The Heiress

The Heiress

Tathagata
Mukhopadhyay




 

Aarey Milk Colony...

 This is where I first met and got acquainted with Mr Ahuja – popularly known as Ahuja Saab or Ahuja Saab to everybody who went there for evening walks and jogs.

 Aarey Milk Colony is a small wonder amidst the concrete jungle of Mumbai where rampant urbanization and the unabated growth of buildings and traffic smother the inhabitant day in and day out. Even today, it is refreshingly different from the sweaty Mumbai where people continuously jostled to find breathing space.  

 It’s an area covering several hundred acres which are used for milk and other dairy products. The Milk-Colony was developed in collaboration with New Zealand which was complete with all aspects of dairy farming like an educational institute, research centre, calf breeding farm, staff and student quarters etc. You would still find a ‘New Zealand Hostel’ amidst a hilltop inside the Aarey Milk Colony, which houses students pursuing studies and research on modern dairy technology.

 It also is the home for rich tropical flora and fauna. Abundant rain in Mumbai ensures the place remains lush green year-round. Even today Aarey can boast of a good number of leopards, its original natives – which can be sighted in deserted evenings. Why even I had the good fortune of sighting them twice!

 Within five minutes, from sweaty-smoggy Mumbai, one could reach a place so green and rich in aroma of the wild! I doubt if there is any other place in the world where there is such a radical geographic and topological transformation within five minutes of drive. One could immediately feel the cleansing effect in one’s lungs after entering the woods of Aarey from the diesel-fumed Mumbai.

 There are children’s parks, a small pond for boating and a garden popularly termed as ‘Chota Kashmir’ (mini-Kashmir) which was developed over the years by the Government of Maharashtra, but for me, and many like me, they were not the main attractions of Aarey. It provided us, the local Mumbaikars who stifle for space, of a fantastic opportunity for our daily callisthenics. We visited the hilly serpentine roads amidst the woods of Aarey for our regular morning or evening walks.

 I categorized the visitors in Aarey into three distinct categories. First – the walkers like us, who never believed in straining themselves too much. Walking was more of leisure than serious exercise. Second – the love-birds. Couples, who sought intimate privacy from the hustle-bustle of Mumbai. Overly intimate lovey-dovey couples hidden behind bushes were not an uncommon sight. Third – the ‘Joga-paglas’. They were the serious joggers who huffed and puffed every day to keep them fit. Joga is a name associated with pagals (mad men). For me, these fanatically obsessed joggers, who believed in persecuting themselves, were, therefore, no less than Joga-paglas.

 Ahuja Saab belonged to the first category, a leisurely walker, like me.

 I took my evening walks on my way back from office. Luckily, I had to traverse the serene stretch of Aarey Milk Colony every day to and from my journey between my office and home. It, therefore, provided me with a great opportunity to park my Wagon R somewhere in between, slip on my sneakers and take a half-a-hour walk on my way back home.

 By virtue of being an everyday visitor, I slowly got acquainted with the other regular walkers. When you cross paths every day, you automatically develop a remote bond bred more out of cognitional motor skills than anything else. Bonds that starts with slightest of grins of recognition, to a slight nod of the head, to a wave of the hand and then one day stopping to get introduced and have a few words…

 Ahuja Saab walked with a slight limp, which generally happens to someone having a difference in lengths in his right and left leg. And he walked very slowly. One could understand his sluggish gait, for he was old – the middle eighties to be precise. The real reason for his perpetual limp, however, was not known. One more distinct characteristic of Ahuja Saab – one sniffed as one crossed him – unquestionably was the rich fragrance of expensive imported perfumes which he would wear. A different one each day, they managed to overpower the natural aroma of the thickets.

 I still recall the summer evening when we first got introduced. As I was walking uphill near the New Zealand Hostel, I saw Ahuja Saab crossing me with his seemingly laborious gait when he signalled me to stop.

 -        Hello there, would you care to have a few words with this old man? He asked.

 -        Why, sure. Tell me, Sir, what I can do for you.

 This was the first time I saw him closely. He was a bald old man, short in stature but rather stout for his age, wearing a striped tee over a cotton trouser and a pair of sneakers.

 -        Nothing serious. I just thought we should get introduced. Hope I am not disturbing you, young man?

 -        No, no, not at all – I replied, slightly embarrassed – it’s great of you to have taken this initiative. Who, these days, have the time to talk to bystanders, that too without any motive?

