My drive from the Hotel back home was a special one that day . I had completed 25 years in the Hotel where I worked as a Chef , to be precise an "Executive Chef" . The drive back home is always the "me " time I crave for. I wind the windows up , play my favourite ghazals and at an appropriate time , light my favourite Gudang Garam ! Its been 25 years cooking in that Kitchen . I know every vessel , every pan and every herb in that place . While Ahmed Faraz 's words humm in my head via Raag raageshwari , I looked back at the journey in my head . Life makes an amazing travelogue , you only keep the very good and very bad with you , in forms of video clips . Some very vivid clips played in my head incessantly.
I was oblivious of the traffic on the road. It is a 55 Km drive from the Hilton in Gurgaon to my apartment in Noida. I knew every turn, every corner and every speed breaker. I was born in Delhi. My paternal grandparents survived a migration from Girot, in west Punjab to Amritsar and eventually to Delhi during partition. I was born many years later here. Delhi was my beloved. It is a one sided affair, I love Delhi, but she doesn't love me back. I hate everything about her now, the people, the pornographic display of wealth and the naked material and power race.
To pause my constant chain of self criticism, the phone rang. Manav. I answered in my usual arrogant sounding tone. Somehow I never say Hello. Why should I? I have to announce my name and I just did.
"Kahan hai tu", was the straight question. My good friend Ajay didnt need an elaborate social exchange.
“On my way home, want to have a drink?” My answer was equally direct.
“Yaa”, he answered.
“Ok , I will reach home in another 45 mins , what do you prefer,” I asked.
"Arre same yaar, Glenlivet , Ghazals and Gup shup, your deadly combo, just make some daal for me.”
I smiled for split of a second and I disconnected.
I have been told, I have bad phone manners. I mean bad manners overall but phone manners are worse. I disconnect phones and relations, ruthlessly.
Just before I rested the phone on the dashboard, I noticed the Facebook Icon on the top notification bar, displaying a new friend request. I get a few friend requests each month, which are either food critics, new apprentices in the hotel wanting to know the chef’s secrets or just some random people.
I accept all their friend requests. I clicked on the request and saw that it was from a Aarohi Aggarwal. I didn't know a soul by that name, not even remotely. I decided to defer further thoughts on this till the next set of lights. Usually, people who send requests, have some common friends with me and that makes me press the accept button without much deliberation. Aarohi was a stranger, I clicked on her profile page.
Aarohi Aggarwal turned out to be a professor of Applied Economics in University of Delhi, a lady in her mid to late thirties. In her profile picture she was demurely clad in a saree. Her profile picture was taken while speaking at some convocation. Her home town said she was from Mawana. Although I know Western UP well, there is no chance I know someone from Mawana these days. I am a little surprised but the logical conclusion in my head is that she must be looking for some other Manav Chawla. I am not unique by any standards of society, of the few dozen Manavs, she picked the wrong one. I was satisfied with my answer to myself. I accepted the request, in the slow moving traffic near Ashram.
Within minutes, there was a ping on my phone. It was from the Facebook messenger, I have a knock sound. Living in India, teaches you patience, extreme patience and Hotels teach you courtesy. Being courteous, I wanted to answer the ping. The traffic was at a standstill at 11 PM.
Strange first ping, "Jee" it simply said.
Jee is an unusual word to start a conversation with, it is always Hi or Hello, by this time I was sure, I am not the intended audience of this conversation. I am the wrong Manav Chawla, I was sure. I replied, Mam, this is Manav, a chef at Hilton Gurgaon, are you sure you wanted to add me in? I kept the phone down with surety that the response will be an elaborate oops. I drove on, crossed DND to hit another pause in traffic.
The next glance at the phone made me skip a heartbeat. An image downloaded on the messenger, it was a DTC bus pass from 1990, had my name and my B&W photo, possibly taken in the last year of school. I was baffled. In a matter of seconds, the memory cells in my head, retrieved an old archived day, or shall I say a day and a night.
I know Aarohi, more accurately so as to say, yes I had met her. The sudden flush of old memories created an instant whirlpool of emotions inside my head.
I didn't know how to respond. All of a sudden someone who even I had forgotten as a person, inside me, who was being unravelled.
“Jee”, she typed again, “Kaise hain aap?”
The courtesy was intact.
“I am driving”, I typed a safe reply.
“Can I ping you or call you in 30 minutes?” I asked.
She replied with a smiley. “Thirty minutes wont add much difference to the 26 years , yes I shall wait. Please call me at this number.”
