Riya

Riya

Part I

1

Roshni looked in the mirror and checked her make up once again. Something was amiss. Her face didn’t look radiant as usual. She looked at herself again. Just yesterday she had had her facial. The lip gloss was what suited her pout the best. Her long straight hair that curled down the ends smelt good. The beads on her chiffon sari rendered her the mystic quality of beauty. She reapplied cheekbone highlighter. Didn’t seem to work though. Finally, she dismissed it as stress and proceeded hurriedly out of her bedroom. Take an aspirin, suppress the headache, let a smile bloom and go fly, Roshni thought. Maybe add some pudin hara- the stomach was sick too. But tonight was going to be big. She had no time for minor issues.

Corporate world, baby.

As a page three journalist in The Connoisseur, Roshni was always expected to follow the same decorum. Apply several layers of wax, stay up to date with the latest dressing trends, get into the magazine van with a couple of photographers, who blissfully could afford to be dressed dowdily, that is, relatively; get down at the venue, straighten whatever little creases that might have appeared in her attire for the evening, recheck herself in the small mirror of the compact, dispose off the gum she had been chewing so meticulously in the van, take a deep breath to brace up for the innumerable rounds of silky conduct, fake giggles, plastic concern and put-on cheerfulness while sifting through wannabes and socialites to reach up to the ‘real people’. These included politicians, film stars, their muses, businessmen, their wives and girlfriends, in lost-the-count-of cases, both; and grabbing some bytes between them grabbing bites. Manipulation and maneuvering was an art Roshni was endowed with, so being a page 3 journo was a breeze for her. As the over-affectionate pictures of the hugging- “At loggerheads? And we? You got to be kidding me! We bond like a house on fire!” celebs, “No, really. We are just friends,” link-ups or even “Let me see that. Eww, I look hideous! Take one again,” socialites would be taken, she had to rush to write an unintelligible and corny piece of flattery about the hosts’ generosity and hospitability, the hired entertainers’ supreme sense of humor and how overall, ‘Everyone had a blast!’ Oh yes, the exclamation mark was important. How else is one supposed to convey all the vibrancy and prevailing gaiety at the party?

But tonight, though the same routine would have to be followed, the magnitude of the event was titanic. And so were the stakes. Her editor had almost threatened to fire her if she doesn’t get the most exclusive, extensive and invigorating coverage along with still motion back up. After all, “Why should always the Filmfare keep the gossip mills running?” God curse Mrs. Rao’s Hitler-y guts. Oh, why stop at that? Say Hitler-y, Mussolini-y and Stalin-y guts. Mrs. Rao was, plainly put, a major pain in the posterior. With her around, there was no room for compromise, no chance for manipulation and everything had to be, quoting Rao, “just purrfect,” which was in other words, Rao’s way of defining herself.

It was the chief-minister’s birthday party at The Resplendent. As well known, it was going to be a Bollywood marries politics, sports and business affair. All the media houses had prepared for the event for days outlining the people to be concentrated on, instructing their concerned employees to act intrusive to get the spiciest gossip. The Connoisseur had specifically chosen Roshni, though this would be her first assignment for such a high profile event. Good looking that she was, she was a male-magnet. Besides, she had an aura about her that made her the most confide-in able person you could ever meet, though every such “Don’t tell anyone that…” inadvertently found itself in print, many a time, intentionally so. She blended easily with the high profile crowd and even the ones with most starry airs about them found themselves drawn to Roshni. And then she was skilled at this choreography owing to her exceptional PR skills. Thus summed up the answer to ‘What makes a dream page 3 journo’.

But there was a catch though. And it was… oh no, flashback time is for later.

The mag van halted some fifty meters away from the venue. The impending road was as anticipated, clogged with media and security vans.

“You’ll have to walk from here. I can’t go any further,” the driver grunted, the passengers following suit. But the instant Roshni, her supplied photographers Aditya, Varun and Michael jumped down, along with Roshni’s senior reporter Tina, their groan remained a mere ‘o’. The spectacle of grandeur of the event had wiped off the rest 5 letters and replaced it with an admiring four- “Fuck!” Velvety lawns around the perimeter of the hotel preceded the enormous entrance made especially by the CM’s political party with a banner wishing him for crossing life’s golden jubilee (and by the way, make his’ the winning party at the oncoming election too). Proceeding in, every tree in the lawn glittered. There was a sleek red carpet for the guests from the main gate to the lobby. Flaunting the entrance, was the chief minister’s elder son dressed in an elegant copper sherwani and his 10 year old step sister, from the CM’s second marriage, wearing a gold embroiled red ghagra-choli, wishing everyone with a polite Namaskar and a hand shake. Some people, in a bid to playfully jeer at CM’s strong Marathi agenda, followed the ritual with a “Jai Maharashtra,” the son, not to be bogged down, responding equally vociferously. There was a separate side entrance for the media personas. A stringent security check followed. Roshni and others using it, found themselves in a huge banquet. The ceiling was unimaginably huge and glimmered with exquisite chandeliers. At every few feet on the wall, balloons and other decorations were politely swaying. At the centre, was a dais on which stood the chief minster of Maharashtra and his wife, young enough to be his daughter, acknowledging the wishes as the steady trickle of the guests began. The granite floor sported the most sinkable looking couches with rich upholstery. At the other end, into a similarly mammoth hall were the tuck-ins with a giant ice sculpture acting as the centre of attraction. The waiters, essentially at-least decent lookers, dressed in black blazers and pants roamed across the length offering a combo of appetizers and polite smiles.