 -        I like your style of walking. You have an air of confidence as you walk. Very elegant. I had a friend who had the same style of walk.

 Now, who on earth does not like to hear a word of praise? Albeit a subtle embarrassment, I enjoyed his extolling words. Simultaneously, the cynic in me started questioning the real motive of this apparently harmless octogenarian. Why was this elderly gentleman trying to befriend me? As a matter of fact, I was very much aware that I had a very awkward style of walking – my wife told me this several times over. I heard Ahuja Saab continue his conversation,

 -        What’s your age?  He asked. I told him my age.

 -        Hmmm … same as that of my middle son. Well, I am Ahuja. – He offered his palm for a shake – hope you are not getting disturbed or distracted? I shook hands and said,

 -        Look Sir, why do you keep repeating this? Why should I be disturbed now?

 -        Because it happens with many. There are many who consider talking to a person like me a waste of time.

 -        No, no, please continue.

 -        Thanks – Ahuja Saab was visibly please – okay, take a guess on my age.

 -        Ummm … seventy-five? I really tried my best guess.

 -        No son, I am ten years older – eighty-five – yes, I am eighty-five years young. Ahuja Saab grinned mirthfully. I noticed that even his dentures were intact – unless of course they were artificial.

 -        I must say Ahuja Saab, I am impressed. You do not look a day older than seventy – perhaps seventy-two. What’s the secret of your youth?

 -        Keep yourself happy. And take your regular walks. I have been coming here for the past twenty years. Everybody around knows me. Why, seeing me, even the BEST bus stops in the middle of two bus-stops to allow me board – the drivers, the conductors, they all know me in this bus-route - hahaha.

 That was the beginning.

 Thereafter, I started discovering Ahuja Saab gradually through our daily conversations. He had lost his wife about a decade back. He lived alone in his apartment near Goregaon railway station.  He had three sons – all married and settled abroad. His eldest son was a famous oncologist in New York. His second and third sons were settled in the Middle East. Ahuja Saab was, without doubt, very proud of his sons. But, unquestionably, he took more pride in his self-sufficiency and his independence.

 -        I never take any financial help from my boys. I don’t have to. I earn about thirty-thirty five grand a month through bank interests, which is more than adequate for me to sustain myself - He often said.

 -     Why don’t you wind up here and spend the rest of your life with your sons, daughters in law and grandchildren abroad? Living alone, at this age is not a good idea. Any day anything can happen. There may be a burglary, you may fall sick. With your kins around, you at least will be safe.

 -        Me, going abroad – huh! He said with a hint of a sneer – I am in sound health you see, except my eyes. Of late my eyes, especially the left one, are really troubling me. I quite enjoy my independence, my freedom. I don’t want to be a burden on my sons and their families. Of course, I go once in a while for short trips, but never more than a month. I never like to be away from Mumbai for more than a month.

 -        Why so?

 -     Mmmm  … perhaps I miss this wonderful ambience, my morning and evening walk…

 Soon I discovered that Ahuja Saab was indeed a very popular man in Aarey Milk Colony. Sometimes I found him engrossed in deep discussions with a local milkman, sometimes walking alongside a young lass a quarter his age, sometimes walking the talk with middle-aged housewife, Mrs Bakshi and her big Labrador, yet other times with the DCP with his vehicle and securities softly purring behind…

 I was never one of those mixing and socializing types. On my own, I seldom introduced myself to somebody. But through Ahuja Saab, I got introduced to an array of regular walkers in Aarey Milk Colony. Schoolteacher Shammi, TV serial actor Vinod Kapur, retired PSU Officer Ghai-Saab, housewife Pronita Bakshi, DCP Grover-Saab, bank-officer couple Kiran Gandhi and his wife – both choosing to exercise VRS and enjoy retired life, even Ashok Tambe, the security guard of New Zealand hostel, to name a few.

 My curiosity regarding Ahuja Saab was ever-increasing. Soon I realized that it was not me alone, everybody around was very curious about this octogenarian gentleman.

 He most definitely valued his independence, otherwise why on earth would he be willing to stay all alone in Mumbai, when he has not one, not two but three well-established offspring? At his age, one requires a lot of courage and conviction to do that. I came to know he got his daily meals from a nearby hotel.