The remaining drive was on an auto pilot, I was still trying to make sense of the flurry of thoughts inside me. I had met Aarohi during a strange bus journey from Dehradun to Delhi. It was September 1990, possibly the last week of that month.
It normally doesn't rain that late in the year but it was cloudy that day. It wasn't crowded at the bus terminus but crowded enough to make porters a scarce resource. I used to work for a small company which sold commercial kitchen equipment as a sales person for western UP. I did finally find a porter to load the big wooden boxes containing the kitchen equipments on the roof of the bus. Rarely, I carried equipments back. This time, they had to be altered. This stuff was heavy, possibly, 60 Kilos. Just when the porter, a gurkha was done loading, a young lady approached him and asked him to help load 2 metal trunks. I became a willing witness to the price negotiation. I decided to be a mute spectator. I lit a cigarette and observed the gurkha cutting a deal with the hassled yet aggressive young lady. She was dressed extremely modestly for someone her age. I made that observation and continued to smoke.
It was considered to be a Deluxe Bus and it covered certain towns on the way to Delhi. The bus took off with almost all seats occupied and within minutes it started to rain, forcing the passengers to close their windows. This lady and her mother were occupying seats to my right. I had acquired a "Walkman" a few months back and it was my prized possession. As it rained, I decided to drain the expensive batteries in my walk-man and listen to music. I dozed off while the music played on. In an hour or so, the bus was approaching Roorkee. The sudden jerks woke me up, it seemed like a traffic jam of sorts. Given the unseasonal rains, I had expected some road disruption. After stopping for a little while the bus took a U turn with the help of passengers and the driver decided to take a detour via a village. I overheard a conversation between passengers that there was a bridge which had collapsed and hence we will cross a river bed nearby and take a detour via some villages. We were still at least 40 kms away from the nearest town. The bus started to out manoeuvre the big pot holes in the makeshift road. There was no traffic on this road, but we were snarling through small villages at a very slow pace.
The rain decided to spoil the part further with a fresh gush. In a few minutes, the road became hard to drive on however the driver decided to brave on. I was focusing on the simple life of the huts and houses on the way, we were passing a small village. All of a sudden the bus hit a ditch and the front left wheel of the bus sank in. For a few seconds, it seemed the bus would turn on its side. Within minutes, we got stuck in the middle of nowhere.
Fortunately none of the passengers were seriously hurt but panic loomed large. A few people jumped out of the windows. I alighted along with others through the back door landing in a mess of wet mud. I saw this girl helping her mom get off as well. There were about 40 onlookers now. The front wheels of the bus had got stuck in the mud. It was still raining lightly. People took refuge under a nearby tree. Within 30 minutes, most passengers and driver came to a conclusion that we were now stranded.
Slowly all passengers started to walk to the nearest road, some took lift in a tractor and some even in bullock carts. It was about 2 PM. I realised there were just five people left near the bus now: the driver, the conductor, the girl and her mother and I. We were outside a nondescript village. The only building in sight seemed like a mosque. The green doors and aayats were a familiar sight to me. I asked the driver on what could be done. I had heavy equipment on the roof of the bus and the two ladies had big metal trunks with them. I found it unusual luggage for the two travelling ladies though. The driver was clear that only a crane could pull us out and he had to reach the Bus Depot in Roorkee to get a crane and return while the conductor stood guard.
Now there were four people left. A bidi-smoking conductor, me, and two ladies who had a blank yet hassled look on their face. I decided to make them a participant in this stand-off. I asked the senior lady, greeted her, she said they were headed to Khatauli. There is an old Sugar Mill in Khatauli where they wanted to get dropped. The mother had started to get worried by now and the fear was obvious, how do we go, even if we wished to, we couldn't.
I said firmly. We have no choice unless the bus is pulled out and we are dropped which may take anything between 12 hours to 24 hours. The clouds were playing hide and seek and this village wasn't the most welcoming place. That said, a few villagers decided to be onlookers and started a conversation with me. It was evident from my dialect that I was a man from the big city. They didn't trust easily. This girl took charge of the conversation. Her grip over the local dialect was evident. The oldest man in the group of onlookers was point blank to her "akele ho tum", she was quick in responding, nahin yeh hain naa hamare saath. I didn't know how to react to this ambiguous description of who I was. Make no mistake. In 1990, a man and woman couldn't be even acquaintances, leave alone being friends in western UP. The eldest man in the group had the next direct question.
