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  She smiled her wide, warm bear hug of a smile. I attempted an embarrassed, grateful grin. We shook hands, her hand didn’t slip away this time. I briefly toyed with the idea of drawing her into my arms and saying, ‘What, what?’ We said good night.

  Bumbum told me that Chaddha had turned in at 10 pm. Unbelievable! I knocked down his door and woke him up, I lit a cigarette for him. He was pissed but he listened. He told me I was a hypocrite to berate him for stalking his girl when my approach to courtship involved getting drunk and barging into people’s houses.

  He suggested that I wait for her to call, that I should shed the “despo” act in favour of something subtle and elegant. I saw some merit in Chaddha’s counsel. I decided I’ll wait for her to call with an upper limit of 10 am, after which I’ll call her.

  Before he went back to sleep, Chaddha muttered something about being original. I don’t know what he meant. How can you be original? Everything about a love story was clichéd, everything has been done before.

  I woke up early next morning and immediately put my phone to charge. I didn’t want to take a risk. I waited. She didn’t call. I called her. She didn’t take my calls. She didn’t respond to my messages. I shaved, put on my best sweatshirt and went for the guitar class hoping she would come. She didn’t. How could she come? I hadn’t told her the address. Instead, I had told her where I lived. What a stupid, drunken thing to do!

  Giraffe in a Trench

  Suman’s silence was unbearable. I thought of visiting her home but it didn’t seem right. She clearly didn’t want to see me. She thought of me as riff raff. She thought I was just another despo. It was an awful feeling.

  I got back home and lay on my bed. I replayed in my head all that had happened last night. Yes, I had acted like an idiot, I deserved this. I daydreamed of what could have been. I dozed off. I dreamt: I was a soldier in a big, bloody war. They ordered me to get down in a trench and shoot. I got in but I had a neck like a griaffe. I couldn’t keep my head down. I heard the enemy machine gun going off: ratatat rat rat ratatattt rat rat rata—rata—tattt. A hail of bullets flew past me, I was crying and cussing and trying desperately to duck but my head kept popping up.

  I woke up with a start. Somebody was impatiently knocking on the door. Bumbum went to get it, there was a loud commotion and before I could get up, Harpal, Puran and Narender trooped into my room.

  ‘Mukundan!’ Harpal said. His voice boomed in my tiny room.

  ‘What … yes, yes sir?’ I mumbled.

  ‘You kill pigeons. Our society pigeons! You kill them!’

  ‘No sir, I don’t,’ I said.

  Puran looked at me and shook his head in dismay.

  ‘Don’t you try lying to me, don’t you try. I saw you looking down,’ Harpal pointed at the balcony.

  ‘I’m not lying. Who says I’m lying?’ I said.

  ‘I say it. What about that? I’m going to get you out of this house, I’m going to get you arrested. I’m going to get you fired from your job!’

  Bumbum was standing at the door. He pointed at Chaddha’s room. I couldn’t put the blame on Chaddha. I decided to be calm.

  I asked, ‘Sir I haven’t killed any pigeon. What proof do you have that I have done something like that?’

  ‘Proof, eh?’ It was now Harpal’s turn to shake his head in dismay. Narender stood at the door with an evil grin. Puran was busy scowling at the film posters in my room.

  ‘Yes,’ I maintained my composure. ‘Proof.’

  ‘The dead bird fell to the ground right under your balcony. It had a pellet in its groin … an air-gun pellet and we are going to find that gun now.’ Harpal began looking under the bed.

  ‘But … but, there are so many balconies. This is the seventh floor. Why are you saying it was my balcony?’

  ‘Because I looked up and I saw you looking down from your balcony.’

  ‘You must be mistaken. I didn’t kill any bird,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t lie, don’t lie to me. I saw you with my own eyes,’ he said.

  ‘It was a young bird. Poor bird with its tongue hanging out,’ Puran shook his head. He then casually walked up to my cupboard, opened it and looked in. He found a condom. He flicked it on the bed as if it was evidence.

  ‘How can you do that? Stop checking my cupboard immediately,’ I shouted.

  They ignored me. Harpal bent down to inspect the underside of my bed. He poked his stick in and rolled out two empty whiskey bottles. He poked a bit more and out came a shoebox.

