If you haven't already, first read The Delivery Boy - Part 1
*****
I decided to follow Chawla again.
This time, I borrowed a bicycle.
Mumbai’s rush hour traffic crawls like a snail in a park, so a bike can keep up
with a car.
I could have taken the dagger from the
garbage or the diya stand before that, and gotten some money for it.
God knows I needed the money. Fifteen
thousand rupees in five more days, or that chaprasi would throw Pinky
out.
But I didn’t take the dagger nor the
diya. I had to know what the game was first. No Sindhi baniya could be
stupid enough to throw out something worth 10 lakhs.
Chawla went to his shop. I stopped a
safe distance away and waited till that pesky Pankaj went off on his lunch
break.
A group of white firangs opened
the door, setting off a little bell. Leaving my bike on the footpath, I slipped
inside behind them, and ducked into the aisle to the left, while Chawla looked
at the foreigners with his big baniya eyes.
The
shop racks were stacked high with statues and t-shirts and photo frames,
high enough that I could be unseen in the aisle, yet able to watch my bike
through the window. It helped that I was short and dark and practically
invisible to most.
Customers came and went, until there
was an afternoon lull. I heard Chawla shuffle towards my aisle. I crouched
behind a rack of ‘I-Love-Mumbai’ t-shirts.
Luckily, the bell on the door tinkled
again.
“Not here,” Chawla gasped. “I told you
not here.”
I peeked around the rack and
immediately recognized the big man with biceps like footballs and hanging gold
chains. The hockey stick from before was replaced by a black plastic bag in his
hand.
Bundles of crisp 500 rupee notes came
out from the bag, as Chawla staggered behind the counter to put them away.
“Thakur, don’t do this here,” Chawla
remonstrated with his hands.
The big brute shrugged. He kept
planting notes on the counter, and Chawla kept tucking them below.
“How much…?”
“It’s 50 lakhs.”
Through the window, I saw a pair of boys
on the road outside eyeing my bike.
“It’s too much,” The baniya
sputtered. “I can’t take…”
“You’ve already taken it,” Thakur
laughed, making a sound like the braying of a horse.
“I…I can’t…”
“Narayan Seth doesn’t want dirty cash
from Sharad Bhai. He wants his money cleaned,” Thakur said. “You got to bid the
highest for the item you’re told about…”
“Yes, items sold by Narayan Seth’s
companies,” Chawla said. “And then white money gets deposited into his
accounts….I know how the system works Thakur, but the amounts are too much now.
How do I show 50 lakhs in my books??”
Outside, the boys crossed the road and
moved towards my bike.
“Your son would be rotting in jail if
Narayan Seth had not intervened,” Thakur said. “Have you forgotten already?”
“I know but…”
Thakur suddenly yanked Chawla’s collar.
He flipped out a pocket knife and leaned in. “Looks like you need more
convincing.”
Chawla’s eyes were wide with fright.
His hands shot up in submission. The gawdy gold of his wristwatch matched
Thakur’s dangling chains.
I glanced outside to see the boys
examining my bike closely. I thought I saw Shankar across the road. What was he
doing here??
I blinked and looked again, but he was
gone. That bearded bastard was in my head, invading my thoughts.
Thakur released Chawla, and
straightened.
“You’ll be told what to bid for in the
usual way,” Thakur said, and turned towards the door. He paused and looked back
at Chawla. “What do you do with the items?”
“Nothing, I don’t like keeping them, so
I chuck them out.”
“You fool…”
“They are worthless junk anyways. I
know they look like original antiques and get appraised, but they are really
rubbish, only a way of getting Narayan Seth his money in white.”
“You have this store,” Thakur spread
his arms. “Just sell them here.”
One of the boys outside was on the
bike, and pedaling away.
“Oye,” I shouted, and dashed to
the door. Thakur and Chawla stared at me.
One boy ran on foot, the other on the
bike.
“Stop,” I ran after them.
The boy on the bike tried to veer past
pedestrians, and lost his balance. The bike came crashing down with his legs
under it.
He managed to get up and hobble off by
the time I got there. I had no time to chase these fools. I got on the bike and
pedaled like hell, turning left and right at random.
I didn’t stop till Chawla’s shop was a
few zip codes behind me…
*****
The next day, I washed the Volkswagen
absently, while Mukund and Keshav looked on.
“You’ve been coming late these days,”
Keshav said to me. “Usually, you’re on time.”
“You haven’t heard?” Mukund nudged him.
