A TITTER ESCAPED MY LIPS when I overheard the famous astrologer Pundit Hari Narayan Sharma proclaim, ‘One day, he will do something really, really great.’
The occasion was Ashwini’s eleventh birthday, and—in sharp contrast to my irreverent perspective—Pundit Sharma was going over Ashwini’s outstretched palm with the seriousness and enthusiasm a treasure hunter might possess while poring over a secret map. Now, I don’t mean to be rude or condescending, but if you had the opportunity to see Ashwini or his mother that day, I’m sure you would understand why I wasn’t able to hold back a snicker. He was a fatherless child: fatherless in the way men desert their families soon after the arrival of a newborn—a phenomenon fairly common amongst those who live in Dharavi, one of the numerous shantytowns of Mumbai that also has the unenviable distinction of being the biggest slum in Asia. And like the other scrawny, bare-bodied, rust-haired, dirty-faced children growing up without much parental supervision, Ashwini would run around the filthy slum the whole day, doing well if he could just stay out of trouble. His mother worked three jobs as a maid and still struggled to make ends meet. Cleaning dishes, washing clothes and scrubbing floors of so many households had creased her hands so terribly that when she had requested a reading of her future with the hopes that a change for the better was hidden amongst those folds, Pundit Sharma had given up on making head or tail of those squiggly lines on her palm and thrown up his hands with exasperation. Seeing the astrologer’s reaction, she had offered Ashwini’s hand instead, determined not to let her fifty rupees go waste.
I’m sure Ashwini still remembers Pundit Sharma’s sombre face—his twitchy eyes suddenly wide with surprise, his eyebrows arched like bowstrings, his forefinger raised skyward with phallic tension as he had made his grand pronouncement. I’m sure he also remembers the happiness on his mother’s face that statement had generated. Her small, round countenance with the slit like eyes and a stub for a nose had broken into a grin stretching from ear to ear and she had immediately prostrated herself in front of the astrologer to touch his feet. Unable to comprehend the enormity of Pundit Sharma’s pronouncement, Ashwini had stood there staring at the strange looking man with the dirty white beard and black fingernails till she had slapped the back of his head and asked him to seek the great man’s blessing by picking up some of the dust from his feet and putting it on his head. Ashwini’s reluctance to comply led her to grab his neck and shove his head down towards the astrologer’s feet. Poor Ashwini had to touch the man’s foot to keep himself from toppling over and did end up with Pundit Sharma’s blessing on his hair, although whether it was dust or dirt, he couldn’t tell.
Who am I? Oh sorry … I should have introduced myself earlier. I’m the one that Pundit Sharma describes … you know, Fate, Destiny, Karma, Kismat, Luck … all those interesting names that people have given me! Yes, exactly, I am what will happen in the future. No … I’m not time. Well, Time and I differ like water and a river differ from each other. Or if you prefer another example … if time is flour, I am the cake. If time is a musical note, I am the song. If time is an alphabet, I am the poem. I’m sure you get the idea.
Why am I describing Ashwini? Well, it isn’t often that someone describes me so specifically to hazard such a dramatic prediction. Astrologers are charlatans and will say things like ‘he will live long’ and ‘her wishes will come true’ and, my favourite, ‘your life will be very happy if you don’t have any sadness.’ I mean, come on … the lines on your hand, the movement of the stars, adding up the numbers of your hour of birth dictating whether your mother will recover from illness or your love life will proceed to the next level? Are you really that naïve?
But, in Ashwini’s case, since I know what is going to happen to him, I can only look at his mother and wonder what would make her so extraordinarily gullible.
Oh sure, you would like to know what happened, wouldn’t you? Well, that is the fun part about being Destiny: you get to see people make choices that have turned their worlds upside down. Like someone suddenly deciding to cross the street—taking a shortcut that cuts short his life. Or the man who bet his life’s saving on a horse and came out with money to buy a horse farm. The sad part is that these examples are exceptions rather than the rule. Most of the time things are terribly boring because people make choices that everyone knows they will. It’s as though they have been programmed to play it safe. They don’t want to take a chance on me … even though I’m rooting for them to leave the beaten path and walk through the forest no one has. It may seem scary at first: but the grass is greener, the sights are prettier and the sounds are new and exciting.
But then, who listens to me?