"Kaun Jaat Ho"? Which caste are you from, a reply came flying in.
“Bania hain”, she replied and asked, “Gaon ka Baniya kaun hain.”
I was oblivious of the caste system in practice. I had only read it in books. To me, I was a Punjabi and a Hindu. Rest didn't matter but now it did, all of a sudden. In a few minutes, a 14 year old kid came cruising on a cycle and mumbled, “Lala naa ae”. It meant the shop keeper isn't there. We were asked to walk to the family's house which was close by but the girl and her mother refused to leave their luggage behind. She whispered in my ear , that she couldn't leave the stuff behind.
It had started to get late. I knew we had some three hours of sunlight left, and as luck was to have it, the village had no electricity. I was having the journey of a lifetime. I had a plan brewing in my head, we will have to be next to the bus for whatever it takes. The three of us need to be a group. To be safe and keep an eye on the luggage. Strangely, the conductor was nowhere to be seen. He had found refuge in his leftover liquor bottle and had decided to take the rest of the day off, under a tree. I used my negotiation skills for three beds, yes the makeshift rope beds and some bedsheets.
The beds could be borrowed from the mosque, I was told. The only thing villagers could offer us was some tea and refuge. Then it rained. I knocked at the door of the house next to the mosque, and a middle aged man opened the door.
My love for Urdu paid off. I asked the man, in passable Urdu, if we could get beds. The man, a Maulana was sure that it was a tough task.
He said, “aap jaayen, mein lagwa dunga”.
I was left with 3 smokes and a moist match box. I decided to smoke a "contemplation cigarette" much to the displeasure of the two ladies. I explained the plan of action to them and at this stage, she asked me my name. I asked hers.
In recollecting 1990, I had reached the basement parking of my apartment building. Ajay had called twice already. I had a frozen cerebrum. My daughter, Manahil, studies fashion designing in IFA Paris. My wife and my daughter had decided to tour the rest of Europe during Manahil’s Spring break.
I unlocked the apartment door and walked in. Ajay was calling again. I asked him to come straight in, rudely cutting short the conversation again. Ajay didn't take much time to realise that I was mentally distracted.
I went back to the Facebook page and took a serious glance through her profile page. I pinged her back and said, I will need another hour before i can call you back.
The response came in nanoseconds, a bespectacled smiley.
My mind went back in time to that day in 1990.
The beds which were sent by the Maulana were manageable. The weather started to clear up and it became slightly breezy. A kind village got us tea in kullads. While sipping the tea, I initiated a conversation with the mother-daughter duo, who seemed to be unusually quiet.
I stated in a matter of fact way, to the girl, “If it weren’t for the trunks, you could have taken an alternate mode”. She chose not to reply.
Aarohi then decided to start a conversation.
"Hum ghar waapis jaa rahein hain, to samaan bhee jo hai, woh jaayega."
I wasnt sure which home and what was she was she referring to. Her mother decided to jump in.
"Kya kahein beta, kuch naseeb hee aisa hai, vidhva ho gayi beti hamari, bus ghar waapis le jaa rahein hain".
I was shocked.
This young girl is married and widowed too. She was no older than 18 herself. I went to ask how this had happened and she explained.
Aarohi was married soon after her high school to a Dehradun-based shop keeper's son.
He was riding a scooter back from the shop and was run over by a speeding truck a month back.
By this time, Aarohi took charge of the conversation. She trimmed the story and gave a summary.
"Bus jahan se aaye they, waapis bhej diya hai, bairang chitthi kee tarah".
The disgust for the turn of events was evident on her face. Of what could be a very bubbly cheerful girl, what was left was a widow at 19. Our society is brutal towards people who fall off the usual path.
I continued the conversation, “Which stream did you study in?" the spark in her eye returned. She replied with a lot of interest. I heard her patiently. Suddenly, my questions were over all of a sudden.
Time had paused. There was absolutely nothing to do. We sat, watching the clouds stroll past over us and soaked in the intermittent cold breeze. Evening had set in. The darkness in villages lets you see what we usually miss in cities at night. Usually you get to see the stars, the sky, and distant lights.
An hour later, Aarohi's mother asked me if I could get some stuff out of their bags. The mother gave me a key and I willingly got a few bedsheets from the trunks. She also invited me kindly to share the travel snacks . While retrieving the bedsheets, I noticed what Aarohi was carrying back. There were some photographs, some knick knacks and a few expensive clothes.
