smallest ways. We’d start a set; he’d correct me one or two repetitions into it; I’d ask that we start the count again; he’d tell me to continue, but then either repeat a number of his choice along the way or take the count past fifteen when I least expected it. He now spoke of Ash’s, the one-stop total image clinic, as if it were up and running. He threatened to deny Junglee’s sub-trainers their promised positions as masseurs and stylists if they spoke back to him; he had new phones, new ring tones; he was full of aggressive political opinions. The transformation was like a preparation. It was as if he was gearing up for some bigger fight, for which he could show no weakness, and I suspected somewhere in this the hand of the new girlfriend.
It had become a point of awkwardness between us that we hadn’t discussed her. Aakash hinted at her existence, but said nothing openly. If she called while we were working out, he smiled knowingly at me, then slipped off into a corner. I came to recognize the ring tone – the Hindi pop song with the single English line – he had assigned to her. Once or twice I even saw her name flash on his phone. He hadn’t saved it as Megha, but as chahat, longing. Then a few days after I came back to Delhi, we were in the final stages of an abs workout when, ‘I will always love you, all my life,’ rang out from Aakash’s pocket. He hesitated, but then, continuing to lend me the support of his two fingers, answered it. ‘Nothing, beev,’ he said, looking down at me trying to lift myself a few inches from the floor, ‘just finishing off sir’s abs. Beev, you know I have no friend circle, only one best friend.’ My abs gave way as Aakash became more engaged in his conversation. ‘Because, beev, he is a very important person. He’s just been two months in New York, and before two months in… where were you?’ ‘Spain,’ I breathed. ‘Spain, two months in Spain. Beev, he’s very busy, he’s a writer, his girlfriend, you know who she is? She’s the Chief Minister of Jhaatkebaal’s niece.’ He let go of my hands and I fell to the floor. ‘OK, OK, beev, I’ll ask him.’ Covering the receiver, he said, ‘She wants to know why she hasn’t met you, if you’re my best friend?’ My face, like my paralysed abs, was not able to express sufficient amazement at his nerve. ‘Because her boyfriend’s a sly Brahmin,’ I managed. Aakash laughed uproariously, then said, ‘He’s inviting us for a beer party at his flat today, can you get away?’ Looking down at me, he mouthed, ‘Is OK?’ ‘Yes, fine,’ I sighed. ‘Good, then it’s set,’ he informed us both. When he’d put the phone down, I asked why he called his girlfriend beev.
‘Short for beevi,’ he said, grinning; wife. Then hysterically happy, he added, ‘You’re really going to get a surprise, sir!’
Aakash and his girlfriend were due at seven that evening. A few minutes before, Shakti came in with the news that there had been a series of bomb blasts in the city. ‘So terrible what’s happened,’ he said with a morose smile. ‘Who would do such a thing?’ Then looking thoughtful for a moment, he added, ‘Baba, it must be God’s benevolence that I bought the samosas and beer for your guests before the blasts happened. He obviously does not wish me to go yet.’
‘What? There was a blast in Khan Market?’
‘Oh no, where would there be a blast in Khan Market? They were in Greater Kailash, in Gaffar Market, in Connaught Place and one little one in Sectorpur.’
‘Then what benevolence?’
‘Just,’ he smiled contentedly and slipped away, knowing perhaps the simple pleasure of being alive when others were recently dead.
I turned the television on. The blasts were the third in a string of recent attacks on major Indian cities. A group called Indian Musthavbin was claiming responsibility. They had labelled the attack Operation BAD and had used plaster of Paris Ganeshs, now abounding in the city, as their method of delivery. The screen was split in three: on the far left, a large intact pink Ganesh, riding on the back of a scooter; in the middle, the scene of the crime, a hole blown through a green ‘Keep Delhi Clean’ dustbin and a bright pool of blood amid chappals, garlands and handbags; on the far right, an expert talking about the difference between a high-intensity blast and a low-intensity blast. ‘In a high-intensity blast, the impact of the blast is high, in a low-intensity blast, the impact…’
I called Aakash.
‘Have you heard?’