As for Ashwini … what did he do? Well read on. I’ll reappear periodically to laugh or cry with you.
It is strange how one hangs on to a statement about destiny when it involves good fortune. In Ashwini’s case however, it was mostly his mother’s doing. She had brainwashed him through the rest of his childhood to believe in the greatness that lay in his future. Pundit Sharma was a famous astrologer and couldn’t possibly be wrong. He had predicted her cousin’s recovery from a severe illness, her friend’s marriage to a high caste man and an acquaintance’s cousin-sister’s lucky lottery numbers. Besides, no one makes a prediction as objective as ‘doing something really, really great’ unless they see it written in the stars as clearly as they see the fifty rupee note while reaching for it.
Other than actually becoming famous, the prediction had served Ashwini fairly well. If his school performance wasn’t anything to inspire confidence, his mother readily dismissed education as the ride to the top. When Ashwini didn’t show any sporting abilities, she deemed that a waste of time and instead advised him to concentrate on singing. Singing teachers were hard to come by in the slum and the few times Ashwini had tried to belt out something resembling a song, it was fairly obvious that the key element missing in his rendition was melody. She had then scraped together some money to put him in ‘acting classes’ where the instructor had dismissed his chances of being a hero at first sight, reconciling to the possibility of some ‘character’ actors should his histrionic abilities live up to his expectation. They hadn’t, and so, after a number of other similar ventures, both mother and son realized the futility of their efforts.
His mother died that year; never getting to bask in the glory of her son’s greatness. Up until then, she had been the one pushing him along, coaxing him, cajoling him and cursing him as the situation demanded, making him strive for something that he entertained with waning enthusiasm with every passing year. In contrast to his dwindling belief, her faith in him remained strong till the very end. Even as she lay dying, she had pulled him close and whispered something that sounded like ‘greatness’ amidst the phlegmatic rattle that was her voice. With her gone, Ashwini found himself at thirty, all alone, uneducated, untalented, unskilled, and, what was worse, without a single other soul in the world who believed in the prediction.
At an age when most people have begun settling into careers and starting families, Ashwini hasn’t had the chance to do either. He tried his hands at cleaning carpets, running a food stall, gardening, selling detergent door-to-door and washing cars at the petrol station. But, as expected, none of these have offered him any potential for distinction or greatness, and consequently, at thirty-one, the realization has begun to strengthen in his brain that maybe Pundit Sharma was just plain wrong.
At present, he works as a security guard of an upscale apartment complex in Mumbai, writing down the license plate numbers of the cars that enter and exit in a thick fat ledger, noting the exact time those cars cross the iron gate his compatriot swings open. In addition, it is his duty to question unknown and unfamiliar faces and check their belongings to ensure they don’t posses anything that could be construed a hazard to the residents of the building. He announces them via the intercom to the apartment they are supposed to visit, crosschecking with the owner’s expectations of being hosts, and denying entry to whosoever doesn’t possess the appropriate credentials or invitation.
It is a simple job and Ashwini performs his duties with diligence. It isn’t the excitement of writing down numbers or looking through ladies bags that inspires him: it is the beleaguered acceptance that this is his fate and that he should try to make the most of it. Somewhere, in some corner of his heart, he still harbours a faint hope about the greatness promised to him in his future, but doesn’t dare spell it out to anyone for fear of being laughed at.
Isn’t it funny how people make predictions about me when the very words to describe me like Luck, Chance, Kismat suggest unpredictability? Take the case of Ashwini. Had he bought that lottery ticket he was eyeing at Churchgate Station six years ago, his story might have been a different one. Or if he had applied and auditioned for the role of the policeman eight years ago, he wouldn’t be guarding the apartment complex he could have lived in. Or if he hadn’t missed the train to Andheri … oh well, the list is endless.
That night she is late leaving the apartment complex. She has to hurry to be able to make it to the gate by nine o’clock, after which, the only female guard in the security area will have left for home. Although most of the search is cursory, it embarrasses her to have to answer questions from the male guards. Most of them are young, unmarried men whose discretionary powers in that small security area next to the gated entrance gives them enough leverage to abuse it, especially against easy prey like her.
And one of them, a tall bearded guy with leery, lecherous eyes, terrifies her.
She misses the nine o’clock deadline by three minutes. The female guard has disappeared and by the time she reaches the gate carrying a bag around her shoulders, all she can see are two men in navy blue security uniforms standing and staring at her.