It was hard to imagine, how in the name of social relationships, we ship women as commodities, return them when not needed.
By that time, I was a bit hungry and so I decided to take a walk through the village. When I reached the mosque I was thrilled to learn from Aarohi that the only Bania family in the village had sent rotis and sabzi for us.
I ate quickly and decided to smoke the last cigarette away from the sight of the other three. I was unsuccessful; Aarohi followed me like a kid. We started to talk. She asked me what I did and what I wanted to become. I told her I wanted to become a chef.
Rasoiya! chee! She was baffled obviously.
Villages have strange sounds. One can hear someone crying in the distance, someone beating someone, someone shouting and then a sudden pin drop silence. We carried on our conversation. She was curious to know how a man of 20, from Delhi, thinks.
What she didn't realise that there was a rebel inside me, a quiet rebel against social norms.
She looked at me curiously and asked "yeh kya sunte rehte ho kaan mein"?
I smiled and asked "Mirza Ghalib ka naam suna hai?”
She nodded and said, “Yes, "Kavi hain".
I said "Hain nahin they, aur kavi nahin, shayar they". She had a bewildered look on her face.
Then she asked, "Yeh Shayar aur Kavi mein kya farak hota hai".
I said, “not much, a shayar writes in Urdu and a kavi in hindi. Both are lovers and philosophers rolled in one. They percolate their thoughts in a few words.
I saw a fleeting spark in her eyes. She smiled and said proudly, "Mere naana ka khandaan Chandni Chowk ke seth they aur sunte hain ki humne Mirza Ghalib ko paise udhaar diye they". I smiled.
I asked her what she wanted to do in life after going back.
Her face fell. I realized I had asked a wrong question at a wrong time. She became quiet and walked away.
However, after thirty odd minutes, she returned and facing me, her face flushed with emotion, asked, "Do you know how it is to be born as the third daughter in the family? You are not a human, you are just a "wrong number" and now that I am a widow, I am an even bigger liability".
I didn’t have an answer. I kept quiet.
She then asked me a direct question, “Why do you want to live?” I had never been asked such a question.
Sometimes when you are asked a tricky question, you tend to produce an unrehearsed and unprepared answer.
I said "I wish to do something beyond production and consumption, I don't wish to make money and consume money and die one day. I wish to leave behind a mark that will make this journey more blissful for others.
She replied "ladko mein aur ladkiyon mein yeh fark hai, hum apni marzi ka kar nahin sakte, ab jahan baandh denge reh lenge".
I asked her , do you know what a wingman means ? It is a pilot whose aircraft is positioned behind and outside the leading aircraft in a formation. God is a Wingman, I kept the conversation on the topic of solitude, courage , ghazals and Divinity. I went on to ask her , "do you know what Aarohi means" , she hesitatingly said Yes , but in fact she didn't Know . I explained to her that Aarohi means ascending , one who keeps scaling new heights and winning battles, it is also used in reference of music wherein notes are in ascending order . "Aarohi, Life isn't easier for a Man , He is also brought on this earth to support, to earn , to be strong , to stand firm , everyone has a role, some succeed and some fail and Marna aasaan kaam hai , Haarna Bhee , bus jeena mushkil ...jeetna thoda aur mushkil ". It seemed there was no end to our endless exchange of thoughts .
I was oblivious of the traffic on the road. It is a 55 Km drive from the Hilton in Gurgaon to my apartment in Noida. I knew every turn, every corner and every speed breaker. I was born in Delhi. My paternal grandparents survived a migration from Girot, in west Punjab to Amritsar and eventually to Delhi during partition. I was born many years later here. Delhi was my beloved. It is a one sided affair, I love Delhi, but she doesn't love me back. I hate everything about her now, the people, the pornographic display of wealth and the naked material and power race.
To pause my constant chain of self criticism, the phone rang. Manav. I answered in my usual arrogant sounding tone. Somehow I never say Hello. Why should I? I have to announce my name and I just did.
"Kahan hai tu", was the straight question. My good friend Ajay didnt need an elaborate social exchange.
“On my way home, want to have a drink?” My answer was equally direct.
“Yaa”, he answered.
“Ok , I will reach home in another 45 mins , what do you prefer,” I asked.
"Arre same yaar, Glenlivet , Ghazals and Gup shup, your deadly combo, just make some daal for me.”
I smiled for split of a second and I disconnected.
I have been told, I have bad phone manners. I mean bad manners overall but phone manners are worse. I disconnect phones and relations, ruthlessly.