 -        Why don’t you live in America with your eldest son? I was told it was a land of plenties. Life there is supposed to be the best.

 -        America? Na Baba Na. Dubai, Kuwait – still tolerable. At least, you can feel the whiff of India. But America? No way. I feel so out of sorts there.

 Never did I come across any person who preferred the Middle East to America. My logical reasoning for this was Ahuja Saab must not be in good terms with his eldest son or daughter in law.

Our gossips on Ahuja Saab increased with every passing day. After our walk, a group of four or five used to cool off in the roadside wooden benches which were discoloured and semi-rotten with age. Inevitably, Ahuja Saab came up in our discussions. Once he went missing for a week or so.

 -        Didn’t see Ahuja Saab for a week. Hope he’s okay.

 -        For all you know, he must’ve left for Dubai – to his youngest son.

 -        No, no. I don’t think so. He would have told us before leaving. Besides, he hates to move out of Mumbai.

 -        Yes, he told me once. He likes Mumbai for this very place.

 -        That’s nonsense. There are far cleaner and better parks for walks in America or Dubai. The fact is none of his sons are ready to accept him.

 -        But Ahuja Saab told me that all his sons are more than willing to house him. It’s only his dogged aversion of dependence…

 -        His sons may not be living abroad, for all you know.

 -     That’s not true. Last time he got me chocolates from Dubai. Don’t you get the fragrance of those imported perfumes he wears?

 -      True. However, I have a feeling his sons may not be that well established as he claims to be. Living abroad does not necessarily mean one is well off. I know of many Indians who live abroad but live from hand to mouth.

 -        I still don’t believe he has his sons abroad. These days, all imported chocolates and perfumes are available in any of those modern malls.

 -        No, no. I’m not so sure about America, but I know for sure last year during the Dubai Shopping Festival, Ahuja Saab did visit Dubai. One of my neighbours happened to meet him at the Dubai duty free shop.

 On that occasion, the real reason for Ahuja Saab’s absence, as it turned out, was his aggravated eye-problems – particularly the left one. Mrs Bakshi, who was also missing all these days, had to take him to the eye specialist. That Mrs Bakshi was also absent during all these days went completely unnoticed.

 Ahuja Saab himself narrated the whole incident to a few of us.

 -        I never wanted to go to the specialist. The matter was not all that serious, you see. But Pronu won’t leave me.

 -        Pronu? I was a trifle surprised.

 -     Pronu – Pronita. 

-    Ah - Mrs Pronita Bakshi?

-       Yes. She took all initiatives to seek an appointment of a specialist, and then took me to the hospital in her own car. Next day we again had to go for some further tests, and again on the next day. I tried my best to dissuade her, but she just won’t listen. She didn’t even allow me to pay for the petrol. Imagine, all the way from Goregaon to Dadar and back, four days at a stretch. Tell me, which person, these days, goes so out of the way to help someone, that too for someone like a useless old man? Even your own kids won’t do this much.

 Did I notice a hint of dissatisfaction in Ahuja Saab that day? Ignoring that I said,

 -        That’s why, Ahuja Saab, I think you should go and stay with any of your sons. Your sons, daughters in law, grandchildren – all part of you, your family.

 -        Are you not my own? Here I have friends like you, I have Pronu, DCP Saab, Ghai Saab, Shammi…

 -        Well, I understand what Mrs Bakshi did for you, but we did nothing to help you. I think you should be a little more discreet in choosing to assess your friends.

 -        Why, here you are talking to me, spending your precious time to hear the blabbers of an old useless person … you probably don’t know but you are already giving me enough! One of the biggest enemies of old-age is solitude. As you grow old you will find that there are less and fewer people who would actually like to spend time with you…. I couldn’t hear the trailing mumbles of Ahuja Saab that followed.

 Little did Ahuja Saab realize that this benevolent act of Mrs. Pronita Bakshi of taking him to a specialist would fuel gossips – far from dissuading them – in more ways than one.

 A few days later again Ahuja Saab, and along with him Mrs. Pronita Bakshi went missing. The walk-end gossips, this time, started with renewed vigour.

 -        Why has Mrs. Bakshi become all so protective and caring towards that stingy old man?

 -        Stingy? Why stingy?

 -        Then what? He, with all his wealth, can easily afford a chauffeur-driven car. But look, he prefers to use the BEST bus instead.