She sighs, keeps her head down and approaches them cautiously. As she is walking towards the gate, one of them says, ‘Where are you going, beautiful?’
She looks up. It is the tall, bearded man.
‘Home,’ she replies.
‘I thought you have an extra home here … no? Aren’t you staying over tonight?’ he says.
‘I am going to visit my mother.’
‘Isn’t it a little late? Not a good time for pretty girls to be out walking alone…’
She keeps her head down and doesn’t reply.
‘Well, we have to search you … don’t we?’ says the bearded man.
‘I have nothing to show,’ she says.
‘Oh I think you have a lot to show,’ says the man, undressing her with his eyes. He shares a sly smile with his compatriot. ‘Here, why don’t you step into that room behind these curtains?’
Her heart begins to race and her mouth turns dry. She tries to camouflage her mounting panic by pretending a calm exterior. She steps up to the small enclosure next to the gate and places her bag on the counter.
‘Eh … Ashwini, search her bag,’ orders the bearded man. Then he turns around and tells her, ‘You step inside that room, behind that curtain.’
She sees a young man with a kind face step out of the small room. He is podgy, shorter than the other two, with large gentle eyes and a funny pug like nose that reminds her of those cute stuffed animals she has seen in stores. Unlike the others, his uniform is clean and he takes the trouble to shave. He adjusts his cap and gives her a shy smile.
‘Can I go through your bag, madam?’ he asks.
No one addresses housemaids so politely, let alone call them madam. She nods. He smiles again and begins sifting through the contents of her bag.
She turns to the tall bearded guy and says, ‘He can search me.’
The two other men exchange uncertain looks. Then the bearded man says, ‘Nothing doing. He is searching the bag. I’ll search you.’
‘No!’ she says. ‘He can search me. If you don’t agree, I’m going to complain tomorrow to the estate manager about this. I know the security rules.’
The bearded man steps back, muttering angrily under his breath. He turns to address Ashwini and says, ‘Go … search her. Search her well!’
I suppose I should describe their work place to put things in perspective. The location is crucial to the understanding of how I play out. I am not as random as I seem and events have logic in their sequence, the inability to understand which is what causes you people to give me such vague names.
But, I digress. Getting back to what I started to say…
The setting is the Sea View Apartment complex in Bandra, a spectacular oasis of glass and steel in the middle of a concrete desert. It borders the beach and rises thirty stories skyward, providing the residents of that building an unrestricted view of the Arabian Sea stretching out lazily all the way to the horizon. The privileged inhabitants are the who‘s-who of Mumbai and include a hotshot industrialist, a famous playboy, a couple of glamorous movie stars and some prominent politicians. A ten foot high boundary wall serves as the border for this upscale apartment complex, encircling in a zone of exclusivity for its suitably high profile citizens. The rolls of mean looking barbed wire sitting atop the wall dissuade any misadventures by the paparazzi, leaving the massive iron gates as the only source of legitimate entry. Inside, there is a clear dichotomy amongst those bestowed the benefit of entrance, with an automatic understanding amongst those employed there that they have none of the privileges that the residents do. Should they not, signs like ‘Grounds for Residents and Their Guests Only,’ ‘No Entrance into Club for Attendants’ and ‘Servants/Delivery Men NOT Allowed in Main Lift’ leave nothing to interpretation. So, while the residents drive around in beautiful cars, dance late into the night in the adjoining club and take dips in the sparkling swimming pool, the dictatorial estate manager frowns upon the workers if he catches them engaged in anything other than their work, including chatting, or walking together or even sharing their food—especially if they are of the opposite sex. Idle gossip is officially ‘banned’ to prevent intimate details of the lives of such high profile residents from leaking to the press or public. Work hours are strictly categorized into shifts with assignment of duties that take into account measures to prevent intermingling of the sexes. Their bodies and belongings are searched every time they cross the gates to prevent anything embarrassing from leaking out into the public domain. Any unusual items must be explained with a note from the house they work for, failing which it is confiscated with neither a reason nor a chance at redressal.
While all the workers sense this shabby treatment as an affront to their dignity, they accept this discourtesy as the price of employment, and as a matter of—what else—their fate.