Roshni gaped around and soaking in the sumptuousness braced herself for one of the most taxing nights. She still didn’t feel well. But did that matter so much? This was going to be the most important night for her career till date, mainly because of the stakes. But that couldn’t rule out the queer queasy feeling that was recurring in her stomach since morning. Ignorance and popping pills had not helped. She wondered if the protection she used the night she spent at her boyfriend’s place didn’t prove to be one after all. Her heart gave a violent jolt as she cursed the timing of the abject insight. She had to talk to him about it. Him-the landlord cum somebody else’s husband. Nope, bad idea. He would freak out and maybe beat her some more. Roshni felt the healing wound on her left shoulder pricking as she thought about how he put a hot frying pan against her skin during one of their arguments. But this could be serious. After all, she had missed her periods this time. But they are usually irregular, Roshni tried to comfort herself. Fear had prevented her from taking a pregnancy test. A conformation would be far worse. So what is she supposed t…OH MY GOD, IS THAT SHAHID KAPUR?!

Her scruples suddenly subdued, she hurried to be the first hound as the shutterbugs went crazy but felt nauseous as she approached the chocolate hunk with a drool-worthy face. No, she couldn’t take it anymore. In spite of what is at stake, she couldn’t take a chance, she realized as her frantic trot to the temporary media infatuation was redirected to the frantic search of a restroom. Bad timing Rosh, she thought as she held back the fluid in her throat. Her head was throbbing now. My my, wasn’t that just fucking painful. Ignoring the puzzled looks of her colleagues, Roshni approached an usher and then cantering to the ladies room, threw up in the wash basin.

2

Had she screwed up? Why, yes sir most certainly she had. Was there a chance of reimbursing for it? The skies look cloudy to me. You still wanna fly, baby? God damn, where did that mocking come from? The stomach was still sick, the queasy feeling had increased and an ever escalating pain in the head wasn’t making it any easy. Today was supposed to be a dream night. Why, why did this had to happen?

“It’s been more than 10 min now. Get hold of yourself,” Roshni mentally chided herself. She tried to avoid looking at the small pile of toilet papers that she had used to dab her eyes beside the pot in the cubicle- that only made her cry harder. Last 10 minutes had been sheer torture. All this time, her catastrophed future whirlwinded in front of her eyes. What would now happen of her, starting with residence. If it had not been for one of the socialites that rented her a 3 BHK in Lokhandwala, there was no way she could’ve found accommodation, let alone able to have been afforded it, and for what return gift- just a flattering coverage in the magazine, not to forget all the sex.

Roshni had incredible unprecedented difficulties while hunting for accommodation a few years up the line. Single woman searching for flat was narrow-eyed upon, albeit, of course, less than single men.

“You see, I like you. I got no problem with you. And then, you are a Punjabi too. In fact, I would be more than happy to rent you my flat,” one of the prospective landladies had said. “But, ahem ahem, we live in a society, you see. It’s pretty unsafe for single girls living alone.” Roshni had tried to reason that it was her problem but “The problem is with you supposedly modern, westernized mentalities. You forget your values.” Asking what exactly she meant invited a flared up response- “You might not agree but it is unacceptable. You are young. And you are good looking. And what did you do you said, ah yes, a page 3 reporter, right? So you’ll come late at night, maybe drunk, maybe with strangers in your arms…”

Roshni had stormed out before she completed.

She had to live in a working woman’s hostel for some time, much to her detestation. But as she escalated up the social ladder, she had met a certain art exhibitionist who had taken interest in her. Preliminary introduction, progressive interaction and informal rapport building later, he had once offered to escort her back to her residence. When polite negatives lay unheeded, she allowed herself to be carried away by a lucrative Mercedes ride. The discussion after destination stop led to ‘day’s last destination’ shifted forever. She was finally a developed journo.

