by Ram Govardhan
A La Mode, Sajid’s flagship store in downtown Dubai, was utterly vandalised when expatriate supporters of Kuwaiti Emir protested against Saddam’s invasion. However, within a few years after the American-led coalition gloated over notions of outright control, business roared ahead, gaining footprint as a chain of haute couture stores all across the Middle East. Of course he had worked his fingers to the bone to come this far, yet his friends persistently ask him, “Who is the woman behind the success?”
Despite hobnobbing with the who’s who of Dubai royalty, barony and diplomacy, Sajid spent most of his time with migrant friends, for it was their brethren who had helped him succeed in Mumbai, the city he had arrived penniless from a hamlet near Patna. When twelve-year-old Sajid arrived to work for Barbod Sopariwala, a Parsi textile tycoon, Mumbai was as magically celluloid as Hindi pot-boilers portrayed. The city was genetically disposed to identify the salt of youth and left no room for disputing adequacy of rewards. Within years, in the last year of Sajid’s adolescence, making him a supervisor, Barbod had said, “Don’t be too sensitive, too dogmatic, Sajid…this is not Patna. In this mercenary city things are accomplished by shedding skins, casting off the right one for each circumstance to get ahead.”
Getting the hang of shedding skins meant years of grind for Sajid, although, thereafter, things unfolded quite swiftly and, before long, he clinched the most lucrative of deals Barbod’s firm ever had. Sajid also stunned the trade with his fluency of Gujarati, the one priceless proficiency to curry favour.
Replying to his nagging friends, Sajid said, “If you don’t see a woman behind a successful man, her memories must be driving him. And her memories are more powerful than herself in the flesh.”
Latent memories flooded back when he revealed her name to his friends who instantly insisted on knowing more about Kaveh, Barbod’s only daughter, whom Sajid had loved as an adolescent.
Years ago, the moment he had learned of their affair, and of Kaveh’s pregnancy, Barbod had bellowed salted language:“A gangly nigger from Bihar…will get the swine of a creep butchered right now…”
Sakina, Barbod’s wife, always serene and sober, quietly did what motherhood often does: abort and hush up. To keep the ignominy from spreading, Barbod unwillingly agreed to send Sajid off to Dubai to handle overseas operations. “Summarily dismissing Sajid from service is a greater peril,” Sakina had said.
Being excessively sanguine about future is the trait most characteristic of early adulthood; even in the face of a crumbling affair, Sajid didn’t vacillate in grabbing Barbod’s offer.
Managing to meet Sajid at airport, grabbing his hands, Kaveh grieved; he stoically suppressed his agitation long enough not to well up in her presence. As boarding was announced, he swiftly snapped her hand and while she kept crying his name, walked away. Her wretched sobs couldn’t hold her love from going up in flames high into skies. He sneaked quick looks seeing her cry and continued peeping until he could not see the airport and the Ulhās River, and until earth was clouded altogether.
When he landed, Dubai dazzled his senses; suddenly Mumbai seemed a vast dumpyard where masses relieved themselves by the winding rail-lines. Before long, Sajid grasped that Dubai was an entrepreneurial paradise and he galvanised the heart-breaking pain of missing Kaveh into such an untiring perseverance that, in seven years, saying goodbye to Barbod, opened his own showroom.
“We are the best in worsted suiting”: easy-going Dubai loved Sajid’s semantic wit. His inimitable collection of classy jacketing and coat lengths stunned everyone, including the European expatriates. Impressed with Sajid’s facility in singing Ishy Bilady, the national anthem, a Sheikh promised a lifelong, unlimited free supply of custom-made Cuban cigars to him.
A few years after Sajid was on his own, out of the blue, Barbod called: one of Karim Lala’s remnant gangs from Dongri had kidnapped Kaveh and, even if the hefty ransom was ready, the abductors were untraceable.
“Mumbai police is pessimistic, but how can I give up hope?” Barbod asked.
