One String Attached by Pankaj Dubey

Author:Pankaj Dubey [Dubey, Pankaj]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9789390914791
Publisher: Penguin Random House India Private Limited
Published: 2021-03-30T00:00:00+00:00

21

Loud film music overwhelms the senses of those who visit Shankar da Punjabi Dhaba, as does the aroma of spicy north Indian food, onions, green chillies and fresh coriander. This roadside eatery, with its metal tables and creaky wooden chairs, is where Babloo meets his friend after he returns depressed from his day-long vigil.

His head swaying to the number that is playing, Babloo considers his friend’s forlorn face and thinks about the time that has passed and his friend’s die-hard attempts to turn back the clock. The waiter puts two glasses on the table—one with whisky and another, a steel glass topped with lassi.

‘Bhaiya,’ says Babloo, once the waiter has left their table. ‘You got back that kurti like a blast from the past . . . I too am happy about it. But . . . but Bhaiya, that was just a flash from the past. Do you really want to catch up with her again?’

‘Abey, what sort of question is this,’ retorts Shivam. ‘You know what I want.’

‘I mean, so many years it’s been now, who knows, she might have got married . . . even got kids . . . ’

‘That kurti, Babloo, you know when it came back to me? Sixth December! Ten years later, but on the same date. You know what that means?’

Babloo whistles, fate has its own twisted sense of humour. ‘Bhaiya,’ he tries to explain this, still sceptic, ‘I want things work out just the way you want, but . . . ten years is a very long time.’

‘Till two days back, I was living life like a zombie. I could feel nothing,’ says Shivam. ‘I would sit alone. I slept alone. And every morning, I would ask myself, are you alive, or just breathing? I felt I was just filling my stomach uselessly.’ He pauses, staring out at the road, lost. Then he gathers himself and turns to his friend again. ‘But since the time I saw the kurti again, I haven’t questioned myself.’

Babloo understands. His friend’s love may be the stuff of movies, defying time and the practicalities of life, but it is real. He looks in amazement at Shivam, who has always been his hero, and heroes, well, they do things differently. Shivam’s words touch something raw within him; the singer picks up his glass and guzzles down the amber liquid. Shivam turns to his lassi and sips on.

‘Okay, decided . . . we go find her. Wherever she is . . . no choice . . . we got to find her,’ declares the friend.

Shivam does not react.

Shankar, the pot-bellied dhaba owner is at their table with another bottle of whisky. He tries to pour some into Babloo’s glass.

‘Arrey stop! You want to empty my pocket, Shankar,’ cries Babloo, raising a hand to stop him.

‘This one’s from me,’ the dhaba chief says.

The musician’s brows rise to question the free peg.

‘You filled Ravi’s application form na,’ he reminds Babloo. ‘Because of you, my brother got that job in Dubai.’

‘Wah! International bhai you got now.

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