But what now? Roshni was in the firing line. Her editor Rao had an uncanny ability to prove her threats correct. Be positive, she instructed herself. You shouldn’t…

There were some rapid noises- the sound of door opening and closing, some shuffling footsteps and excited breaths. Roshni fell quiet and tuned her ears to the happenings. When she heard the sound of some cloth being torn and some animated squeals, she immediately exited her cubicle with her head bent, her hand covering her eyes from forehead, trying to escape discreetly. But two pairs of stilettos, as she saw with her eyes forced to keep only the floor in focus, blocked the doorway. They had obviously noticed her, for they seemed to edge away. Shit, Roshni thought and closed the door behind her. She heard another door inside being shut hard and a faint sound of a latch being turned. She quickened her pace and trotted to the way she entered before she was stopped by a security guard.

“Wait,” he said. “Media personnel? Your exit is on the other side ma’am. Down the hall, to the right. There’s a board there. You can read EXIT, can’t you?” Roshni turned away and made her way across the hall among the people she might not have the chance of interacting with again, through the environment she might not be a part of again, out of the party and a life that might not be the same again.

She could read EXIT.

There was relative quietness. She made her way out of the hotel by treading on a multi-colored-stone path that semi-circled around a bubbly fountain. A blue jet of water shot up in the sky and spiraled down. Red and green followed suit. The path gave way to concrete podium. An usher neared but Roshni waved him away and exited the side gate of The Renaissance into a brightly lit street of Juhu.

Cars whizzed by as Roshni aimlessly walked, her gait slow, steps mismatched, head bent, brooding, and sometimes led, sometimes followed her shadow that was engaged in a game of flexibility. Now it grew, now it naught, Roshni indulged in it, chanting it like a mantra as she walked. She looked up in the sky. The familiar moon and Sirius greeted her. Or were they mocking her? Whatever, screw them. What do they know? All they do is one reflects light, other emits light. Light. Roshni. It reflects me. She looked up again, half expecting her own face be reflected there. The moon was still blemished, pimpled with black marks and Sirius still a dot. No avail. The world went on, least bothered.

As minutes ticked by, Roshni felt a steady surge in her spirit. It might not be that bad after all. Perhaps, Rao would understand. Only thing Roshni will have to do is be tactful and handle the matter with extreme assiduousness. Maybe she should inform her now. No, bad idea. Who would like to be roused from sleep only to be greeted with, “Oh, hello ma’am. Umm, I screwed up.” A pink slip will be in offing immediately then. But what about back up? No freaking chance. Firstly, it’s too late for that. Secondly, the tacts to be followed, the gossip to be concentrated upon, the people to be focused on, it was all wee bit too convoluted to be explained. Only hope- Rao would be compassionate. It might be too audacious a hope but that was the only thing to be banked upon right now. Otherwise…what otherwise? She has to keep hoping.

Roshni took a left. This street was quite an unfamiliar and deserted one. Wide pothole-free roads, unusual for Mumbai, BMC’s pride, swept ahead outlined with off-white pavements on both sides, red blocks forming its border. A small ray of light could be spotted ahead, growing distinct by the second, indicating a vehicle zooming in the other direction. Calm, quaint bungalows with lots of shrubbery and few trees so dense that they blocked out much of the street light lined along the street. Roshni walked on observing the dried leaves, pan masala wrappers and plastic polythenes that partially obstructed the drainage inlets. The blue light from an ATM shone a few meters ahead, a watchman flopped on the chair outside looking motionless and comfortable, headgear in his lap. Roshni passed him and saw him stirring up slightly only to doze off again. The discreet buzzing of the insects and night crawlers went on in the background forming the only disharmony in the otherwise divinely serene atmosphere.

She noticed a small figure on the pavement to the right. It looked like a girl. Not much old, Roshni discerned, probably just 14-15 year old. What the hell was she doing on the pavement at this time of the night? Roshni felt a protective wave of concern and pity. The girl didn’t seem like she was a beggar. In fact, she seemed to be from quite a decent family. Her hair was parted from the middle, tied in two pony tails reaching up to her shoulder. She was wearing a sky blue plain skirt reaching just above her knee and was, well, observing, probably, the tar on the road. Wow, she seemed quite engaged in her observation. The girl bent ahead, drew some figures on the road and relaxed back again, her eyes still down.

Roshni went nearer.

“It ain’t none o’ yer fault,” the girl proclaimed loudly.

Roshni almost jumped back in fright and yelped the next moment as she twisted her ankle. “Damned pencil heels,” she murmured, forgetting all about the cause of her fright. It dawned back quickly and she looked at the girl. The girl was still looking at the tar. Was she talking to her? Was she talking about her?

Something disassociated the girl with her infatuation with tar and she looked up. She was munching leaves- Dried leaves Roshni had observed a few minutes ago which lay scattered over the street, mostly near and on the pavement.

Roshni was horrified. “What are you doing?” she said, alarmed. “Spit it out.”

The girl just smiled. Her teeth were yellow and had some fine paste and chewed leaf bits clouding them in places.

“Come on, for God’s sake,” Roshni’s tenor rose as she moved closer. “Spit!”

The girl’s smile widened. “It ain’t none o’ yer fault,” she repeated.