He runs into her when she is out walking the dog. They exchange a few quick words while she is carrying the groceries. He steals a quick moment when she drops off the neighbour’s children for tennis lessons at the club. He learns that her name is Radha and she works as a live-in maid in the penthouse on the top floor. She is twenty-five years old and visits her mother in a neighboring chawl two nights a week. And she likes to sew, cook and sing, although not necessarily in that order.
Even though she has also said other things during the few times they have met, he can’t seem to recall what. It is mostly because he is too busy staring at her pretty face with the lovely dimples on either cheek to take in any more details. She has this habit of covering her mouth when she laughs, as if embarrassed by her mirth, and watching her do that makes him laugh. Ashwini hasn’t ever been this close to a woman in the past and this proximity makes him forget all that he has held so close to his heart. He feels happy when she is around him and senses in his heart that she feels the same way as he does.
Soon, they begin to steal moments from work to be together. In the evening, when darkness provides the perfect cover, they scamper up to the roof separately. Thanks to the presence of a humongous cell-phone antenna and a damp water tank, the roof is uninhabited and scarcely frequented by anyone. The terrace is breezy, expansive and a world away from the noise and bustle of the city. They carefully bolt the landing space door behind themselves, climb atop the concrete water tank, and share their stories for the day. She cooks for him and he gives her small gifts whenever he can. Imitation jewellery, lipstick, cinema tickets; anything—within budget—that’ll provoke that excited look on her face that he loves to see. Other times they just sit quietly on the roof, canopied under the starry night sky, the wind in their hair and the sound of the sea in the background as they stare at the beauty of the infinite lights of the city shimmering below their feet.
One evening when they are at their favourite haunt Ashwini tells her, ‘Radha, I want to tell you something. Promise me you won’t laugh?’
She nods.
Ashwini hesitates and says, ‘When I was small, the famous astrologer Pundit Hari Narayan Sharma said that someday I’ll do something really great.’
Her jaw drops. ‘Really?’ she says barely able to contain her excitement. ‘He looked at my horoscope and said I will marry someone great one day!’
For a moment they are both rendered speechless by the coincidence. They stare at each other, hug, and begin to laugh excitedly like long-lost friends discovering common memories. He holds her tightly, closing his eyes when he can feel her heart thudding against his chest. She snuggles against his neck, resting the weight of her head on his shoulders. When they pull apart, her eyes are moist. He wipes them gently and kisses her on the cheeks. They stare at each other and hug again—this time an unmistakable want in their embrace. They kiss hungrily, rushing through their senses and burying into one another as though impatient to dispel the distance between their bodies. That night, in the darkness and under that stars, they make love on the rooftop, a light breeze keeping them company. That is how they fall asleep.
I watched them that night as Aswini’s bruised and battered expectations took flight again—Radha’s statement suddenly providing second wind to his belief in the prediction. His face was jubilant, almost bursting with excitement, and he credited me with the enormous coincidence that had made him stumble upon the one other person in the world who was not only willing to believe in his greatness but could actually confirm its inevitability. What were the odds of such a happenstance if not underlined by Destiny; was how he put it to Radha.
I accepted the recognition like I always do—with chagrin. For now, the lives of two individuals were intertwined by their respective predictions of fate. But, like everyone else, they too were missing the point. Coincidence is a human word: a word missing from my lexicon.
They meet more often. In the stairwell, on the roof, in the elevators, hugging, exchanging quick kisses and naughty winks like teenagers in love. Their steady rendezvous site is the roof where they spend an hour together every day, earning that time from work by deferring their lunch breaks. He tells her about his childhood and his trials and travails in pursuit of the prophecy. She listens earnestly, wondering what else they could have done, or should do, to make it come true. Although in love, both of them have developed an unspoken understanding that disqualifies a simple shortcut to marriage without giving his fate a chance to prove his ability. He wants to ‘do something great’ while she wants to ‘marry someone great’ and both of these objectives would be best served if only they can discover what it is that fate has in store for him.
One day the security manager asks Ashwini to deliver a packet of cigarettes to the penthouse. He cautions Ashwini to not treat such an errand lightly: the person living in the penthouse is probably the most important person in the complex, and, consonant with his status, as demanding of all that he asks for. On Ashwini’s questioning, the security manager reveals that the man, Mr P. S. Shah, owns half the apartments in the complex, a film production company, an advertising agency, an apparel company and is also part owner of their security firm.
