PATNA BLUES

Chapter 2

TWO

One Saturday morning in 1992, almost two years after his encounter with Sumitra, Arif was strolling on the terrace of his home in Police Colony. Taking in the fresh air, he felt good. A cold he had been nursing for many weeks had finally vanished. Pressing one of his nostrils with his index finger, he blew his nose. No snot. He also coughed to clear his throat. No phlegm. Dr Ganguly's prescription had worked.

Arif had other reasons as well to be in high spirits.

The result of the preliminary examination for the civil services had been published that morning. His name was among the successful candidates. He was confident of getting through the mains and the personal interview
as well.

Abba's dream to see me as an IAS officer will soon be a reality. He fantasized about his photograph appearing on the cover of Competition Success Review. 'A Tête-à-Tête with IAS Topper Arif Khan.' His parents would be proud of him.

Once he became an IAS officer, first he'd employ a full-time domestic help for his mother. Amma had spent her entire life taking care of the family. She deserved to take it easy.  Then, he would arrange for Dadi's pilgrimage to Mecca. He wondered how Dadi would react when he told her that she was going for hajj. Then, he would find good alliances for his sisters. Who on earth wouldn't want to have an IAS officer for his brother-in-law? How sweet my three sisters are. He thought of each in turn. They deserve the best in life. But of course, Nazneen was the sweetest among them. Then he'd insist that his father apply for voluntary retirement. Abba had worked enough late hours. He should spend the rest of his life in peace.

For his brother, Zakir, he'd convince Abba to allow him to pursue a career in the movies. If his brother needed money, he'd provide for him. But, to succeed in the mains, Arif needed to study harder. Nothing less than ten hours every day.

Thinking about his plans made Arif smile in contentment. When was the last time he had been in such good spirits? He tried to remember but couldn't.

In the backyard of the building, Arif saw two old ladies worshipping a peepal tree: they marked the trunk of the tree with a vermilion-like substance, offered potfuls of water and then stood still for some time with their hands folded in prayer. He found it strangely pleasant to watch the women go through the rituals, almost like sunbathing in winter. Once they had finished and walked away, Arif was just about to go back downstairs when he saw another woman approaching the tree. She was tall and fair, in a black sari and a matching sleeveless blouse, her black hair cascading down her back. She carried a dolchi, a small bamboo basket, in which she had things essential for performing the rituals of her puja. When she turned around after finishing the puja, he could see her round face, large eyes and plump lips.

Oh my God! Sumitra!

He kept looking at her till she walked away.

'Beta, breakfast is ready.' He heard his mother's voice from the balcony.

Things around him had changed as he climbed downstairs. The day had become brighter. The breeze had become cool and pleasant.

He relished the breakfast of chapattis and hot aloo-istoo as if they were delicacies from paradise. As he finished his breakfast, Dadi brought a plateful of sliced mango. From its sweet fragrance and golden-yellow colour, he knew it was jardalu. His face lit up as he inhaled the fragrance of his favourite fruit.

'These mangoes are from our own orchard. Your Badke baba sent them from Jamalpura,' Dadi said, smiling, as she settled next to him.

'No mango in this world can be as delicious as jardalu,' Arif said as the sweetness of the mango pulp permeated his taste buds. Closing his eyes, he thought of Sumitra and imagined kissing her. It must be like tasting a fully ripe jardalu mango.

What a day! First the UPSC result and then Sumitra, he thought to himself and retired to his room.

The books for the mains lay open in front of him, but he was thinking of Sumitra.

That night Arif dreamed of her.

The next morning he woke up quite early, even before the muezzin of the nearby mosque called out azan. Zakir slept fitfully on the other side of the bed. The Shiv mandir inside Police Colony was yet to start the bhajans on its loudspeakers. Everyone was asleep, except Amma, who was washing dishes. He could hear the sharp clink of utensils as they scraped against each other. And Dadi was reciting from the Holy Quran, her soft, mellow voice carrying through the house.

Arif shaved and bathed before going upstairs.

On the terrace, leaning against the parapet, he waited for Sumitra for the next couple of hours, but she didn't come to worship the peepal tree. Nor did anyone else. As the sun ascended the horizon, he looked dolefully towards the tree, and then went downstairs. The area around the tree was still deserted. It was already nine o'clock.

The next four days rolled by restlessly. Sumitra didn't show up at the peepal tree.

Why am I waiting for her? She is married, Arif reminded himself again and again.

'Peepal trees are worshipped only on Saturdays,' his friend Mritunjay, who was a Kanyakubja Brahmin, told him later that week, when Arif casually enquired about the ritual. 'In Sanskrit the tree is called ashvattha,' his friend went on. 'According to the Brahma Purana, Ashvattha and Peepla were two demons who harassed innocent people. Ashvattha would take the form of a peepal and Peepla would take the form of a Brahmin. Peepla would then advise people to touch the tree, and as soon as they did, Ashvattha would kill them. They were both killed by Shani devta, the god of Saturday. Because of his influence, it is considered safe to touch the tree on Saturdays. Also, Lakshmi, the goddess of wealth, is believed to inhabit the tree on Saturdays.'

So, I will have to wait till Saturday to see Sumitra again.

* * *

On Friday Arif went to see Mritunjay, who had also cleared the prelims for the civil services exam. They often studied together.

Mritunjay was plump and short in contrast to Arif's tall and athletic stature, and had a thick Jackie Shroff-like moustache. In Mritunjay's fifteen foot by ten foot room, populated by a wooden bed, a Godrej almirah, a study table and a couple of chairs, they sat discussing their study plan. A tangerine bookshelf hung on the wall.

'Arrey Arif, please help me with decision-making theory. I find Herbert Simon and Chester Barnard a bit heavy going,' Mritunjay said as he pulled out a book on administrative thinkers from the stack of books on his table.

'Of course.'

Mritunjay's mother called out to him from the kitchen.

'I will be right back,' Mritunjay said as he tossed the book on the table and hurried to the kitchen.

Arif stood up and walked to the window. He saw a woman drying clothes on the terrace of an adjacent building. He could not believe his eyes. She was so close, he could even see the upturned tip of her nose. Her long tresses were tied in a loose bun. Arif was stunned to see Sumitra again, and even more so to learn that she was his friend's neighbour.

Sumitra caught him staring at her, and gave him a magical, dimpled smile. Arif felt overwhelmed and was unable to smile back. Then she disappeared. Mritunjay returned with tea and a plate full of vegetable pakoras, sprinkled with chaat masala.

Should I go out and say hello to Sumitra? Arif wondered.

No, he decided emphatically.

What do I call my infatuation with her, and where might it lead me, Arif wondered. He heard the answer in a beautiful Gulzar song carried by the wind from a radio or TV somewhere:

Sirf ehsaas hai ye rooh se mahsoos karo

Pyaar ko pyaar hi rahne do koi naam na do

(This is a feeling and your soul can feel it

Let love be love, don't give it any name)