Roshni felt like yanking her mouth open scraping out the shit. But the girl seemed to be obeying. She stopped chewing.

Now she took a gulp.

Roshni was too shocked to be vocal. The irrelevance of her statement was miles beyond concern. She kept staring at the girl. The girl still wasn’t looking at her. Finally, she grinned again. Roshni still went on gaping but by now she had retraced her vocal cords. “Wh…why did you do that,” she asked slowly, trying to sound kind.

The girl said nothing and went back to her tar reading. Roshni looked on both sides of the street. Desolate. Totally. Not a single soul in sight, except the sleeping watchman. She glanced at the girl’s left, at the mostly clean surface, lightly blew at it to clean the dust and sat down beside her.

Both remained mute for some time. The girl seemed in a trance. Roshni spoke up again, “What’s your name, dear?” in a cajoling tone.

The girl looked up again, facing the other side of the street. “My name,” she said, and paused. Roshni waited and suddenly “Riya,” the girl exclaimed and started laughing. It was not a creepy laugh though that is what would’ve befitted the context. This one was a cute laugh, more like one does when one is tickled. A friendly, endearing ‘hee-hee’. The girl stopped laughing as suddenly as she had begun and leaned closer to Roshni sideways, letting her head settle in Roshni’s lap but still not facing her. “I like you,” she said. “You smell nice.”

Roshni was taken aback by the sudden display of affection and wondered how the girl could find her breath nice when she so desperately craved for a mint, feeling that her breath smelt acrid. Or was it her perfume? There were hardly any traces left though. But then, this probably shouldn’t be taken for its face value. After all, it was coming from a girl who ate leaves. And what’s with the head-in-the-lap thing? Roshni didn’t feel like moving away though. The girl was cute in an unusual way. She had a pretty moon shaped face with a dusky complexion and her almond-like eyes formed the cherry topping though her messy hair did minus the marks a little bit. Then she had this weirdness in her. Far too appealing, at least by Roshni’s tastes. So she just sat still, unable to conjure up a reply.

“She didn’t tell me a bedtime story,” Riya said, her innocent voice having a charming effect.

“Aww,” Roshni sympathized. “Your mommy didn’t tell you the story?”

“My mom’s dead,” the girl shot back, her voice hard.

Take-aback time again. “Oh I’m sorry.” This time the recovery was swift though. “Then your dad…”

“Dead.” The girl rose up and Roshni for a moment saw a mortally wounded look in Riya’s eyes, which slowly began accumulating tears. Roshni looked panicky. “C’mon baby, don’t cry,” she said, clinging on to her cool. “Okay okay, we’ll not talk about him. Tell you what; I’ll narrate you a bedtime story. Do you promise to go back to your home then? Do you live in one of the houses here?”

“No, I’ll tell you one,” Riya said, the prospect brightening her up, evaporating her tears. She settled back in Roshni’s lap.

“Umm, okay. But first tell me where you live…”

“Shh,” chided Riya. “Its story time. Okay, once upon a time, there lived a little girl. She was my age. Her name was Riya…

3

Riya’s Story

Once upon a time, I lived. My name was Riya. It still is, though nobody knows it now. I still live, lifeless, though nobody cares now. Not that it matters anyway. Neither to me, nor to them. I am just another entity here. I belong to nobody. I am nobody, at least to people. To me, I still am Riya. A Riya who’s beating around the bush, a Riya who’s merely mystifying things up, a Riya who probably is boring you now to the point that you might consider going away than listening to this going-nowhere monologue, a Riya who thinks most probably you are already gone and there’s no point talking any further. But still she continues because she has something to tell to anybody who’s concerned, to anybody who’s kind enough to be willing to sift through her wayward tale.

You still here? Thank you. I wish I had someone like you in my life, when I had one.

I don’t want to go into the details of my birth and my subsequent insignificant afterlife. You see, being a construction laborer’s daughter doesn’t have its share of adventure. It wasn’t conspicuous though. I was taught to accept things the way they are. My parents didn’t have any far-fetched ‘rags to riches’ dreams for me. They were realistic- I was born poor, there wasn’t much scope of moving up the financial ladder and thus the sole goal was two meals per day which three of us shared, my father getting the largest, always. My way of living was hands-raised-to-head-to-reach-the-mouth, as most of my kind of youngsters do- carrying the cement around. We are not regarded efficient enough to do other skilled jobs like concrete mix, lay the bricks, polishing or other such stuff. At the end of the day, if the Bade Sahab was in a good enough mood, I would get paid handsomely, that is, half of my mother’s wages. I had to get the timing right, though. For that a deep study of the Sahab’s tenor, facial expressions and mood had to be made. Now that was one thing I was pretty skilled at. Our lives passed thus. We had never heard of any Sarva Shiksha Abhiyaan or the ban on child labor. But we were still content. God bless the cheerful ignorance.