 -        Ah, come on. His movements are mostly restricted from Goregaon station to Aarey Milk Colony, which is just fifteen minutes ride in a direct bus. Also, all the staff in this route is known to him.

 -        No, no. Miser he is. Twice I dropped him at his place. Not once did he invite me to come in.

 -        Maybe he doesn’t like your face. I too dropped him once. He invited me alright.

 -        But did he offer you anything?

 -        What do you expect from an octogenarian widower? A feast? He did offer Danish chocolates after he returned from Dubai, didn’t he?

 -        Miser or not, I am sure he has a lot of riches. Both in cash and kind. And that precisely is the reason why Mrs Bakshi is so overly caring for Ahuja Saab.

 The dormant bomb-of-a-gossip already existed; its fuse had just been lit.

 -        Similar thoughts also crossed my mind, I must admit – said a lady in the group.

 -        Rubbish. This is utter rubbish.

 -        What rubbish? Tell me why would anybody suddenly become so bloody empathetic for a person like Ahuja Saab so as to sacrifice her own time and take him to a specialist day after day after day in her own car, burning her own fuel? What’s she got to gain?

 -        I agree. It just can’t be only on humanitarian grounds. Besides, there is something else I know which can only corroborate this theory.

 -        And what’s that?

 -        Ahuja Saab himself confided in me once. His wife has left behind a lot of jewellery. For the past ten years, ever since he lost his wife, he doesn’t know what to do with them. Now he’s reached an age when, his good health notwithstanding, any day anything can happen. So he’s getting very fidgety.

 -        This is complete nonsense. Ahuja Saab can easily divide the jewellery equally, or whichever way he liked, amongst his three daughters in law.

 -        Normally what you said sounds logical. But the problem is the old man doesn’t want to give away his departed wife’s jewellery and ornaments to his daughters in law.

 -        How do you know this?

 -        He himself told me once. In all probability, he has told this to Mrs Bakshi also. And ever since then, Mrs Bakshi has become a mother-hen to Ahuja Saab. It’s as simple as adding two plus two brothers, you don’t have to be a Sherlock Holmes.

 What I gathered that day from the walk-end adda was not completely unfounded. I realized this after a few days when I met Ahuja Saab again. After exchanging pleasantries, Ahuja Saab asked me,

 -        I want your advice on something. Would you help me?

 -        Advice from me? You are much matured and experienced than me, I really don’t see how I can help you, but please tell me. I will try to the best of my ability.

 -        Ummm…actually I have some jewellery – my late wife’s – you can say quite a good amount of various gold ornaments, some of them studded with twenty-four-carat diamonds. I really don’t know what to do with it. In current valuation, it would be about half a crore. What do you think I do with it?

 Even though I half expected the advice Ahuja Saab was going to seek, I was nevertheless shocked. Was there really any ulterior motive behind the sudden kindness of Mrs Bakshi towards this rich old man? Amidst the chirping of nest-bound birds, I heard Ahuja Saab say,

 -        I am really at a loss… there’s a diamond set worth fifteen lakhs, then there are earrings, lockets, nose-rings, bangles – all made of pure twenty-four carats. There is a diamond-studded nose-ring with a chain connected hair clip. Oh, how gorgeous she looked when she wore this!

 I could see a rare glitter in Ahuja Saab’s problematic eyes in reminiscence of his late wife. Suddenly he appeared frail and helpless.

 -        Ahuja Saab – are you asking for this advice to every person under the sun? I’ve heard about this from somebody else.

 -        No no, not everybody under the sun. I told this only to you and a few friends here, like you. I know whom I can trust. I may be partially blind, but I can see through my experience, ha ha.. I know you are one amongst a few friends whom I can confide in.

 -        Still, Ahuja Saab, my first advice to you would be not to tell such things to all and sundry. You never know what’s there in somebody’s mind. Do you realize you are an extremely vulnerable target? Anybody can hire a local goon and kill you for money. You shouldn’t be trumpeting around the stories of your wife’s assets.

 -        Ha ha… you are being paranoid. So you think somebody’s gonna murder me for that jewellery? All his efforts would be wasted because the entire booty is in a bank-vault – said Ahuja Saab twirling his thumb, as if he’d cracked the biggest joke of his life.

 -        You may laugh it off as a joke but…

 -        Cut it, will you. Advise me on what I am asking for. What do I do with the jewellery?