Ashwini is suitably impressed. He grips the pack of cigarettes in his hand as though he is carrying a diamond and heads towards the elevators. He is waiting for it to arrive when he runs into Radha. He tells her of the errand he has to run and is surprised to see her face light up with excitement. She pulls him aside and whispers excitedly. ‘This is it! Don’t you see it Ashwini? This is it.’
‘What is it?’
‘This must be that opportunity you’ve been looking for. Mr Shah is a very powerful man. You must impress him!’
‘But I’m only delivering a pack of cigarettes!’
‘No, no … that cigarette packet is your ticket to greatness! Do something to impress him. He is someone who can open many new doors for you!’
‘But … but what should I do?’
Before she can attempt an answer the elevator announces its arrival with a soft ding, and Ashwini steps inside tentatively. Radha waves encouragingly as the elevator doors glide shut leaving Ashwini alone with his thoughts.
Her words keep ringing in his head. Could she be right? Are these the coattails to glory that he has been looking for all this while? Could this be the opportunity to impress this very important man with his style of cigarette delivery? But what should he do? Should he hand over the cigarette pack with a dramatic flourish … will that be impressive? How about if he salutes and hands the cigarette pack with authority … would Mr Shah be impressed enough to appoint Ashwini as his personal security guard? Or should he just speak a few words in English to show his command over the language? And what effect would humming a jingle while delivering the packet have?
Before he can entertain another thought the elevator dings again and the doors slide open. Ashwini steps out onto a beautiful reception area with carpeted floors, cherry wood panelled walls and recessed lights that make the place look like the atrium of those beautiful hotels he has seen in foreign magazines. He looks around with his mouth wide open, wondering what the inside must be like if the landing area is this grand.
A pretty young lady is sitting behind a desk and looks up at him as soon as he steps off the elevator. ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘What do you want?’
Ashwini’s holds out the cigarette packet. ‘For Mr Shah,’ he says.
‘Okay, leave it here,’ she says. ‘I’ll give it to him.’
Ashwini is about to comply when he remembers Radha’s advice. He retracts his hand and says, ‘No … I have to give it to him personally.’
‘What?’
‘I have to give it to him personally. The security manager told me to.’
‘Are you crazy? Mr Shah doesn’t meet just anyone. Leave it here, I will give it to his secretary when he comes out.’
‘No,’ says Ashwini. ‘I’m not going to leave it with you.’
The lady’s face breaks into an exasperated sigh. ‘What do you think I’ll do with it? Steal it? Smoke it? It is a stupid cigarette pack for heaven’s sake!’
‘I don’t care. I’m not leaving till I ensure that Mr Shah has it,’ replies Ashwini, pouting his face defiantly.
The lady presses a button on her desk and soon the heavy wooden door opens. A young man steps out and looks at her questioningly. She points to Ashwini and the man turns towards him, his expressions darkening perceptibly.
‘Some cigarettes for Mr Shah…’ says Ashwini.
‘Yeah, so? Why don’t you just leave it with her?’
‘I was telling him the same thing,’ says the receptionist.
‘I … I just wanted to make sure Mr Shah got it,’ says Ashwini.
Suddenly there is a voice from inside. ‘Who is it, Jogesh?’ The man looks inside and says, ‘some security chap with your cigarettes. He is making a fuss outside.’
A short, pot bellied man steps out. His face is round, just like his body, and seems to arise from an oversized blubbery neck padded with rolls of fat. He is wearing a fine silk shirt and smells of cologne from the doorway. A couple of gold lockets glitter around his neck, and a diamond encrusted pendant bearing the initials P.S, is glinting on his hairy chest. He gives Ashwini an annoyed look and says, ‘What happened? Who are you?’
‘Mr Shah,’ says Ashwini. ‘My name is Ashwini. I am here with your cigarettes.’
‘Good. Give it to him,’ says Mr Shah pointing to the other man and turns to head inside. Suddenly he stops and turns around. He folds his arms in front of his chest and studies Ashwini closely for the next few minutes. Then addressing the man next to him he says, ‘Jogesh, what about having this fellow as the postman in the new Rashmoni advertisement? He looks perfect for the part.’
Ashwini gulps. His heart begins to thump so loudly that he is afraid the others will hear it.