I never knew a day would come when I would have to knock on his door, wait a seemingly endless wait, knocking at regular intervals, get sworn at by harried neighbors, until the door opened only to be stared at by a half familiar face, a feeling not shared by him, and thus explain myself- my identity and my reason for being there without prior intimation.

But then, I don’t get visions. How was I supposed to illusion the sad death of my folks, to foresee the fall, to guess the weakness of the hypothetically protective nets? My mother dove to save my dad. How did she expect to do that? By defying gravity?

I had to witness that first hand. I guess this added to the sympathy factor. They fell a few meters away from me. I don’t remember how that felt- maybe that’s what they call numbness. The bodies were almost entwined, an amalgam of splattered blood and scattered broken bones lay. I could hear a few screams; see a few women swooning and our Bade Sahab rushing to the spot of gore. I never knew he was so concerned about me- He gave me a thousand bucks and told me that he knew my uncle. I vaguely recalled staying in his chawl the day I came to Mumbai. That was about five years ago when me and my mother had arrived here because the money-orders father was sending were becoming rather irregular. It wasn’t surprising that the Bade Sahab knew of him- he kept the names and addresses of each of his employee’s relatives in his small black worn out diary of the year 2001, lest something goes fishy. I was sincerely appealed to maintain a hush-hush about this incident and never reveal myself to anyone ever again. I had never seen so many Gandhis in my life and I readily obeyed. I was patted on the back and sent ‘home’, that is, his place, which, for a change, wasn’t the sloping roofed cow-dung floored one of my childhood or the tin walled one in my Mumbai life. It was made of concrete- something I helped build my whole working life but never quite enjoyed the benefits of my sweat. Now I was enjoying benefits of somebody else’s sweat.

Sweet.

It was around 11 pm that I raised my fist to knock on his door. The chawl was quite quiet already, with only the yellow bulb outside some of the rooms filtering light through the mosquito nets on the horizontally crow-barred windows. His house was on the top floor- the first floor, at the corner, I was told as the Bade Sahab personally dropped me in an auto-rickshaw, introducing me to a luxury I’d never before experienced. Overwhelmed, I touched his feet and plopped a few tears for his kindness. He smiled and caressed me repeating to maintain a complete silence over the matter. I don’t know how but I had moved on already. I didn’t miss my parents anymore. Was I being insensitive or mature? Or would you rather say weird? Maybe because the death had brought me some unexpectedly pleasant changes in my life that I was aloof to what could otherwise have been a tragedy for my then virgin fourteen year old mind. I got money, I got a free rickshaw trip, an assurance that he’ll take care of me and a brand new proper home. I couldn’t want more.

I knocked again after waiting for some time. Then I spotted the doorbell. Pressing it, no expected ding came. I looked around. There was a small balcony to the left at the end of the corridor that linked the four rooms in our side. It overlooked a small lane that was at the back of the chawl. I could smell a minor stink of fish and guessed there might be a bazaar there. I took a second look at the chawl. It was a basic C shaped, if C were drawn in with straight lines. The common ground the three sides shared had a small dais in the middle which I suspect is used during the Ganesh Chaturthi and a flag post on the side. A saffron flag lay limp on it.

“Madhav uncle,” I called out softly, leaning closer to the door.

No response. “Madhav uncle!” This time was a bit louder.

I heard some of my father’s favorite cuss words from an adjoining room. I must confess, was intimidated a bit. But did I have a choice? I persisted till the disharmony from the other room grew louder and the door I had knocked on suddenly opened.

An ape appeared. No wait, my bad, it was just an extremely dense chest haired human. My uncle Madhav. A staring Uncle Madhav. I attempted a smile. It wasn’t reciprocated. He held the door with his left palm resting on its top and stared wide eyed at me, betraying no sign of recognition, no hint of wanting to inquire who the hell I was and what was I doing at that time in front of his house.

He just stared, wide eyed.

I attempted introducing and explaining myself and did a pretty decent job of it by telling him that my parents have deserted me out of the blue (as instructed by Bade Sahab) and I didn’t have anywhere to go. He let me in, still staring, wide eyed. I later discovered it was just that his eyes were aligned that way. He asked no questions, prodded no further, just mutely made a little gap so that I could pass in. I did. He closed the door behind me.

His house just fitted the minimum requirements of a home. There was a black iron cot on which lay a mattress covered with a fraying brown bed sheet on one side and a small TV facing it, lined along the opposite wall. The wall on the left had some compartments carved in them in which random stuff was kept while the one on the right was the proof of the dismal state of the limestone used. There was a round clock hanging from the wall below which there was a whole body mirror, an unusual thing to splurge on for a limited-means man like uncle Madhav. The living room, the only room, had just a plastic table and a wooden stool. Clinging from a few nails on the back of the main door, 2 pairs of shirts and trousers hung. At first glance from the near doorway perspective, the house was almost empty. I removed my slippers and furthered from the door. I heard the sound of door being latched. Curiously, I hadn’t heard the sound of one being turned when the door was opened.

