PEAHENS AND PREDATORS

My kitchen window in Qaiserbagh looks east, and while making my tea I threw it open to let the east wind—the purwaiya—blow in along with the leftover colours of the dawn. The trouble is the east looking window also gets the searing sun. The song playing on the transistor was Nani teri morni ko mor le gaye/ Baki jo bacha tha kale chor legaye. (The peacock took away the peahens and dark thieves stole the rest.) The song had a lilt about it and I tapped my way through it and hummed away. What to talk of the peacock, even brown peahens didn’t make an appearance on my neglected lawn. But someone from the Qaiserbagh Police Station did. He came in plain clothes with the message that Inspector Ambika Singh wanted to see me, and would drop by at noon. Why does he want to see me, I kept thinking. I wished he came early so that one could finish with this business. Was he coming for Elham, fortunately she was at school. The inspector came an hour earlier, the same guy who had supervised the sterilization camp in the street the other day, the senior guy. He looked different in a blue bush shirt and grey slacks. He never looked overbearing, even in the street that day, unlike his subordinate. I had a glass of cold water served to him and waited till he spoke. He looked around. ‘I hope you feel secure.’ I nodded saying I had no trouble. Does anyone sleep in the veranda at night, he persisted, and I shook my head. He walked out into the veranda, called out to the gardener Purshotam in a stentorian voice, gave him a needless dressing down and asked him to sleep in the veranda at night ‘till madam is here.’ He never bothered to ask for my opinion in the matter. Purshotam was almost trembling, as he retraced his steps and stood near the almond tree.

‘Ladies staying alone can’t afford to be careless. These are bad times.’

‘I thought you considered these good times, the way you marshalled the sterilization camp.’

‘I was only seeing to the law and order. All this can’t last for ever, nasbandi and the whole tamasha. How long can you keep Maharani Jaipur and Gwalior in jail, tell me, how long?Kab thak chalegi yeh nautanki?’

I noticed he wasn’t so bothered about Jai Prakash Narain (JP) and Charan Singh and Moraji Desai in jail. Maharanis in jail still bothered the man on the street. Was he probing? He switched to asking me about the health of Nishant Singh Sahib. I assured him he was fine. ‘He must be worried,’ he said. ‘I mean with such a responsible job, he must also be needing support.’ He stood up to go. ‘Take care of your security. Please remain alert. The Special Branch tells us there is too much hul chul in the house. And when you go out alone, please don’t take rickshaws, take taxis.’Taxis, I told him, cost a lot. He smiled.

‘There are two suspects on the Faizabad Road, one of them is a big fish, a crocodile rather, but we don’t have the exact location. And Faizabad Road stretches right up to Faizabad.’ He smiled again and left. I kept wondering who the crocodile could be in this urban swamp.

That night I dreamt of throwing open my windows to a stiff breeze—it was not the same house, seldom is in dreams— but I was there and I felt the house was mine. Dreams are not just visuals, feelings are part of the play. The breeze was strong and sent the curtains flying. But I was alone in the house, that feeling didn’t leave me or the dream—dreams too have a body and a mind somewhere. Which or what is that reality there spinning away at sign and symbol—strong breeze, flying curtains and me alone trying frantically to bring order in the house, or in my life. Who is this psychiatrist on whose loom such dreams are woven? It told me I was alone and my life needed some order. Suddenly, you find that loneliness has nowhere to empty itself except in your dreams. Time to be back with Nishant.