The other man runs his eyes over Ashwini. ‘Have you ever acted? School plays? College drama?’ he asks Ashwini.
Ashwini nods and says, ‘Yes, sir. For six years I was Ravan’s bodyguard in the local Ramlila. I even did some training in acting.’
The other man shrugs. He turns to address Mr Shah. ‘I think it’ll work. He looks like a perfect postman. I don’t like his voice but the part doesn’t have any dialogues, anyway.’
I’m impressed with Ashwini. Sometimes, people need a light shove to grab that outward chance, to walk the other road and experiment with their lives. Sure you fail, but if success is your goal, failure has got to be a stepping-stone.
Having said that, don’t let your expectations take flight. Ashwini has just begun a new chapter in his life and I am so complicated by nature, that, since time began, people have been worshipping their Gods to guard against my vagaries. Empires have fallen to my whims, battles have been lost to my quirks and I’ve brought kings and queens down to their knees with my caprice.
Ashwini is a mere mortal…
The part is small enough to be inconsequential. All Ashwini has to do is stuff letters into his bag while the camera pans past him. But he does make a good postman and soon enough he is cast as a gardener. Then follows the role of a milkman and he finally gets his first line when he has to offer tea to the hero of a movie and say, ‘Please give me exact change, sahib.’ The roles are small, don’t pay much and he still has to keep his job as a security guard to be able to make a living. But to Ashwini, the inconsequentiality of his involvement is lost in the thrill of his new life.
He shares every moment of this newfound excitement with Radha. Now, not only is she the only other person who believes in his destiny, she is responsible for it. They meet on the roof and spend hurried evenings together as he tells her about his upcoming ‘roles.’ She listens with burgeoning excitement, encouraging him, sitting through his ‘acting’ trials as he essays the roles of a gardener toiling in the sun or a milkman making his delivery. She offers suggestions whenever she can—a light nod here and a quick smile there—anything that will make her part of his new and exciting world. She is thrilled when he accepts them and nods understandingly when he doesn’t. In between they hug, they kiss and they pledge their promises of love to each other.
Within six months, Ashwini begins getting roles that require him to deliver more dialogue, or act in front of the camera, if only to fill up the background. The roles aren’t meaty enough to be noticeable, but they keep him busy such that he has switched to working part time at his security job. Quitting would be his preferred option; but—without access to the rooftop—meeting Radha would become impossible. As it is, with his increasing workload, time has become the new constraint that prevents them from meeting as often as they would have liked. They’ve both learned to compromise and instead of meeting every day, they meet every third or fourth day. Once, when he has to travel a long distance for a shoot, he forgets to let her know about it in advance and she has waited in vain for over an hour for him, alone on the rooftop with only her thoughts for company.
And it is her thoughts that she is most scared of.
For now, whenever they meet, he tells her hundreds of stories about in his exciting new world that she can only imagine. She sits and listens to his accounts of the gleaming cars that drop off the big time actors and the nasty tantrums the leading ladies throw when served with lukewarm tea. She laughs enthusiastically at his descriptions hoping it’ll wipe away the confusion in her heart. She tries to feel happy for him, but finds it increasingly difficult to ignore the uneasiness in her mind. Although she can clearly see his ascent as the fate they have both desired, her vision of herself being part of that future begins to falter when she cannot identify with all the things that he describes. Whereas earlier they would sit and gossip about the tenants or vent about the guards or laugh about the estate manager’s idiosyncrasies, nowadays she sits and listens patiently to him, increasingly unable to participate in his world. The conversations are one sided; the dialogues have turned into monologues and the minutes pass by without pacifying the light ache in her heart. She seeks refuge in denial, she procrastinates her doubts to the future and she makes excuses on his behalf without provocation. But, with each passing day, she is forced to acknowledge that their togetherness is missing the excitement and understanding they once shared, and a vague doubt is beginning to strengthen in her brain that Ashwini’s ascent to greatness may leave her far, far behind.
I’ve noticed it too. Her laughter is hearty but nervous—like someone unwilling to tempt fate. Tempt me? Isn’t that a strange concept? Like I’d change for a mere guffaw or the way one places a shoe or if a black cat crosses the road. That is another human invention—superstition. Like I said earlier, I am not a random series of events that happen because it had to have happened. But try telling that to the hundreds of people who swear every misfortune, every bump on the road, and every twist in the tale to me.
