her plate to the kitchen. Neeti offered to carry her own plate to the sink.

They had a good, huge mug of hot, brewing coffee. Suddenly, Mr. Cowasjee said to Neeti, “I’ll drop you to office today. I have to meet a person that side.”

Neeti gulped hard and before she could refuse the offer, Mrs. Cowasjee said “Neeti that is great! I’ll give you a list of vegetables. Please buy and give them to Ronnie. Ronnie never bargains. Thanks to him, I have even eaten potatoes worth dollars.”

Mr. Cowasjee drove his car from the parking lot to the main gate, where Neeti was waiting for him. Before Neeti could open the passenger seat door, he stepped out of the car, opened the door to the passenger seat and seated Neeti.

Was this how a man makes a woman feel like a lady? If yes, it is rightly said that it takes a man to treat a woman like a lady. Else a woman will never rise to be a lady, however big an achiever she may be. Neeti felt so special.


After purchasing the vegetables and giving them to Mr. Cowasjee, she was dropped to her office. Neeti did not attempt to open the door this time. She understood the protocol and waited until he opened the door for her and he did exactly that. Neeti smiled ear to ear.

“Thank you so much Uncle. Not for the lift, but for making me feel like a lady today. I haven’t been treated like this.” Without thinking, she pecked a small kiss on his cheek.
For the first time, Mr. Cowasjee smiled at her and placed a hand on her head, as if he understood she needed blessings.
“Bye Neeti. Have a good day.”

Neeti smiled even brighter and waved till his car was out of sight. What is it about Army men? What do they have different about them? Personality? Flawless English accent? Eye-to-eye contact while speaking? Manners and breeding? How would a woman not feel conscious in such a man’s presence? These questions kept bothering Neeti.

Office work was less since the weekend was approaching. By 3pm, after a small bite, Neeti left the office to click pictures for the weekend supplement. She thought of a theme and wondered what part of Mumbai would fetch her, the kind of scenes she imagined. O’deth offered her bike services since she was bored and had completed a write up for the weekend edition long time back.

The two girls roamed the city for effective pictures. Situational, natural, colourful. Within an hour Neeti had clicked more than 45 pictures but still wasn’t satisfied. The things she imagined were yet to be brought to light.

They reached Mahim and decided to take a break. O’deth pointed to a small, dingy restaurant and within no time the girls were inside having a nice cup of “Cutting chai”. Across the road there was a lot of commotion. Suddenly O’deth was pumped up and sprang from her seat.

“Lets’ go there. New scoop!” O’deth beamed and literally pulled Neeti by her hand. They crossed the road and stood at a safe distance to watch what was going on.
“What is going on there? Did you see anything?” O’deth asked a boy who had just passed by that commotion.
“I just saw three men shouting violently at someone.”

O’deth wasn’t getting any breaking news so she went closer and closer. Neeti followed her.

Seven men had circled a man, sitting on the road. There was another man in that circle too. But his role there couldn’t be judged from that distance. Neeti went two steps closer.
“Kashif!”
“Oh my God! You saw that don?
“Which don?”
“Kashif! Obviously! Lets click some pictures. Come on quick.”

Neeti stopped blinking and made no attempt to switch on the camera. O’deth looked at the girl quizzically and snatched the camera. She pulled Neeti behind a paan-stall. They hid there and O’deth unruly clicked pictures. When she turned behind to check on Neeti, she saw that Neeti was gone. O’deth looked around and frantically asked the paan-maker if he had seen Neeti move out of there. He pointed out in a direction. O’deth looked in the direction of the pointing finger. Neeti was moving towards the commotion.

The seven boys looked at Neeti walking in their direction. One of them snapped is fingers and yelled at Neeti. Neeti showed no reaction and kept moving towards them till she saw a bleeding man, sitting on the road and Kashif, bent over and slapping the man.