Just before I rested the phone on the dashboard, I noticed the Facebook Icon on the top notification bar, displaying a new friend request. I get a few friend requests each month, which are either food critics, new apprentices in the hotel wanting to know the chef’s secrets or just some random people.
I accept all their friend requests. I clicked on the request and saw that it was from a Aarohi Aggarwal. I didn't know a soul by that name, not even remotely. I decided to defer further thoughts on this till the next set of lights. Usually, people who send requests, have some common friends with me and that makes me press the accept button without much deliberation. Aarohi was a stranger, I clicked on her profile page.
Aarohi Aggarwal turned out to be a professor of Applied Economics in University of Delhi, a lady in her mid to late thirties. In her profile picture she was demurely clad in a saree. Her profile picture was taken while speaking at some convocation. Her home town said she was from Mawana. Although I know Western UP well, there is no chance I know someone from Mawana these days. I am a little surprised but the logical conclusion in my head is that she must be looking for some other Manav Chawla. I am not unique by any standards of society, of the few dozen Manavs, she picked the wrong one. I was satisfied with my answer to myself. I accepted the request, in the slow moving traffic near Ashram.
Within minutes, there was a ping on my phone. It was from the Facebook messenger, I have a knock sound. Living in India, teaches you patience, extreme patience and Hotels teach you courtesy. Being courteous, I wanted to answer the ping. The traffic was at a standstill at 11 PM.
Strange first ping, "Jee" it simply said.
Jee is an unusual word to start a conversation with, it is always Hi or Hello, by this time I was sure, I am not the intended audience of this conversation. I am the wrong Manav Chawla, I was sure. I replied, Mam, this is Manav, a chef at Hilton Gurgaon, are you sure you wanted to add me in? I kept the phone down with surety that the response will be an elaborate oops. I drove on, crossed DND to hit another pause in traffic.
The next glance at the phone made me skip a heartbeat. An image downloaded on the messenger, it was a DTC bus pass from 1990, had my name and my B&W photo, possibly taken in the last year of school. I was baffled. In a matter of seconds, the memory cells in my head, retrieved an old archived day, or shall I say a day and a night.
I know Aarohi, more accurately so as to say, yes I had met her. The sudden flush of old memories created an instant whirlpool of emotions inside my head.
I didn't know how to respond. All of a sudden someone who even I had forgotten as a person, inside me, who was being unravelled.
“Jee”, she typed again, “Kaise hain aap?”
The courtesy was intact.
“I am driving”, I typed a safe reply.
“Can I ping you or call you in 30 minutes?” I asked.
She replied with a smiley. “Thirty minutes wont add much difference to the 26 years , yes I shall wait. Please call me at this number.”
The remaining drive was on an auto pilot, I was still trying to make sense of the flurry of thoughts inside me. I had met Aarohi during a strange bus journey from Dehradun to Delhi. It was September 1990, possibly the last week of that month.
It normally doesn't rain that late in the year but it was cloudy that day. It wasn't crowded at the bus terminus but crowded enough to make porters a scarce resource. I used to work for a small company which sold commercial kitchen equipment as a sales person for western UP. I did finally find a porter to load the big wooden boxes containing the kitchen equipments on the roof of the bus. Rarely, I carried equipments back. This time, they had to be altered. This stuff was heavy, possibly, 60 Kilos. Just when the porter, a gurkha was done loading, a young lady approached him and asked him to help load 2 metal trunks. I became a willing witness to the price negotiation. I decided to be a mute spectator. I lit a cigarette and observed the gurkha cutting a deal with the hassled yet aggressive young lady. She was dressed extremely modestly for someone her age. I made that observation and continued to smoke.
It was considered to be a Deluxe Bus and it covered certain towns on the way to Delhi. The bus took off with almost all seats occupied and within minutes it started to rain, forcing the passengers to close their windows. This lady and her mother were occupying seats to my right. I had acquired a "Walkman" a few months back and it was my prized possession. As it rained, I decided to drain the expensive batteries in my walk-man and listen to music. I dozed off while the music played on. In an hour or so, the bus was approaching Roorkee. The sudden jerks woke me up, it seemed like a traffic jam of sorts. Given the unseasonal rains, I had expected some road disruption. After stopping for a little while the bus took a U turn with the help of passengers and the driver decided to take a detour via a village. I overheard a conversation between passengers that there was a bridge which had collapsed and hence we will cross a river bed nearby and take a detour via some villages. We were still at least 40 kms away from the nearest town. The bus started to out manoeuvre the big pot holes in the makeshift road. There was no traffic on this road, but we were snarling through small villages at a very slow pace.