I attempted an awkward smile which was left unattended. He just moved near the cot, dragged a worn out mattress out of it and spread it on the floor. His pillow, with a covering now greasy, was kept on a side and with that uncle seemed satisfied.

“Sleep,” he said, in a throaty voice and lay back on his bed closing his eyes on the world.

I obeyed. In a short time, I was asleep too.

4

Bored, aren’t you? Already finding counting the rotating blades of the fan above you more appealing? Or have you suddenly developed a keen interest in the fertilization patterns of an earthworm? Not surprised, I am. Who would like to hear a poor pathetic tale of a poor pathetic girl whom you don’t give a shit about? Not me, if I were you. Okay, she lost her parents. So what? Okay, she was put up at her weirdo uncle’s place? So fucking what? Why should you put up with this? Just because this writer is your friend or because you liked his earlier works? Or maybe because somebody has conned you into reading this and you can’t seem to wean away?

I pity you.

Oh yes, speaking of pity, where did I leave you off in my pitiful tale? Right, I was sleeping at my uncle’s place. But you see, that’s not what my tale is about, it’s about something else. Let’s move on with it, shall we? Now, if this writer guy who’s relating you my whines were attempting for a Booker or Pulitzer, he would’ve told you how I woke up with the din of people waiting for the common bath-n-shit room, the Hindi film songs from the neighbor’s radio, how I got up and went to the common balcony and given you a detailed at least a dozen page spanning description of the skyline, the human buzz, the pooping dogs and cackling birds, and the thoughts running through my mind while I observed those with heavy words such as ‘surging curiosity’ and ‘relishing nakedness of simplicity’ and describe some people to be ‘effervescently charming’ while others ‘eminently forgettable’ blah blah. But you see he is not aiming that. Psst, if you ask me, he can’t get that! So here we go- directly jumping to the dark parts.

The part when my uncle first violated me.

But a little background here though. This didn’t happen the very next day I came to stay at his place. Oh no, my uncle is better than jumping at the first conveniently available female at the first sight. He tried to resist me, tried to stave me off. He maintained a distance physically and I am equally sure he tried to do the same mentally. But then the sad fact of him being a sex addict intervened. The first two days told me he was a recluse. He didn’t interact with the chawl ‘mandali’ as they say in Marathi here, meaning chawl people. He minded his own business, was a bit curt when a small talk was attempted with him and walked with his head down, making no eye contact. I later learnt that he wasn’t exactly welcomed too. The chawl consisted of all the Marathi speaking folks, all mostly in their 60’s and didn’t like the presence of my uncle, a ‘UP-Bihari’ whom they considered was polluting their rich cultural heritage, who got the room only because the original occupant, the late original occupant, was apparently a friend of his. My uncle didn’t give a damn either. In the first two days, he pretended I didn’t exist. But that suited me, y’know. I ain’t much of a talker myself, don’t go by this story. It’s just the writing style that makes you feel I am talking to you. I ain’t.

Hm..m. La la la.

See, I drifted off again! Insane old me! Anyway, on the first day I was left hungry the whole day. There was no food at home- I already told you how empty the house was. If it wouldn’t have been for the talkative aunty of the next door (lets call her talkative aunty) I would’ve slept with an empty stomach, an unalien thing for me.

That’s about the talkative aunty. Her actual name is Sharaja Gokhale, if you must know. And she, as I later found out, wasn’t a housewife. She worked as a… nah, I’m not going to spoil the suspense for you! It’s the least this writer guy deserves. There are a few more people and incidents I will mention but that’s for later. Now, we go back to the promised treat- the incident with my uncle violating me for the first time.

This happened the third day, night rather. I had returned from a meal with the talkative aunty’s family. I was lying on the bed, a yellow bulb illuminating the room and was watching a mosquito trapped in a spider’s web when my uncle barged in. Now, this was unusual. Usually he gets in as if he is sneaking in a stranger’s house with intent of robbery. He shut the door with a loud bang and I can swear I heard at least three different voices swearing for disturbing them in the dead of the night. One of them was ‘Chyamaila’, a Marathi swear word which is one of my favorites, which I still use many a time. Uncle today reeked of the country liquor called ‘tharra’. How do I know of this? Simple- my father often came home drunk. My mom usually used to be wary of him at such times. He would hit her at the slightest provocation though I do remember a few exceptions- once when she had chased him with a hot tava and another when she had created a racket screaming for others to save her. My uncle usually removes his sweaty shirt and dirty pants, hangs it on the door and slips in his pajamas and sleeps without caring to even glance at me but today as he undressed, he threw the clothes on the floor and advanced towards me.

Chyamaila!