“Heard what?”
“The Bhatias moved out of Asha Bhavan
to go live with their son.”
“Bhatias…?”
“The Hondas are gone,” Mukund
explained. “Both of them.”
“Oh,” Keshav’s eyebrows shot up. “So
Chotu now has the Volkswagen and…”
“Only the Maruti.”
Keshav nodded solemnly. “Also the
newspapers.”
“Your bike fell,” I told Mukund. “The
handle is broken. I’ll get it fixed before returning it.”
Mukund stepped towards me with that
squirrelly walk of his. He put a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t stress too much,
Chotu.”
He left his hand there, and for a brief
moment I felt a kinship. Like I wasn’t alone in my misery, and we were all in
this together.
The building watchman, Jadhav,
approached us. He was in his blue khaki uniform, and his stomach bulged
outward, eager to escape from the confines of his shirt.
“Chotu, I’ve to talk to you,” He said.
“The residents have complained that their newspapers came late last week.”
“Once or twice,” I said.
“And also,” He tugged his belt buckle.
“The papers were wet.”
“Jadhav Bhai,” Mukund said. “Is it
Chotu’s fault that there was unseasonal rain in October?”
Jadhav held up a hand. “I’m only
relaying the message.”
“Arrey but…”
“The society chairman has said that if
more complaints come, he will ask for Chotu to be replaced.”
I stared at him with eyeballs of fire.
But I said nothing.
The watchman turned and shuffled away.
“Don’t worry,” Mukund said. “They can’t
fire you for such a stupid reason.”
“They can,” I said sardonically. “And
they will.”
A silence swept over the Asha Bhavan
parking lot, as everyone went back to their work.
“You’ll be alright,” Keshav said.
“It’ll take time but you can save money, pay whoever you need to, and get that
job at the online shop.”
“How much time?” I said. “5 years? 10
years?”
I had only four days before the chaprasi’s
ultimatum…
I was sick of getting my tail twisted
like a monkey. I was done being a puppet in the game show of life.
My phone buzzed with a text. It was
from Sanjay Sharma, and had a list of item numbers with pictures and prices.
It buzzed again. Jaggu, who I knew from
a past delivery job at Chor Bazaar, simply wrote: ‘It’s on.’
I smiled. It was time to play my own
game…
*****
Color printouts cost 50 bucks a page!
It’s outrageous. These rascals with the little print shops are looting the
public.
The item I’d chosen was a white cricket
ball used in the final of 2011 World Cup, autographed by the man himself:
Mahendra Singh Dhoni. Our captain, who finished it with a six launched into the
Mumbai night sky, sending the Wankhede crowd into raptures.
It was a moment no Indian would forget.
They better not. My deal with Jaggu depended on it.
I reached Asha Bhavan early, before the
first light of the sun, before the night watchman stirred from his slumber,
before even the milkman.
I crouched near Chawla’s door,
silencing my breath. I compared the printout there with the one from my bag. My
item number was scribbled in red at the same spot on the page.
All I had to do was to leave my
printout where I found the other.
Then the wait began…
*****
The building garbage dump became the
center of my existence. The ball didn’t appear the next day, nor the day after.
Where was it??
One more day left to pay the chaprasi
principal…
I texted Sharma frantically, and he
confirmed that the Dhoni ball had been purchased by a fat Sindhi baniya.
I was gazing lustily at the garbage,
when a voice called out. “Chotu.”
I turned to see Neelam madam in a
yellow salwar-kameez with the usual silver bracelet. Her expression was
grave.
“You’ve been coming late,” She said.
“You’ve been distracted. The car has not been as clean as normal.”
Her voice was soft and measured. To me,
it sounded like the tolling of a death knell.
“I’m sorry,” She said.
A bile rose in my stomach to my chest,
constricting my lungs, and bitter in my mouth.
“I have to let you go,” She said.
My mouth opened. There were words in
there for sure, but what came out was a gurgling sound. No matter. The drooping
of my shoulders and shrinking of my eyes said what needed to be said.
“I’ve found somebody else,” She went
on. “Don’t take the keys from tomorrow.”
She stood there for a moment, waiting
for a reaction. Then she turned to Shankar and nodded.
He brought the Volkswagen around and
opened the door for her. I thought I saw him smirk.
He saluted and gently closed the door
after madam was inside.
Oh yes, the bearded bastard was
definitely smirking. I wanted to rip his face off and kick it like a football.