The rain decided to spoil the part further with a fresh gush. In a few minutes, the road became hard to drive on however the driver decided to brave on. I was focusing on the simple life of the huts and houses on the way, we were passing a small village. All of a sudden the bus hit a ditch and the front left wheel of the bus sank in. For a few seconds, it seemed the bus would turn on its side. Within minutes, we got stuck in the middle of nowhere.
Fortunately none of the passengers were seriously hurt but panic loomed large. A few people jumped out of the windows. I alighted along with others through the back door landing in a mess of wet mud. I saw this girl helping her mom get off as well. There were about 40 onlookers now. The front wheels of the bus had got stuck in the mud. It was still raining lightly. People took refuge under a nearby tree. Within 30 minutes, most passengers and driver came to a conclusion that we were now stranded.
Slowly all passengers started to walk to the nearest road, some took lift in a tractor and some even in bullock carts. It was about 2 PM. I realised there were just five people left near the bus now: the driver, the conductor, the girl and her mother and I. We were outside a nondescript village. The only building in sight seemed like a mosque. The green doors and aayats were a familiar sight to me. I asked the driver on what could be done. I had heavy equipment on the roof of the bus and the two ladies had big metal trunks with them. I found it unusual luggage for the two travelling ladies though. The driver was clear that only a crane could pull us out and he had to reach the Bus Depot in Roorkee to get a crane and return while the conductor stood guard.
Now there were four people left. A bidi-smoking conductor, me, and two ladies who had a blank yet hassled look on their face. I decided to make them a participant in this stand-off. I asked the senior lady, greeted her, she said they were headed to Khatauli. There is an old Sugar Mill in Khatauli where they wanted to get dropped. The mother had started to get worried by now and the fear was obvious, how do we go, even if we wished to, we couldn't.
I said firmly. We have no choice unless the bus is pulled out and we are dropped which may take anything between 12 hours to 24 hours. The clouds were playing hide and seek and this village wasn't the most welcoming place. That said, a few villagers decided to be onlookers and started a conversation with me. It was evident from my dialect that I was a man from the big city. They didn't trust easily. This girl took charge of the conversation. Her grip over the local dialect was evident. The oldest man in the group of onlookers was point blank to her "akele ho tum", she was quick in responding, nahin yeh hain naa hamare saath. I didn't know how to react to this ambiguous description of who I was. Make no mistake. In 1990, a man and woman couldn't be even acquaintances, leave alone being friends in western UP. The eldest man in the group had the next direct question.
"Kaun Jaat Ho"? Which caste are you from, a reply came flying in.
“Bania hain”, she replied and asked, “Gaon ka Baniya kaun hain.”
I was oblivious of the caste system in practice. I had only read it in books. To me, I was a Punjabi and a Hindu. Rest didn't matter but now it did, all of a sudden. In a few minutes, a 14 year old kid came cruising on a cycle and mumbled, “Lala naa ae”. It meant the shop keeper isn't there. We were asked to walk to the family's house which was close by but the girl and her mother refused to leave their luggage behind. She whispered in my ear , that she couldn't leave the stuff behind.
It had started to get late. I knew we had some three hours of sunlight left, and as luck was to have it, the village had no electricity. I was having the journey of a lifetime. I had a plan brewing in my head, we will have to be next to the bus for whatever it takes. The three of us need to be a group. To be safe and keep an eye on the luggage. Strangely, the conductor was nowhere to be seen. He had found refuge in his leftover liquor bottle and had decided to take the rest of the day off, under a tree. I used my negotiation skills for three beds, yes the makeshift rope beds and some bedsheets.
The beds could be borrowed from the mosque, I was told. The only thing villagers could offer us was some tea and refuge. Then it rained. I knocked at the door of the house next to the mosque, and a middle aged man opened the door.
My love for Urdu paid off. I asked the man, in passable Urdu, if we could get beds. The man, a Maulana was sure that it was a tough task.
He said, “aap jaayen, mein lagwa dunga”.
I was left with 3 smokes and a moist match box. I decided to smoke a "contemplation cigarette" much to the displeasure of the two ladies. I explained the plan of action to them and at this stage, she asked me my name. I asked hers.