One day Mr Shah calls Ashwini into his office and informs him that he is planning to launch his son’s career with a full-length feature film. It is the usual poor-boy-meets-rich-girl story with loads of foot-tapping songs and exotic locales like Switzerland and Mauritius. He is willing to offer Ashwini the role of the hero’s friend on the condition that he put on some more weight.
Ashwini is too thrilled to say anything for a few minutes. Mr Shah assumes he is searching for a reason and explains that he wants a bunch of ‘ordinary’ looking men to be around his son so that his son, as the hero, stands out. Since Ashwini is fairly ordinary looking and an ordinary actor, he will be a superb fit for the role. This role, however, will be substantial because of the constant interaction the hero will have with his sidekicks. And this time, they’ll include his face on the movie posters.
Ashwini jumps with joy and falls at Mr Shah’s feet. He kisses the man’s hands and mumbles incoherent words of happiness. Mr Shah smiles and nods understandingly before waving him off.
As soon as Ashwini exits the house, he decides that he must immediately share this news with Radha. He races towards the roof where he knows she will be waiting for him. He is grinning from ear to ear as he bounds up those stairs, the realization filling his heart that his moment has come. The astrologer’s prediction is finally coming true and greatness for him is just round the corner. He decides that the moment is as opportune as it gets. He will ask Radha to marry him and together they’ll finalize the ritual the very next day at the local temple.
He can hear voices as he approaches the roof. His enthusiasm tempers and he wonders who else might have gained access to their secret sanctuary. He stands on his tiptoes and looks through the glass pane on the landing space door.
He can see two young men laughing as they pin a thrashing, screaming Radha on the ground and force themselves on her. Her sari is above her waist and her blouse is torn. One of the men is sitting on her chest, pinning her arms with his legs while the other one tries to hold her thighs apart as he unbuckles his jeans.
Ashwini dashes inside, screaming, waving his arms above his head like a madman. The two men immediately let go of Radha and begin straightening their clothes. As they stand back Ashwini is shocked to see that one of them is Mr Shah’s son.
Ashwini rushes towards Radha. She is weeping and moaning at the same time. Her face is streaked with tears and her disheveled hair is all over her face. There is a cut on her left breast that is bleeding and her sari is completely undone. She stares at Ashwini and howls, ‘Kill them, kill them!’
Ashwini takes her in his arms and props her up against his body. He cradles her gently, stroking her head and tidying up her hair from her face. She leans back against his chest, closes her eyes and sobs like a little child seeking indulgence.
‘Shush … Radha,’ he says softly. ‘I’m here. I’m here.’
‘Kill them!’ she moans, waving her exhausted arms aimlessly. ‘Kill them!’
‘Calm down, Radha. Calm down … I’m here. Shush … calm down.’
‘No … I won’t! Kill him … kill them!’
‘But Radha, that is Mr Shah’s son!’ whispers Ashwini.
She stops crying and turns to look at him. Her wet eyes are suddenly burning with anger. She scans his face, running her scathing look back and forth as though looking for a reflection of her outrage. Instead, his face pleads for her understanding. She groans and buries her head in her hands. He tries to lift her by her shoulders. She pushes his arms away before getting up and dashing out, tripping over her unraveled sari a couple of times as she runs towards the door.
She doesn’t appear for the next few days. Mr Shah calls Ashwini and explains to him that since he is very happy with Ashwini’s loyalty to the Shah family, he will offer him the role of his son’s best friend in the movie and a significant jump in compensation. He assures Ashwini that his roles are getting noticed and after this movie he is sure to get offers from other production houses as well. He throws his arm around Ashwini’s shoulder and reminds him that the Shah Group of Companies have the potential to transform anyone’s desires into reality just as they can turn anyone’s life into living hell. The Shahs don’t believe in fate … they make it.
Still believe in Pundit Sharma’s predictions? Well, one of them is wrong, isn’t it?
Ashwini is sitting next to the driver as the big black Mercedes rolls towards the exit. Just as the gates open to let the car glide out, a dark blue police jeep draws next to it, stopping in front of the car and blocking its path. A young police officer with a thick black moustache steps out and approaches the Mercedes. He taps lightly on the tinted back window of the car. It rolls down noiselessly.
‘Mr Shah?’ asks the officer.