By then, I was on my sitting up and looking at him coming towards me, I stood up instantly, afraid. His pace quickened and before I could do anything, he was roughly holding me, his left palm covering my mouth, lest I cried out.

“Hush baby,” he whispered in my ears. I could smell the stink more explicitly now. His oily hair brushed against my ear and I felt something slimy against my cheek. “Yum, you taste good,” he said.

I panicked and started struggling, trying to scream but only a small nasal sound came out. The grip was still beastly and all my attempts to free myself were proving futile. And now his other hand was kneading my breasts.

“My God! Have you ever looked in the mirror, Riya,” he said his breath now fast and excited. This was the first time he had pronounced my name. I hated the timing. “You look so good and you feel even better. Your long fragrant hair… remove that damn ponytail.” He loosened my hair. I thrashed about harder and fell down on the mattress sideways with him holding me from the back. My hair half fell on my face and I sensed him smelling them. “Your beautiful long hair, your growing breasts, your soft skin…do you have any idea how horny they all make me?” His hand now caressed my vagina. I tried screaming again.

“Shut up,” he growled. “Or I swear what I’ll cut you up. You see that third rack-there’s where I keep my knife. How long do you think it will take me to get there and gash you with it? Be nice and this will be over soon. And you’ll enjoy it too. Trust me, I’m good.”

I loosened up, less petrified and more because I didn’t have a choice. His hand slid downward and stroked my thighs. Call me a weirdo but that felt good. “You know,” he said in a sickeningly silky voice. “I have been finding you irresistible since the time you got here. The night you came in, I couldn’t sleep and I faked my snores. The whole night I was staring at you. Doesn’t that prove how much I love you? But I tried to hold myself back. She’s your niece, I told myself. But love knows no boundaries, no blood-ties. Every time I shagged, I saw you coming up in front of my eyes. I angrily removed your image away but I failed doing so today and you have no idea how good it felt. It felt so good, I shagged thrice and every time the feeling felt better. All the time I was drinking, I fantasized you. And now, I actually have you…” he paused. “Let me make love to you.”

He let go of my mouth and started tearing off my dress from the chest. “Let go of…” I screamed, only half-heartedly before it was muffled with his iron hold on my mouth. Now why scream if I liked it, you would ask. I’ll tell you something. Not every rape victim cries after the man is done with her. Not every rape victim fails to have an orgasm if the sex is good. Not every rape victim is a victim of circumstances. But as far as the nakhras are concerned, every rape victim will do it.

Or maybe, it’s just me.

“Shut the fuck up you bitch,” he whispered acidly. He darted towards his pants, took out a handkerchief and stuffed it in my mouth. He used the sleeves of his shirt and made a knot around my mouth. “And now, it’s show time.” Corny, eh?

He tore off my top and slid off my lowers. I tried turning away but then felt a strong slap against my butt. It stung but I liked it. I gave in and didn’t resist when I saw his fat small throbbing penis ready to dip in me. “That’s my Riya,” he moaned in pleasure. “Oh yeah, you’re so bloody good. See, that’s the trick-…”

And then he uttered those magical words that changed my life with him since that moment.

“…enjoy, don’t resist.”

You might wonder how these changed my life. They did because I actually listened to them. The writer guy wants to give an illustration here. All the self help books that we see, all those who have supposedly changed lives of millions, say like The Alchemist, we often tend to scoff at them saying that they’ve made the most obvious points, churned it out in a printed form and still emerged a bestseller. But you know what in them have changed lives? It’s not the brilliance of writing or some deep insightful views but most in-your-face things which we turn a blind eye to, that is, simple phrases like ‘You are responsible for your own happiness’. You know it all the time but if you start following it, we emerge successful. And so happened with me- these three words worked wonders.

After the initial half hearted resistance, I gave in and participated and I tell you what- it felt good. Real good. I recall the one time I saw my parents fucking. I was just on the verge of sleeping when I heard a low moan near me. I opened my eyes a little and saw father on top of mother, whose saree was rolled up and petticoat on the floor some distance away. I was alarmed at the first hint of my mother in pain but something told me not to interrupt. They went on for a few minutes at the end of which mother let out a louder moan and father lay by her side, sounding like he did when he has dragged a huge pile of rubble for a long time. I remember the big smile mother had on her face- and that told me it wasn’t pain but pleasure. A painful pleasure. Asking around the next day, I got to know that it was what is called fucking.

And now I was fucking. And it felt good. Real good. And at a point, I moaned too.

I moaned a pleasure moan.

5

Roshni would’ve loved me if I would’ve ended this with an And she woke up and realized it was just a dream. She was desperate for the story to end. Watching the little girl in her lap, listening to her as she so unflinchingly related this recoiling tale, she couldn’t help but feel horrified. Of all the events she had narrated, more than once she found her voice bottled up in her throat. She had such million questions to ask. And she now could take it no more.