In recollecting 1990, I had reached the basement parking of my apartment building. Ajay had called twice already. I had a frozen cerebrum. My daughter, Manahil, studies fashion designing in IFA Paris. My wife and my daughter had decided to tour the rest of Europe during Manahil’s Spring break.
I unlocked the apartment door and walked in. Ajay was calling again. I asked him to come straight in, rudely cutting short the conversation again. Ajay didn't take much time to realise that I was mentally distracted.
I went back to the Facebook page and took a serious glance through her profile page. I pinged her back and said, I will need another hour before i can call you back.
The response came in nanoseconds, a bespectacled smiley.
My mind went back in time to that day in 1990.
The beds which were sent by the Maulana were manageable. The weather started to clear up and it became slightly breezy. A kind village got us tea in kullads. While sipping the tea, I initiated a conversation with the mother-daughter duo, who seemed to be unusually quiet.
I stated in a matter of fact way, to the girl, “If it weren’t for the trunks, you could have taken an alternate mode”. She chose not to reply.
Aarohi then decided to start a conversation.
"Hum ghar waapis jaa rahein hain, to samaan bhee jo hai, woh jaayega."
I wasnt sure which home and what was she was she referring to. Her mother decided to jump in.
"Kya kahein beta, kuch naseeb hee aisa hai, vidhva ho gayi beti hamari, bus ghar waapis le jaa rahein hain".
I was shocked.
This young girl is married and widowed too. She was no older than 18 herself. I went to ask how this had happened and she explained.
Aarohi was married soon after her high school to a Dehradun-based shop keeper's son.
He was riding a scooter back from the shop and was run over by a speeding truck a month back.
By this time, Aarohi took charge of the conversation. She trimmed the story and gave a summary.
"Bus jahan se aaye they, waapis bhej diya hai, bairang chitthi kee tarah".
The disgust for the turn of events was evident on her face. Of what could be a very bubbly cheerful girl, what was left was a widow at 19. Our society is brutal towards people who fall off the usual path.
I continued the conversation, “Which stream did you study in?" the spark in her eye returned. She replied with a lot of interest. I heard her patiently. Suddenly, my questions were over all of a sudden.
Time had paused. There was absolutely nothing to do. We sat, watching the clouds stroll past over us and soaked in the intermittent cold breeze. Evening had set in. The darkness in villages lets you see what we usually miss in cities at night. Usually you get to see the stars, the sky, and distant lights.
An hour later, Aarohi's mother asked me if I could get some stuff out of their bags. The mother gave me a key and I willingly got a few bedsheets from the trunks. She also invited me kindly to share the travel snacks . While retrieving the bedsheets, I noticed what Aarohi was carrying back. There were some photographs, some knick knacks and a few expensive clothes.
It was hard to imagine, how in the name of social relationships, we ship women as commodities, return them when not needed.
By that time, I was a bit hungry and so I decided to take a walk through the village. When I reached the mosque I was thrilled to learn from Aarohi that the only Bania family in the village had sent rotis and sabzi for us.
I ate quickly and decided to smoke the last cigarette away from the sight of the other three. I was unsuccessful; Aarohi followed me like a kid. We started to talk. She asked me what I did and what I wanted to become. I told her I wanted to become a chef.
Rasoiya! chee! She was baffled obviously.
Villages have strange sounds. One can hear someone crying in the distance, someone beating someone, someone shouting and then a sudden pin drop silence. We carried on our conversation. She was curious to know how a man of 20, from Delhi, thinks.
What she didn't realise that there was a rebel inside me, a quiet rebel against social norms.
She looked at me curiously and asked "yeh kya sunte rehte ho kaan mein"?
I smiled and asked "Mirza Ghalib ka naam suna hai?”
She nodded and said, “Yes, "Kavi hain".
I said "Hain nahin they, aur kavi nahin, shayar they". She had a bewildered look on her face.
Then she asked, "Yeh Shayar aur Kavi mein kya farak hota hai".
I said, “not much, a shayar writes in Urdu and a kavi in hindi. Both are lovers and philosophers rolled in one. They percolate their thoughts in a few words.
I saw a fleeting spark in her eyes. She smiled and said proudly, "Mere naana ka khandaan Chandni Chowk ke seth they aur sunte hain ki humne Mirza Ghalib ko paise udhaar diye they". I smiled.
I asked her what she wanted to do in life after going back.
Her face fell. I realized I had asked a wrong question at a wrong time. She became quiet and walked away.