‘Yes?’ says Mr Shah from inside.
‘I am investigating the assault and molestation of a young woman by the name of Radha. She claims that your son and his friend tried to rape her on the roof of this building some nights ago.’
Mr Shah steps out of the car. ‘Officer, I am a very important man. Claims like this are nothing but harassment—’
‘I need to question your son.’
‘Listen officer, I am—’
‘I said I have to question your son!’
‘Listen officer, do you know, whose telephone numbers are on the speed dial of this mobile phone? One call and—’
‘Mr Shah, would you like me to handcuff your son and take him into the car in front of all these people? I just want to question him …’
Mr Shah snorts with annoyance and signals to his son to step out of the car. His son complies and stands next to the road silently, trying to look as casual as possible. A small crowd of onlookers gathers around them. The officer waves his stick and two police constables step out from the back with Radha in between them. Her face is still puffy and there is a cut on her lip. She is wearing a plain white salwar kameez and Ashwini can barely recognize the melancholic creature walking towards them. He shrinks in his seat.
‘Is that him?’ asks the police officer pointing to Mr Shah’s son.
She nods.
‘Officer,’ says Mr Shah. ‘This is nothing but a fabricated lie to defame my son and me. We are about to launch his career and are already late for the launch party tonight. I know the people who must have paid her money to say such things…’
‘Mr Shah, I am going to have to arrest your son.’
What! On what basis?’ asks Mr Shah. ‘I can provide a hundred people who will tell you that my son was away that night.’
‘We have an eyewitness.’
‘Really? Who?’
‘A man by the name of Ashwini who saw the whole thing.’
‘Ashwini?’ laughs Mr Shah. ‘Why, he is sitting in the car. Why don’t you ask him right now whether he saw what she claims? Ashwini! Ashwini … come out. See what these people are saying.’
Ashwini curses his luck under his breath. He steps out of the car reluctantly. He closes the door behind himself and looks around, keeping Radha and Mr Shah as peripheral in his vision as possible.
The police officer asks him, ‘Is your name Ashwini?’
Ashwini nods.
‘Did you see anything happen on the roof five nights ago involving this woman and this man?’ asks the officer.
Ashwini steals a quick glance at Radha and then looks away. He can feel Mr Shah’s eyes on his neck. He lowers his head and falls silent.
The police officer asks, ‘Do you know this woman?’
Ashwini shakes his head lightly to indicate he doesn’t.
‘Ashwini!’ cries Radha.
The police officer’s eyes narrow and he says, ‘So, you don’t even know her? Tell me honestly.’
‘What will he tell you, officer?’ says Mr Shah stepping forward, a victorious smile on his face. ‘I’ll tell you about her. She used to work in this building. She is one of the hundreds of young women who come to Mumbai with starry dreams because some stupid astrologer has told her that she’ll be some big star one day or at least marry one some day.’
Ashwini feels a twinge of pain in his heart.
‘They start work like this … in the homes of film producers or important people who can get them into the industry and pray for some role to come their way. When they cannot do much, they adopt these tactics …’
‘No! That’s not true!’ cries Radha.
‘Get lost!’ roars Mr Shah. ‘How dare you insult our good name in public? Who is behind this, huh? My son is on his way to a great career and you have already begun trying to sully it.’
‘Ashwini, say something!’ she begs.
‘Shut up, you two bit whore!’ says Mr Shah. ‘I have seen hundreds like you … chasing dreams and then chasing the men who make dreams! Go back to where you came from. Arre, greatness isn’t written in the palm of your hand unless I’ve written it! Get lost now!’
‘Ashwini! Ashwini!’ she cries and collapses to the ground.
Mr Shah turns to the officer and says, ‘I think you should know your facts better before going about hurling accusations at people.’ Then turning to the others he says, ‘Come on lets go. No point wasting time on these two-bit drama queens. Get into the car.’
Everyone gets in: everyone except Ashwini.
‘Ashwini! Get in now!’ orders Mr Shah.
Ashwini stands there and stares at Radha lying on the ground, weeping. He is oblivious to everyone else and his mind is stuck on a line. He can remember Pundit Hari Narayan Sharma holding his hand and saying ‘One day, he will do something really, really great.’
He looks up at the officer and, with deliberate effort to keep his voice from shaking, says, ‘Officer, I … I have something to say.’