I watched her drive away. My beautiful
blue Volkswagen, who I had scrubbed so dearly and for so long, whose every inch
I kept spotless.
She eased out of the parking lot, out
of the lane, out of my life.
A hand came on my shoulder. It was
Mukund. He and Keshav had seen everything.
I shrugged off his hand and walked
away. My train ride back to Dharavi felt like the longest train ride I’d ever
taken. The city flew by me. Residential skyscrapers under construction, swanky
shopping malls, new bridges and highways.
But I didn’t see any of that. I saw the
filthy train tracks, the family of four living in a tent near garbage, the
stray dog hobbling and twisting its neck to lick an injured back leg.
That was my world. Not the one above,
but the one below.
I reached home and found Pinky curled
up in one corner, her legs tucked under her body, scribbling in a notebook. She
was in an oversized grey t-shirt and denim shorts.
“What you doing home so early?” I
stared at her. “And where is your school uniform?”
“I had to give it back,” She replied
without looking up.
“Back to whom??”
“They take the uniform back on a
student’s last day.”
“Last day,” I sputtered. “Last day….”
Pinky looked at me. I saw that her
school bag had disappeared too.
“Did that bastard Shirodkar…”
Pinky nodded with her eyes.
“It’s one day early,” I shouted. “He
said one week.”
“Bhaiya, it’s not like we could pay him
fifteen thousand rupees by tomorrow anyways,” She said. “He must have assumed
that…”
“Oh he assumed, did he?” My voice
dripped with venom. “The chaprasi had the audacity to assume that a
pathetic loser like me wouldn’t pay him.”
Burning lava from an active volcano
rose up my spine and cauterized my head.
“At least they let me keep my
notebook,” Pinky said.
My forehead began pulsating. It was the
same volcano which had exploded the other day. It was my fault that my baby
sister was no longer in school, and had nothing but a notebook left. It was my
fault that Neelam madam cut me off from my Volkswagen.
It was my fault. Not greedy principals
or bearded valets.
I watched Pinky sit there immersed in
her notebook. On the day of our father’s funeral, I swore I would take care of
her. She was my responsibility.
I was responsible. For everything. Me
and me alone.
*****
I went back to Asha Bhavan, though I
had only a measly Maruti to wash, and newspapers to toss. I went there for the
garbage.
The Dhoni ball still hadn’t appeared…
On the third day, it finally struck me.
I recalled the big brute admonishing Chawla to sell the items, not trash them.
I couldn’t be seen in the shop again.
But I had an idea for who could be my trusted accomplice for this task.
“You want me to buy a ball?” Pinky
asked, as we got off the train.
“A white cricket ball,” I took out my
phone, searched for a picture, and held it up for her. Then, I looked up
another picture. “And it should have this signature on it.”
Pinky peered at the phone, and then at
me. “I’ve not seen you play cricket for years…”
“I don’t know how much he’ll charge for
it,” I handed her few hundred rupee notes. “Pay whatever it is.”
“Why can’t you buy it yourself? Why do
you need me?”
“I’ll explain everything later,” I
said.
Pinky’s eyes were bristling with
questions.
“Think of it as a game,” I said. “Like chor-police
we played as kids.”
“This is not chor-police,“ She
said. “This is like how you used to send me to Papa to ask for money….because I
was cuter than you.”
“Yes,” I smiled. “You’re still cuter.”
I stopped several streets away from the
shop. “You remember the directions?”
“Left at the end of this road, then
right, then right again.”
Pinky had walked on her own all over
Dharavi and Matunga and Sion. Not once had she gotten lost. My sister was
smart.
“Okay bhaiya, I’m going,” Pinky said.
I nodded, and watched her walk away.
Then, I paced up and down, down and up,
round and round. The guy at the nearby Xerox shop looked at me like I was a
crazy freak.
It made sense. I was also muttering to
myself.
Will the ball be there?
Will she be able to get it?
Will she be alright?
Half an hour passed. It felt like an
eon. Like the whole Ramayan and
Mahabharat could have been narrated in that much time. The Xerox guy seemed as
though he would call the cops on me.
Finally, my sister emerged.
I rushed to her. “Did you get it? Did
you get it?”
She handed me the ball. I twirled it in
my hand, and squinted my eyes to compare it with the picture on my phone.
This was it. This was the ball. I got,
I got it!
“How much?” I asked.
“200.”
The baniya probably thought it
was junk as usual.