‘Yes, man. I was there, beev and I were there. We were shopping in CP when it happened. I can’t tell you, if it hadn’t been for beev wanting Pizza Hut’s garlic butter sticks, we wouldn’t be here today. It’s a matter of fate, no?’ After a moment’s silence, he said, ‘Actually, no! Beev’s appetite saved our lives.’ At the cracking of this badly timed joke, I heard a howl of laughter in the background.
‘Is that beev?’ I asked.
‘Yes, man.’
‘Are you still coming?’
‘Of course, man. Keep the beer ready. Who can tell how many life has to spare?’
It was nearly dark now. I could hear a siren wail in the distance. The bell rang. I opened the door to see Aakash in a red turban. He wandered in past me with no explanation for the turban or beev’s absence
‘Where’s beev?’
The bell rang. Aakash bowed deeply and extended a hand. ‘The beev at your service.’
I opened the door; then I almost couldn’t look. In the light that fell from a single bulb, there stood a girl no taller than five feet in a red turban. She had one plump arm propped against the doorframe and was panting heavily. Beads of sweat glistened on her wet lips and pale face. She wore a baggy purple T-shirt which did nothing to conceal her vast breasts and stomach. The light, catching the grease on her face, shone dully on to the dark flesh that ringed her neck. Two diamond solitaires the size of boiled sweets gleamed in her ears. For some seconds, she didn’t look up, making a show of her breathlessness. I felt Aakash’s chin rest on my shoulder. ‘Your new bhabi,’ he whispered proudly, as if giving me the keys to a sports car.
She was quiet at first, smiling and watchful. She entered the flat timidly, brushing against the doorway and then the dining-room chairs. We walked in behind her, Aakash grinning and gaping at me, watching my every gesture for a reaction. When I showed none, he said, ‘Beev’s healthy, no?’ She heard, and slowly turning around, gave him a cautioning look. He bit his tongue, but was encouraged by the reaction. ‘And the funny thing is I’m her trainer. Beev, what an ad you are for me!’ At this provocation, she swung around and made a short charge, yelling, ‘Always making fun, twenty-four seven, seven eleven, making fun.’ Aakash took her in his arms and kissed her tenderly on the head. The kitchen door swung open and Shakti emerged with more samosas and beer. His expression changed from morose to ribald delight at the sight of them, both in their red turbans. Aakash and Megha joined Shakti in his brazen laughter and I was left feeling somehow that the joke was on me.
When we came into the drawing room, Aakash dropped himself on the sofa, his arms sprawling behind him. Megha sat on the edge of a chair, looking only at him. He closed his eyes and said, ‘Now, you guys talk. I’m going to sleep.’ But when I asked how near they had been to the blasts, he sprang up. ‘Man, you won’t believe it. The silence. Can you imagine an area as big as Connaught Place silent? It was amazing. For two seconds, you could hear the wind, you could hear a brown-paper bag scraping along the road. You know how in the movies when they have mute slow-motion scenes, exactly like that. But I tell you, it’s gone too far. Now something or the other has to be done. Bring back terrorist laws, have quick arrests, quick trials. I’m saying anyone there’s a doubt about, that’s it, straight in jail. It’s gone too far.’
Megha listened carefully.
I wasn’t in the mood for a political conversation. I said, ‘Maybe. But until now there have never been any real arrests, no real evidence. Without that, terrorist laws just become a way to keep the wrong people in jail.’
Aakash’s eyes hardened. ‘Then each one of them will have to go.’ He sighed. ‘The lot of them.’
‘Go where?’
‘I don’t know. Pakistan? Round them up in the Red Fort and blow them away? I don’t care, but this can’t go on.’
‘Come on, Ash-man. You don’t mean that. What about Zafar? Will he have to go?’
Aakash had met him once or twice and was fond of him. His face softened. ‘In so large an operation, a few good people end up sacrificed too. And by the way, I’m not saying just Muhammadans, the bad Hindus should go too.’
For that one moment, Aakash seemed to lose his particularity. I saw in his anger and his hunger a greater Indian rage and appetite; and in his face, the face of a mob.
Megha spoke to me only in English, and to Aakash only in Hindi, no matter how much either of us tried