 -        It’s you private matter Ahuja Saab. Since you are asking, I would advise you to distribute them amongst your daughters in law.

 -        No, no – never. That’s not possible. Suddenly Ahuja Saab became serious, paused for a while and then continued,

 -        My eldest bahu (Daughter-in-law) – by virtue of living in America for so long now, is more American than an American native. Any link to Indian ethnicity doesn’t appeal her at all. Indian art, culture, dress, jewellery, food – anything remotely Indian has little value to her. She wouldn’t understand the true value of these ornaments which has so much family sentiments tagged with it. The heritage value of these ornaments would be lost if she were to lay her hands on it.

 I did not quite understand what exactly Ahuja Saab meant by family sentiments and heritage value. I thought it was more of his own sentiments than anything else, which would cease to exist with his passing away. However, I chose not to argue with him on that point and said,

 -        Fair enough. You can always sell the jewellery and divide the wealth amongst your sons. You may even choose to spend the money any which way you want, lead a more luxurious life. Maintain a good chauffeur-driven sedan, go on exotic holidays … possibilities are endless.

 -        No, never. There are histories and anecdotes associated with each of these ornaments. So many memories, so many sentiments … no-no … selling them is out of the question. Never ask me to do that.

 -        Okay, then divide it between your second and the third daughter in law - I said with a hint of irritation in my voice, for now I was getting a little tired of Ahuja Saab’s unwavering attitude.

 -        My second daughter in law is not an Indian. She’s a Palestinian. What would she understand of this jewellery?

 Clearly, Ahuja Saab was not too pleased with his daughter in law number two. I was tempted to say that most women, regardless of caste, creed and religion, always craved for jewellery and gold. However, considering Ahuja Saab’s age and predicament, I chose not to open up that topic. I heard him say,

 -        My youngest daughter in law is the sweetest of them all. But the problem is she is very simple and much too driven by her ideologies. She never wears any makeup or ornaments. Several times I offered her the custodianship of my wife’s jewellery, only to be refused politely. She’s not ready to use anything that has not been purchased from her husband’s earning. A fiercely independent lady – my youngest bahu. Wearing Ma-in-law’s locket, for her is like wearing a chain of thorns! No, no, think of some other solution.

 Needless to say, I couldn’t advise much to Ahuja Saab on this account. It was evident that all my advice were given to him by others in the past many times over, to which he turned deaf ears.

 After I took leave from him, I saw Pronita Bakshi arrive in her chauffeur-driven Maruti, with the big benign-looking Labrador in tow, step down from her car and greet Ahuja Saab. For the first time, I had a close look at Mrs Bakshi. She was slightly built, with the first signs of age-related weights cropping up in her rather attractive frame. Today she was wearing an evening gown instead of the regular churidar-kurti, her untied hair flailing in the free-flowing breeze. She took Ahuja Saab's hands and together they slowly began to ascend the winding way before vanishing around a bend, all the while busy chit-chatting intimately… Almost immediately, I started viewing Mrs.Pronita Bakshi and her motives from a different angle. Unquestionably, she was much closer to Ahuja Saab. If the octogenarian confided in me so much about his personal details, he must’ve disclosed much more to the middle-aged housewife. Maybe he told her about his vault details. Who knows, maybe he even showed the jewellery to Mrs Bakshi. Senility can drive people to do crazy things and the sight of gold and jewellery can drive people nuts, I was told.

 My hunch became stronger after about a week, in course of yet another gossip session at the  Aarey Milk Colony.

 -        Ghai Saab, you would drop dead if you’d seen what I saw last week…my my…

 -        Hmmm … it looks as if you are dying to disclose some secret. Come on, out with it before you asphyxiate.

 -        Yeah, it appears you will have to make a trip to Hardwar to get rid of all sins you committed by your discovery.

 -        Indeed…indeed…I doubt even a dip in the holy Ganges would be able to wash away all sins…

 -        Come on tell us, allow us to share your sins…

 -        Say what, I was on my scooter from Goregaon Station to my place last afternoon, when I saw Mrs Bakshi coming out of the flat complex where Ahuja Saab lives.

 -        Huh, only this? I thought you were going to break earth-shaking news? Must you dramatize everything? So many of us went to his place once in a while. Why, even you dropped him on your scooter once or twice, didn’t you?