Pinky watched the smile envelop my face
and sparkle in my eyes. “Bhaiya, are you going to tell me what you’re up to?”
I held her hand and started walking.
“We’ll be moving out of Dharavi soon, to a better place.”
“What?”
“Yes,” I nodded vigorously. “And you’ll
be back to school again. A much better school than that shit hole.”
Pinky stared at me as though I was
speaking Latin.
“Trust me Pinky.”
*****
I tossed each newspaper with an
exaggerated flourish, I scrubbed the Maruti with a song on my lips.
Diwali was weeks away, but I was
already feeling festive. I felt like jumping. I felt like hugging someone. In
lieu of that, I showered some love on the Maruti, which I had always taken for
granted.
“Chotu? You’re here?”
I turned to see Keshav clutching his
greying hair.
“Keshav Bhai,” I chirped and grinned.
“They…they came asking about you.”
Then I saw the sobering looking on his
face.
“What?” I said. “Who came?”
“A bunch of goons. One guy was huge,
looked like he could punch down a tree.”
I blinked and swallowed.
“They said Sharad Bhai was looking for
you,” Keshav said. “What kind of trouble have you gotten into, Chotu?”
“I…I…”
Looking for me…they were looking for
me…how did they know??
“You should go,” Keshav said.
“Yes,” I dropped my wash cloth on the
ground and broke into a jog.
“Chotu,” Keshav said from behind me.
“Mukund left early today but he said you can keep his bike, he doesn’t need it
back.”
I didn’t care, I had bigger fish to
fry. I kept moving and on the way out glimpsed Shankar smiling and closing the
door of the Volkswagen.
I reached Chor Bazaar in a huff, to
collect my winnings. I dashed through the narrow gully, pushing past
pedestrians, till I arrived at the little shop, which was crammed with pots and
pans, bags and belts, watches and clocks, and so much else.
Jaggu was waxing lyrical about a frying
pan to two eager housewives. He was a bald man, but strands of hair peeled out
of his ears. Gold-rimmed spectacles were perched on his nose.
“Jaggu,” My voice came out shrill. “I
need it now.”
He held up a hand, and I grimaced. It
took him ten minutes to close the transaction. When the ladies were gone, I
stepped forward.
“Never interrupt when I’m with a
customer,” Jaggu said. His voice was deep and full of bass, a far cry from his
mellow customer voice.
“Do you have my cash?” I said.
From a plastic box, he flung a hundred
rupee note on the table.
“What is this?” I had expected to be
taken out back and presented with a suitcase.
“Your cash.”
“You said it would be worth 50 lakhs,
maybe more.”
“This rubbish?” Jaggu reached beneath
the table and tossed the white ball at me. “It’s a fake.”
“What??” I scowled at the ball. “It
can’t be…”
“That signature was made a few days
ago. My guy confirmed it.”
“But…but…” My throat dried up. How
could it be??
“Get out of here Chotu,” Jaggu said. “I
have a business to run.”
I stayed rooted to the spot. A turmoil
of thoughts scrambled my brain. Then, one name crystallized.
SHANKAR.
It had to be him. I thought I had seen
him that day at the baniya’s shop. His friend Pankaj was Chawla’s
driver, he could have swapped the ball with a fake…
I took one step and stumbled. My legs
felt heavy. My stomach felt woozy.
“Your ball has been sold Chotu,”
Jaggu’s voice sounded distant.
“Wh…what?”
“We’re a small community here, and word
gets around,” Jaggu paused for a moment, then continued. “I heard that a
competitor of mine acquired an original cricket ball from 2011, signed by
Dhoni.”
“Who…when…” More saliva than words
spurted from my mouth.
“Go home Chotu.”
I took a deep breath. “I’ll go. Just
describe the seller to me.”
Jaggu nodded. “I saw him yesterday….”
“Was he a bearded man with a big
chin…?”
“…he was a short, wiry fellow who
walked in a funny way…”
“Walked in a funny way,” I mumbled.
“He took short, quick steps,” Jaggu
said. “Like a rabbit or a…”
“Squirrel,” I gasped.
Jaggu’s head moved up and down, and
seemed to expand like a balloon, then blurred out. The narrow gully revolved in
front of me.
“…Mukund left early…” Keshav’s voice
echoed in my head. “He doesn’t want his bike back…”
Mukund who lived next-door to Pankaj.
Mukund who knew about everything from Swapnil’s new salary to the wares at
Chawla’s shop.
Mukund who pleaded my case to the
watchman, who generously lent me his bike.