  ‘This is heavy, what’s inside?’ He lifted the lid. It had my DVDs. He took out Woman in the Dunes – the cover had a man on top of a woman.

  ‘Ha! Puran look at this: condoms, porn and alcohol. What did I tell you? This generation has nothing good in them.’

  ‘This is crazy! Please get out. Get out!’ I screamed.

  ‘Mr Mukundan, please avoid eye contact with me at all costs! If I find you looking at me again, you’ll be on the road with your whiskey and your condoms and your porn cassettes,’ he shouted back.

  ‘You can do what you want but you can’t search this house like this. You just can’t,’ I said.

  ‘You can kill birds but I can’t search your house for a gun, eh?’ he said.

  Chaddha’s gun must be in his room. I looked at Bumbum. He understood. He tried to slip away to hide it. Narender held him. He had been stationed at the door in case I tried to make a dash for it.

  ‘He must have hidden it in some other room sir ji,’ Puran suggested.

  ‘Puran, you check the room on the right,’ he pointed to Chaddha’s abode. ‘I will look in the living room.’

  Within a few seconds, Puran returned triumphant with Chaddha’s air-gun clasped in his hand.

  Roosting, Dying

  It had a loud roosting sound. I tolerated it for a while, I even shooed it away. You know what it used to do when shooed, it would fly out and then come back in a few seconds. Stubborn motherfucker! I observed it a bit more. It used to snooze in the afternoons. You know all pigeons do. That’s when you shoot them. They’re puffed up, defenceless, waiting to die. You carefully take aim and then you squeeze the trigger. Blam!’

  ‘I couldn’t hear it in my room but you could hear it from yours? This is fucking irritating Chaddha,’ I said.

  ‘I have an acute sense of hearing. I could see it from my window. I’m stuck in this place the whole day. I read, I sleep, I eat, I shit, I pee, I breathe, I walk about my room and every time I get to the window, there it is—the fucking bastard. Sometimes I would just look at it, keep looking at it for a long time. I think it was trying to hypnotise me.’

  ‘But didn’t we have a mutual unsaid understanding that you won’t touch the pigeons in my balcony? They were my property, so to speak?’

  ‘Hmmm … ok yaar, I’m sorry. What do we do now?’

  ‘Nothing, we’re getting evicted. He’s putting up the notice once he discusses the case with the Society President.’

  ‘Who is the society president?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Ok, let me go and find out,’ he said and Chaddha was gone.

  Bumbum came into the room, ‘Bhaiyya, I’m sorry, I was the one who was looking down from your balcony when these people looked up. I hid immediately but I think they must have seen me. I’m sorry bhaiyya, I’m really sorry.’

  ‘It’s ok Bumbum.’

  ‘Why is Chaddha bhaiyya killing these birds?’

  ‘I don’t know Bumbum. I don’t know yaar,’ I said.

  I went out to the balcony. I looked down half-expecting Suman’s yellow Getz in the visitor’s parking. The Gurgaon sky was beautiful again (just like the day when I had first met her)—azure blue with a brushstroke of white—it was the perfect day to be abandoned, to be thrown out on the road.

  Twiddle, Twaddle

  I called Suman one last time. Her phone was switched off. I messaged her: I’m sorry about yesterday. Do call if you feel like talking. Take care and have a safe flight. />
  I waited for Chaddha. I asked Bumbum to make some tea. I twiddled my fingers. I couldn’t afford to rent a new flat. I was sure Pappaji would cut from the advance for this place in lieu of the notice. I would have to pay advance again and I didn’t have money for that. I would need to call my mother and tell her everything or lie to her. I would need to start looking for a job and if I did find one (it was unlikely given the circumstances) then I would go back defeated, once and forever.

  Chaddha returned. He came to my room, sat on the bed and lit a cigarette.

  ‘What happened?’ I asked.

  ‘I met the Society President. His name is Brigadier Hoshiar. He told me about Arun Khetarpal, a very touching story. Second Lieutenant Arun Khetarpal was just 21 when he died in the Indo-Pak war of 1971. The after-story of Khetarpal’s father visiting Pakistan is even more interesting. Believe me, in the last one hour I’ve heard more about the “conspicuous bravery”, “indomitable courage”, “outstanding leadership”, “devotion to duty”, and “the highest traditions of the Indian Army” than you will ever in a lifetime.’