“Kashif!” she said. She did not yell, scream or shout. She said it loud enough for him to hear.
Kashif stood straight and looked at the woman who called out his name. His throat went dry. “Neeti aap idhar? Main yeh...”
Neeti showed her right palm signalling him to stop the explanation. “Forget it.”
Neeti turned back and walked away quickly. O’deth waited for her to cross the road and then followed her. She ran a little and caught pace with Neeti.
“Silly! Where do you think you are going?”
“I want to get out of here.”
“Scooty is parked near that shop. Lets’ get there quickly.”

Neeti appreciated O’deth's gesture to help and of not asking questions about what was going on. Two minutes and the girls were already on their way towards office.
“Ody drop me home. Take my camera and give all those pictures to Sushant. He’ll choose the one which will run on the weekend supplement. Keep my camera in your locker.” O’deth did as she was told.

Kashif kept calling Neeti. She placed her mobile for charging and let it ring incessantly. Not once did she receive Kashif’s calls. Sushant and O’deth called in between whenever they got the bandwidth. She received their calls and Kashif’s calls were then on hold.

Around 7pm, Neeti checked her phone and saw “86 missed calls” on the screen. She called up O’deth.
“What plans for today? Why didn’t you call me?”
“Honey, I thought you wanted some space. So...”
“I don’t want to be alone today. Please Ody. You understand me?”
“Get dressed. 20 minutes”
“OK.”

Neeti cut the line and quickly got dressed. For the first time in her life, she was over dressed. She had streaked out heavy Kohl lines around her eyes. Her hair was let loose. Her ears carried big danglers. Neeti saw herself in the mirror and immediately looked away. She was hell-bent on freaking out tonight. She put on a dark coloured nail-polish and wore a shiny blue dress. Everything was out of place. She thought over-doing could give her some solace.

In 10 minutes, there was a knock on the door. Neeti wore her high-heeled sandals, fetched her bag and rushed to open the door. On opening it, she saw Kashif standing there, fuming from head to toe, with red eyes and an inflated nose.

“Main bahar ja rahi hun.” Neeti said, looking away.
“Mujhe idhar tamasha nahin karna hain. Chup chap chalo mere saath.”
“Sorry. Main nahin aaungi.”
“Neeti... please. Mujhe baat karni hain. Abhi. Isi waqt.”
“Maine kaha main bahar ja rahi hun.” Neeti said very coolly.
“Yeh ghatiya kapde pehenke, kaha ja rahi ho aap? Aur yeh kya chehere pe lagaya hain. Apne aap ko dekho zara.”
“Hmmm. Baad mein baat karenge.”
“Neeti... jo hua...” Kashif spoke no more when he saw the coldness in Neeti’s eyes. He hit his fist hard on the wall and walked away.

Neeti closed the door.

The next morning, when she opened the door to pick the newspaper and daily packet of milk, she saw Kashif sitting on the steps watching the door with begging eyes.

“Andar aa jao.” She said. The same coldness in her voice.
“Kahan gayi thi aap raat ko?”
“Club. Coffee?”
“Ji.”

Neeti prepared some coffee and placed a mug in front of Kashif.
“Neeti kal aap ne jo bhi dekha woh sab...”
“Aap underworld mein ho?” She looked at him, eye-to-eye.
“Neeti aap jaisa soch rahe ho woh...”
“Yes or no?”
“Neeti meri baat tho suno... ”
“Kashif kya aap underworld mein ho?”
Kashif took a deep breath. He recognised the tone and said “Haan. Lekin aap agar...”
“Finish your coffee and get out!” Neeti was still cool. No wrinkle on her forehead. No raised eye brows. No alarming eyes.

The truth was out and she decided not to react or respond.

How does it feel when a trusted someone lies? Will any explanation give respite? Will the same trust be ever resurrected? These questions have no answers. At least, no verbally explicable answers. The answers are all too deep rooted and have direct connections to the heart. Breaking trust is like passing AC type current to a gadget which accepts only DC type. The circuitry is rendered irreparable.

Neeti watched Kashif leave her small apartment. He closed the door behind him, promising himself to find a right time and explain things to Neeti.