He had duped me all along. How could I
be so stupid???
Now Sharad Bhai was looking for me….
I left the bazaar, jumped into a train,
and raced back to our shack in Dharavi. It was empty.
“Pinky,” I called out.
I heard car horns from the road, the
buzzing of mosquitoes, the chattering of neighbors. But not the voice I wanted
to hear.
“Pinkeeeeeee,” I screamed and ran
through the slum alleys. “Pinkeeeeeeee….”
They couldn’t have taken her…it was me
they wanted, and the ball.
“Pinkeeeeeee……”
“What? What happened?” A head popped
out from one of the shacks. My baby sister.
I ran to her and held her shoulders.
“Where were you? Are you alright? Are you alright?”
“I was just playing with Meenu.”
“Let’s go pack your things,” I took her
to our shack. I brought out a bag and started dumping things inside it.
“Bhaiya, what’s going on??”
“Move fast and pack everything you want
to take.”
“Take where??”
“We have to leave Pinky,” I roared. “We
have to leave now.”
Her eyes met mine, and then she got
into action. She bundled her scanty possessions into a small haversack.
I wrote Mukund’s name and number on a
page from Pinky’s notebook, and left it on the cot, along with the ball.
“This is all because of that cricket
ball?” Pinky looked incredulous.
“We have to go,” was all I said.
*****
One month later…
We lived in a shit hole slum in
Nalasopara. I never thought I’d say this, but I missed Dharavi.
Pinky was in another pathetic
government school, worse than before. I had made those lofty promises to her,
and broken them. She never quarreled with me about it. It was obvious from the
creases under my eyes and restless twitch in my face that I was inflicting
enough punishment upon myself.
The days passed dolefully, one after
another. Diwali arrived, the festival of sparkling lights and colorful rangolis
and sweet mithai. But for me, the city remained darkness and shadows.
I took Pinky to a bazaar to buy any
gift she chose. Throngs of people filled the street, exchanging animated
festive greetings while they shopped and ate. Firecrackers exploded in the sky.
I took furtive glances over my
shoulder, as had become my habit. Sharad Bhai’s gang had probably moved on.
Still, in the reflection of shop windows, I would sometimes see the glint of
gold chains hanging over a hairy chest. My body would quiver, expecting a blow…
“Bhaiya, I want this,” Pinky held up a
large spiral-bound notebook with lined pages.
“Really?” I said. “Not a new dress? Or
shoes?”
“Fine,” Pinky put the notebook down and
turned away.
“No, no, you can get whatever you
want,” I said and paid the vendor for the notebook. “What about pens? Do you
want a nice pen?”
“I like pencils,” Pinky said.
I bought 4 pencils and 2 notebooks.
Pinky gave me a brief hug, and clutched
her prize.
She was special, my sister. Someday the
whole world would see it.
In one shop, I saw a brass diya stand,
and my body froze. The memories came flooding back. Of fat baniyas, greedy
principals, bearded valets. Of my clever plan, and my colleague who stole the
winnings…
I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned
around, trembling.
“Chotu, so good to see you.”
“Keshav,” I looked at my old colleague.
“How are you?”
“I’m still at Asha Bhavan, same old.
How are you, Chotu?”
“Surviving.”
“Good, good,” Keshav said. “Did you
know Shankar got the job at the online shop and is earning big bucks?”
“Oh.”
“Apparently, he had been saving money
for years to pay the bribe.”
“What news of Mukund?” I asked.
Keshav shook his head. “He disappeared.
I never saw him or heard from him after that day. And Pankaj too,” He brushed
his palm in the air. “Both were just gone.”
“Bhaiya, can I get ice-cream?” Pinky
asked, and quickly added. “It’s okay if we can’t…”
“Yes,” I said, and handed her two
tenners.
She gave me one back. “I’ll get the
half scoop.”
Keshav turned to leave. “Okay take care
Chotu,” He said. “Visit us at Asha Bhavan sometime.”
I watched Pinky relish each bite of her
ice-cream, including the cone.
So, Shankar had moved up in life. He
was probably never after my Volkswagen job. He was not such a bad guy as I
imagined.
I thought about Mukund. Why did I never
suspect him? Was he living a life of luxury now? Was he looking over his
shoulder like me? Would Sharad Bhai find him one day? I hope he gets caught…
As for me, I’m scrubbing toilets now
instead of cars. It doesn’t matter. I’ll do whatever it takes to look after my
sister.