  ‘Chaddha, are we staying in this house or are we getting evicted?’

  ‘We are not getting evicted … at least for now.’

  ‘That’s wonderful!’

  ‘Yes, but there’s a small catch.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I had to lie a bit to save us.’

  ‘That’s all right, if we don’t get evicted it’s fine. No lie is big enough for what you’ve done Chaddha, thank you, thank you,’ I said.

  ‘Well, yes that’s true,’ he was lost in thought for a while, then he smiled a mischievous smile that spanned his face and spread to his eyes.

  Bumbum came in with tea.

  ‘What did you lie about?’ I asked.

  ‘I told them you’re crazy,’ he replied.

  ‘What? You didn’t take the blame? I thought you would have admitted to killing the bird?’

  ‘No, I told them you did it. I told them you are … umm … sort of … mental.’

  ‘I’m mental?’

  ‘Yes, you are,’ he grinned, ‘Schizophrenia, depression; anxiety attacks … the bloody works.’

  I was stunned. He continued, ‘I showed him the Wikipedia page on schizophrenia. It seems every word in the definition fits you—‘abnormal social behaviour’, ‘false beliefs’, ‘confused thinking’, ‘hallucinations’. I told him that you’d left your job to find your true purpose. I told him you think the balcony pigeons are conspiring against you, that you think killing them is self-defense. He bought it. He asked about your treatment. He asked why you are not going back home to your parents.’

  ‘Fuck! What more did you say?’

  ‘I got a bit carried away. I told him your sob story—about a broken home and a broken heart and how it had affected you.’

  ‘Fuck Chaddha!’

  ‘Sorry man, I had to save you.’

  ‘How does that sob story save me?’

  ‘He was suggesting we call an ambulance and get you admitted immediately. He was about to call a paediatrician who lives in Tower C.’

  ‘Wonderful! A paediatrician could’ve taken a look and then I could have gotten admitted to the coronary ward of a hospital where they would’ve done a kidney transplant.’

  Chaddha grinned, ‘I told him you’re in a very sad state. I told him about Nisha, how she broke your heart.’

  ‘Come on Chaddha, that’s not fair yaar!’

  ‘He was lapping it up, what could I do? I didn’t tell him much. I just said there was a girl and that she dumped you and then you turned mental. Wait, no, I think I said you turned mental and then she dumped you. Anyway, I said I was helping you get through this and that you are on medication and showing some signs of improvement. I suggested we should wait and watch for another month or so. I promised I will take responsibility that your madness doesn’t harm birds or anyone else in the society,’ he said. He was done. He picked up his cup and waited for me to react.

  ‘FUCK!’ I said.

  ‘Arre, I saved you man. He wanted to talk to your mother. He was enquiring why she’s not taking care of you if you’re in such a bad state. I told him she works in Canada and that I’ll get her number.’

  ‘Wow! My mother has been dragged into this now.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘She’s never been to Canada.’

  ‘Ah, I’m sure he’ll forget about it if you don’t step out of the house without me. Will you promise to do that?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He has taken an assurance from me that you’ll not be seen in the society alone, that you’ll be with me or another adult whenever you venture out.’

  ‘Should I wear a veil when I venture out?’ I asked.

  ‘That may not be necessary but he may visit to check on you occasionally. He is keen on telling me more stories about the valour of the Indian army, so be on the lookout. You don’t want be caught acting normal, Ok?’

  I glared at him and said nothing.

  ‘What happened to that girl?’ he asked.

  ‘She didn’t call,’ I said.

  ‘She didn’t?’

  ‘No. Neither did she respond to my messages and now her phone is switched off.’

  ‘Oh, that’s bad,’ he said. He put a hand on my shoulder and let it stay there for a while. He sighed, ‘Bad days Bhandari, bad days,’ he said.

  I covered myself with a banket and went back to sleep. I woke up late in the evening. Bumbum came in with one more Show Cause Notice. It was about the dead bird. I threw it into the dustbin.