Next day, at Mumbai airport, Barbod was stunned to see a metamorphosed, strapping Sajid. Even with his fleshy nose, Sajid looked a tall, unflappable, handsome Egyptian footballer, the curly crop rendering the Arabisation complete. His skin colour, sartorial sense and poise were completely transformed. His Hindi had gained a sort of Arabic twang, his gait an aristocratic dash and his handshake the firmness of a reinstated lawmaker.
“I badly need your help, Sajid,” mumbled Barbod, ushering Sajid into his bungalow, bringing his palms together. “The abductors don’t want us to call them for a few weeks…I am clueless.”
This was mindboggling; one of Mumbai’s cocksure magnates on his knees and muttering utter vulnerability? However, these days, when things perplexed him, Sajid trusted no one, nothing on the spur of the moment.
For an affluent sexagenarian, Barbod looked too frail, wobbly and miserable. And Sakina sounded too disconsolate, on the brink of renouncing the world and turning to spirituality. Sajid was shocked to know that Kaveh chose to remain single.
“She married a Parsi boy of our choice…they are leading industrialists in Kenya owning vast tea estates…but she hated them,” Sakina said.
Barbod was quick to add, “She wanted to marry you and, after returning from Nairobi, she lived in a zombie-like state.”
“She loved you after all,” Sakina said.
“Please take care of our businesses,” Barbod said, “Or, given our incapacitation, bequeathing all of them to homes is the only resort.”
Despite qualms about their real intents, like a seasoned front-bencher, Sajid reserved his answer. No less than a whole day was a prerequisite to weigh things up; most of his quicker decisions have been consistently less constructive.
Next day, Barbod was delighted with Sajid’s “Yes.”
Three weeks at the plush outhouse were uneventful, but the first morning of fourth turned out to be quite otherwise. After waking Sajid up with tea and cookies, Abiral, the cook, began babbling about his wife’s death, his son languishing in Kathmandu, about his mounting debts and his crumbling second marriage. Eventually, when he could squeeze a few things out, from Abiral’s oblique allusions, Sajid could grasp that Kaveh was not abducted as they claimed.
Next morning, Abiral did not show up. Of course, it was drizzling endlessly but he had turned up on wilder mornings. Growing restive, Sajid opened the door; Kaveh was lying on the staircase battered black and blue and shades of pink-red fusion. Her tattered clothes revealed her mortally emaciated, anaemic frame. She couldn’t be gathered as one; her limbs dangled away as if all four had their own pressing engagements. Abiral charged in, apologizing for being tardy.
As Abiral and Sajid managed to hold her, Kaveh sneered and giggled exposing her muddy teeth. In a flash, wriggling out of their hands with a nudge, she fell down in a heap, suffered convulsions and fainted.
“She has been mad since long,” Abiral said, “Married a Kenyawala and returned like this a year later.”
Kaveh smelled of putrid wounds and he saw sores, taints and lacerations all over her body. As they lowered her onto the bed, coming out of dizziness, she lisped saying she was hungry. As he turned to get something, in a flash, she jumped out of bed, slapped him, ran out into pouring rain and swayed wildly.
“She has been locked up in the abandoned garage for over six months now. We slip plates and water bottles through an opening. They don’t want anyone to know that she is deranged,” Abiral said, “But everyone knows.”
Sajid began taking care of her as he would a kid. In little over three weeks, Kaveh’s tantrums disappeared; she ate well and watched television until she slipped into sleep. In a few more weeks, she began behaving like a five-year-old.
One evening, Barbod and Sakina made their tiptoe approach and asked whether it wasn’t the right time for Sajid to return.
“By the grace of God both of us have recovered…I am sure we can manage these businesses here,” Sakina said.
The very next morning, leaving a briefcase in a tea-trolley, Abiral scurried away. That was strange – not the briefcase but the unhurried cook’s hurried disappearance. The briefcase had only one thing in it: Kaveh’s passport.
Although he had assumed that he had, this was the moment Sajid had actually grasped the true meaning of shedding skins.
As the plane to Dubai took off, Sajid gazed at the skyline until Mumbai disappeared, as Kaveh, seated beside him, giggled, unbuckling the seatbelt and tearing her clothes off, defying the airhostess’ calls to be quiet.
Pic from https://www.flickr.com/photos/unlistedsightings/