“…”

She opened her mouth and no sound came out. She tried harder. This time she succeeded. “Is th… this girl you are talking about, is it you?”

Riya was looking at the sky all the time while narrating. She closed her eyes for a moment and then opened them, her gaze now fixed on Roshni’s breasts. She took her small hand and touched the pendant Roshni was wearing.

“That night, as I lay down to sleep, I had a big smile on my face…”

“No, for God’s sakes, no more,” Roshni frantically stood up jerking Riya off her lap. “Tell me, is it you? You said your name was Riya and now you tell her story. Is it your story?”

Riya was unfazed at the sudden disharmony. She spread on the pavement and picking up a leaf, tore an end with her teeth. “What do you think,” she asked, munching her snack.

“Who are you,” Roshni demanded. “What are you talking about? What is it that you’re relating in the name of a bed time story? What are you doing in the middle of the night here? You’re so disgusting, so unnatural for a kid,” Roshni was in hysterics now. “I mean, what are you? What? Ugh.” She immersed her face in her palms and moved them away the next instant, her tone hardening. “You, you are gonna tell me everything,” she said grabbing Riya by her shoulders. “Tell me. Do you hear me? Tell me goddammit!” Roshni was shaking her by her shoulders now.

“Hey you, stop.”

Roshni jerked up hearing a sharp alien voice directed to her and saw a plump old, lady jogging towards her. “Don’t do that to her,” she was saying and moving ahead.

“You know why I chew leaves?” This was Riya.

Roshni looked at her, bemused. “You know why I chew leaves,” she repeated. Roshni didn’t answer. Her mind was already in plenty of loops to digest, process, dissect and conjure up a reply to another morsel of irrelevant talks.

Not that Riya was waiting for an answer. “I don’t eat any leaves,” she said. “I eat only the fallen and yellow leaves, those which the tree has said ‘Go away’. The leaves also feel, you know. They feel rejected. So they feel sad. I eat them so that they won’t feel inferior to their green sisters sitting on the branches. I give them comfort so that even they can boast, ‘Yay, she ate me too. Fuck you, you proud and arrogant green leaves’.”

Roshni blinked.

“I am a nice person, ain’t I,” Riya asked.

Roshni stared on, confounded. The old, plump lady had reached by then.

“You, what’s your name?” she demanded sternly of Roshni.

Roshni looked up, staring blankly.

“I am talking to you,” she forced. “Who are you and what are you doing here to my patient?”

Roshni gathered her audible forces again. “Pa…patient,” somehow, she ejaculated.

“Yes,” the lady said, bending down to pick up Riya, who rose without a word and hugged her, burying her face in the lady’s breasts. “She’s a patient in my hospital. She ran away just today. What do you know of her?”

Now everything made sense. The disturbing story, the irrelevant talks, the strange demeanor… maybe she was a psycho. The best thing to do here, Roshni thought, go away and flush this nightmare out of her mind. For ever.

“No, I don’t know anything about her,” Roshni mumbled and started walking away.

“Wait,” the woman called out. “What were you talking to her about? And why were you manhandling her?”

Manhandling? This was funny. Roshni just shook Riya by her shoulders and the next moment it was termed manhandling? Roshni almost smiled. “I dunno,” she replied and resumed her walk back.

“Hey, I am not done with you…” the lady started again, with Riya still clinging to her, acting oblivious to the commotion around her.

“Stop, will you,” Roshni turned and burst out. “This girl here has psyched me out with her weird talks. Just go away. I don’t need to talk to you or anyone. I was not manhanding her or assaulting her or whatever. I was walking and this girl comes to me and goes blah blah about how she made out with her uncle and all. What am I supposed to do if not repelled and disturbed? Gimme a break lady, I am going away. I’ve had enough for the night.” Roshni felt her last of her energies seeping out of her with the last word she said. She sat down. A tear peeped out of her right eye.

This seemed to bring about a change in the woman. She dug into her purse and pulled out a piece of paper and pen. Scribbling something, she handed it over to Roshni. “Listen, I don’t know who you are and what you’re doing here, but I believe you,” she said. “I am Savita Khare. I work as a warden in J W Hospital. This girl Riya here escaped this evening. We’ve been searching for her since six hours and I find her with you at this time- that’s why the questions. Here’s a pass for you. Show this to the receptionist and she will direct you to me. Come and meet as soon as possible, that is, after you sleep over this. We really need to talk.”

Roshni didn’t reply till she felt a gentle hand resting on her shoulder.

“I think you should go home now,” Savita was saying, giving her a warm smile. “You look pretty tired.”

Roshni looked up. “You think?”

“But that’s not the only reason why I chew leaves…”

Both Roshni and Savita turned to Riya, surprised at her sudden participation. Riya too had turned and was gazing at Roshni’s feet. “I chew leaves because I like to.” Riya looked up.

Now their eyes met.