However, after thirty odd minutes, she returned and facing me, her face flushed with emotion, asked, "Do you know how it is to be born as the third daughter in the family? You are not a human, you are just a "wrong number" and now that I am a widow, I am an even bigger liability".
I didn’t have an answer. I kept quiet.
She then asked me a direct question, “Why do you want to live?” I had never been asked such a question.
Sometimes when you are asked a tricky question, you tend to produce an unrehearsed and unprepared answer.
I said "I wish to do something beyond production and consumption, I don't wish to make money and consume money and die one day. I wish to leave behind a mark that will make this journey more blissful for others.
She replied "ladko mein aur ladkiyon mein yeh fark hai, hum apni marzi ka kar nahin sakte, ab jahan baandh denge reh lenge".
I asked her , do you know what a wingman means ? It is a pilot whose aircraft is positioned behind and outside the leading aircraft in a formation. God is a Wingman, I kept the conversation on the topic of solitude, courage , ghazals and Divinity. I went on to ask her , "do you know what Aarohi means" , she hesitatingly said Yes , but in fact she didn't Know . I explained to her that Aarohi means ascending , one who keeps scaling new heights and winning battles, it is also used in reference of music wherein notes are in ascending order . "Aarohi, Life isn't easier for a Man , He is also brought on this earth to support, to earn , to be strong , to stand firm , everyone has a role, some succeed and some fail and Marna aasaan kaam hai , Haarna Bhee , bus jeena mushkil ...jeetna thoda aur mushkil ". It seemed there was no end to our endless exchange of thoughts .
Villages have strange sounds , some one crying, someone beating someone , someone shouting and then a sudden pin drop silence. We carried on the conversations, she was curious to know how a man from Delhi at 20 years of age thinks. What she didn't realise that there was a rebel inside me , a quiet rebel against the social norms . She asked "yeh kya sunte rehte ho kaan mein" , I said "Mirza Ghalib ka naam suna" hai ? She said yes, "Kavi hain". I said "Hain nahin they , aur kavi nahin , shayar they" . She had a bewildered look. on her face . "Yeh Shayar mein aur Kavi mein kya farak hota hai" . I said not much, The shayar writes in Urdu and Kavi in hindi , both are lovers and philosophers rolled in one , they percolate their thoughts in a few words. A Spark in her eyes returned . She went to proudly proclaim " Mere naana ka khandaan chandni Chowk ke seth they and sunte hain ke humne Mirza Ghalib ko paise udhaar diye they" . I smiled for a few seconds.
Her parting words were "Radhe Radhe ". The day ended in a few hours and the memory for buried in a few months too.
Her parting words were "Radhe Radhe ". The day ended in a few hours and the memory for buried in a few months too.
The day ended in a few hours and the memory got buried in a few months.
I sighed, recalling the day and our meeting.
Ajay and I were about on our first drink, i excused myself in the balcony . I called Aarohi, the conversation was short, she was to about to release her poetry collection and wanted to know if its OK to mention my name as an inspiration. I was speechless, struggling to swallow the moment , she asked another question "Hope you have continued to ascend and not got stuck in the production and consumption cycle of life " , I said , we are all stranded , we were stranded for a few hours but some of us stranded for years .
I sighed, recalling the day and our meeting.
Ajay and I were about on our first drink, i excused myself in the balcony . I called Aarohi, the conversation was short, she was to about to release her poetry collection and wanted to know if its OK to mention my name as an inspiration. I was speechless, struggling to swallow the moment , she asked another question "Hope you have continued to ascend and not got stuck in the production and consumption cycle of life " , I said , we are all stranded , we were stranded for a few hours but some of us stranded for years .
Today's ghazal is by Indira Verma and sung by Rekha Bhardwaj . Such Ghazals are proof that this art form will not diminish ever .
Abhi Se Kaise Kahun , Tumko Bewafa Sahab , Abhi to Apne safar kee Hai Ibteda Sahab !
Ibteda is beginning.
Na Jaane Kitne Lakab de raha hai , Dil Tumko , Huzur Jaan e wafa ,aur Hum Nawa Sahab !
Lakab is Title , used here in reference of nick names for beloved .
Tumhari Yaad Mein Taare Shumaar Karti hun , Na Jaane Khatam Kahan ho yeh Silsila Sahab !
Shumaar is Counting , to count stars ..
Tumhara Chehra mere aks se ubharta hai , Naa Jaane kaun badalta hai aaina sahab
I see your reflection in my mirror , dont know what divine play is that ...
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