Chapters (17)
This was a market just waiting to be tapped. Allahabad was full of schoolboys who had the requisite backing but possessed neither the courage nor the language skills to get their message across. At Flynn’s Coaching Centre I would take on the responsibility—and risk—of passing other people’s cards. The boys would hide behind a bush while I stopped Luna after Luna: ‘Aseem has sent this for you. Please accept this. He’s a really nice boy.’ The message I took back to the boys, nine times out of ten, was: ‘I am not that kind of girl. I am not interested in such activities. Will you please stop blocking my way?’ I did this with a certain cold-bloodedness. The heartache wasn’t mine, and, besides, I had already been paid in calories.
Twelve years later I bump into Gaurav Arora outside El Chico restaurant. He has put on weight, has an air of prosperity. The jock has become a full-fledged businessman. He tells me about his recent Goa trip: ‘Kya sex ladkiya thi, bhai saab.’ As for Allahabad, what can he say? It’s a village.
It’s not so bad, I say, consoling him. Civil Lines has changed. There is a lot more neon, and a lot more street children. I point out the new Sony showroom, the broadband Internet cafés, the restaurant that serves passable Italian food. ‘Sure,’ he says, ‘you’re right. It’s not that things haven’t changed. The spaghetti at that Italian place is not bad.’
He asks me if I am married.
‘No.’
‘Hey, you know what happened to that chinar you were in love with, that Rachna chick? She went to Delhi and settled there. We rarely saw her here. Then, last month, I saw this black and white photograph in a Hindi magazine. The caption read: Six call girls arrested in Delhi. Although the girls were covering their faces with their hands, I could make out that one of them was Rachna. I swear it was Rachna. I am an Allahabadi: I can recognize one when I see one.’
‘But if they were covering their faces, you really can’t be sure it was her, can you?’
‘Sure? What are you talking about, yaar, all whores, bhaiya, A-1 whores, take it from me. Everyone knows.’
Arora’s cellphone went off somewhere on his body. He dug out a fancy Sony Ericsson handset.
‘Hi, Namrata,’ he whispered in English, ‘I am with a friend. I’ll just call you back.’
‘I am getting married next month, Lucknow girl, my bua’s choice,’ he informs me stuffing the phone back into his front pocket. ‘Just enjoying my courtship period.’