  I looked at the time, Suman would have landed in Hong Kong by now. My phone was on the bedside table. I picked it up, no messages. The doorbell rang. Chaddha went to get it. ‘Dude, courier for you’ he hollered from the door. He tossed a brown packet on my bed, smiled and left the room.

  Her name was written at the bottom of the packet. I opened it. It had a CD—Al Green’s Let’s get together, along with a short handwritten note:

  Dear Mukund,

  You must be pissed! I’m sorry. I’m going through a rough patch and I can’t confuse things further. What you did was sweet, don’t blame yourself and don’t overanalyze like I tend to.

  Keep writing. I can’t wait to read your book.

  love,

  Suman

  P.S: The India number I gave to you belongs to my mother. I promise I won’t reach out to you and make things worse.

  She was right. Long distance doesn’t last and our thing hadn’t even started. I didn’t know what she was going through but she had decided for the both of us and I didn’t see the point of seeking her out again after this. I tore the note and threw it away, I put the CD in a drawer. I didn’t plan to listen to it anytime soon.

  Resentment

  It rained—that one big, bad spell of rain that makes winters worse. It began with a cold squall that made the trees go whoosh; then dull grey clouds floated in to darken the earth; and a few minutes later big drops of rain driven by the wind lashed on window panes, water seeped under the doors and soaked the curtains. There were puddles everywhere.

  After it was over, it smelt like someone has taken a gigantic piss on the city.

  I went to the balcony to inhale the stench. Narender and another security guard were standing underneath. They looked up, saw me and grinned at the lunatic in a cage. That’s when I remembered that I was under “house arrest” like Aung San Suu Ki.

  This was ridiculous! I hated everyone. I wanted to punish people: Chaddha to the gas chamber, Harpal to the guillotine, Narender to the concrete grinder. Violent retribution went well with abnormal social behaviour.

  I told myself to calm down. This asked for a warm blanket, Stone Roses’ debut album playing on repeat, a Bajaj room heater by my feet and a steaming cup of rum toddy. I stepped into the kitchen with a sense of purpose.

  Rum toddy

  Black rum, 1 Patiala peg (as tall as the distance between your little finger and
your index finger)

  1 tbsp. honey

  A squeeze of lemon

  1 inch cinnamon stick

  Put all ingredients (except water) in a highball glass. Pour boiling water on it.

  I sipped slowly. This was the stuff. I wrote a small poem on it.

  a bum in lock-up

  can be nimble

  if he gets some rum, just a thimble

  a bum in a trap

  can make you tremble

  if he gets some rum, just a thimble

  Life was moderately bearable again. I decided to wrestle Chaddha. That was the only way to settle this terrible injury he had caused to my reputation. I went to his room to kick his butt.

  Chaddha was on his bed. His eyes closed.

  I said, ‘Hulllooooo.’

  ‘Goddamn fuck! Why do you have to barge in like this? I was counting my breath!’

  ‘You were meditating?’

  ‘Yes, I was counting my breath. One in, one out, two in, two out … like that. I had got to seven and you fucked it.’

  ‘Oh, sorry,’ I said, walking out. Chaddha had gone back to his earlier position—eyes shut and clenched teeth. I could’ve been murdered by a man trying to meditate.

  Chaddha had not given up on meditation. Why should I give up on writing? If I went out they would put me in a straitjacket and drag me to a paediatrician. If I had to be in my room I may as well make the best of it, I thought. I will write. Yes, I will.

  I wrote and wrote some more, and at times it began to make sense. It was no longer about the middle class dream and it wasn’t about Gurgaon. It was no longer forced. I wrote a funny story about how hard it is to shit at Varanasi railway station (titled Toilet Humour), I wrote a somewhat psychedelic one about a dog who could communicate with aliens (Naughty and the Aliens), and one about an ice cream man who dies of heatstroke (Melting Mango Duet). I found myself often revisiting my childhood, I wrote a short one about a young boy fascinated by an older woman (Excuse Me Ms Rose) and an even shorter piece about a 13-year-old discovering a dusty old copy of Nabokov’s Lolita in his mother’s study (The Joy of Reading).