 -        Yes, I understand if the time was morning or evening, but how do you explain that at two in the afternoon?

 -        Could be she took Ahuja Saab to a doctor, yet again.

 -        Do you think I am a fool to have not thought of that possibility? No sooner I spotted Pronita Bakshi, I stopped and tried to spot her car. She quietly hailed an auto-rickshaw and left. She was discreet enough not to use her car since she doesn’t herself drive. She never wanted any witness to her afternoon trysts, not even her driver – now you understand?

 -        Are you suggesting that this is the evolution of a modern Raas-Leela – said somebody in the group with a lecherous grin, which I found rather distasteful.

 -        This is pure garbage – I protested – Mrs. Bakshi is like a daughter to Ahuja-Saab. You guys have this disgusting habit of whipping up luscious gossips out of absolute non-events.

 -        Oh, come on! We note your naivety but think from the practical angle. Ahuja Saab has fifty lakhs worth of jewellery for disposal. That’s a lot of wealth! Any woman, close to him, would be lured

 -        Yes, fifty lakhs is worth at least fifty beddings – if not more. Surprisingly this risqué comment came from a lady in the group.

 I left for home with a mixed feeling. There were occasions when Mrs Bakshi and I happened to cross paths. She always smiled sweetly and exchanged polite pleasantries. Once in while her husband accompanied her. She even introduced me to her husband. There was a temple inside the deep woods. She had once offered me prasad from the Puja that she’d offered in that temple once while we met on our walks. It was very difficult for me to digest what I just heard about her from the group. It was impossible for me to picture Mrs Pronita Bakshi as a scheming vamp, who was out there to exploit a rich old man with her feigned benevolence. She was but a simple lady with a kind heart, deeply devoted to her family. She went out of the way to help Ahuja Saab only because her heart bled for the lonely old man and not with any devious scheme. However, most in my group of walkers chose to believe otherwise. It was therefore difficult for me to eradicate their theories altogether. It was a typical instance of ten people repeatedly pronouncing a deity as a ghost till the time one starts questioning one’s own judgment as to whether the object in question was indeed a deity and not a ghost!

 Difficult as it may seem, maybe I was wrong and the group was indeed right in assessing the real motives of Mrs Bakshi…

 Thereafter amongst the group, even the trifle of incidents between Ahuja Saab and Mrs. Bakshi started making big news. For example, Ahuja Saab had this habit of touching the shoulder of his partner-in-walk once in a while. Now, his every touch on Mrs. Bakshi’s shoulder implied a contorted connotation. People religiously started logging the exact time Mrs. Bakshi spends her time with Ahuja Saab during her evening walks. That both of them arrived at the same time on most days for their walks, was also not just coincidence – postulated a few.

 That did not mean Ahuja-Saab had distanced himself from the rest of the group. Far from it. He continued with his usual chit-chats with all others, me inclusive, like he always did. It’s only through him I came to know that the problems of his left eye had increased. The ophthalmologist’s medicines were clearly not working. He was finding it a little difficult to move around with eyesight in just one eye. His eldest son was arriving soon, and this time he was determined to take Ahuja Saab with him to New York for proper treatment…

  And then, one day, Ahuja Saab stopped coming to Aarey Milk Colony for his daily walks. And along with him, Mrs Pronita Bakshi also went missing. The pair became conspicuous by their absence! After about one – perhaps one and a half - months, the gossips took a different turn.

 -        Didn’t I tell you, something of this sort was going to happen? It was just a matter of time, wasn’t it?

 -        But didn’t Ahuja Saab tell us he was leaving for America; to his elder son?

 -        And also, take his mistress in tow, right? How can you be so naïve? It’s as transparent as water.

 -        I think Mrs Bakshi’s absence is sheer coincidence. See, where can an octogenarian gentleman like Mr Ahuja leave except for his able sons? Don’t stretch your imaginations to a point where your imaginations start stretching you!

 -        Don’t be so sure brother. For all you know, he must’ve sold his properties here and settled somewhere else – even abroad – with his mistress. Don’t forget, he had the money power! A rich old man, wasn’t he?

 -        C’mon, that’s too much! Are you suggesting that Mrs Bakshi, just for the greed of Ahuja Saab’s property, had ditched her settled marriage, family, car and even her pet Labrador and eloped with that old man whose days on earth is numbered? Write a script named ‘Karishma Kudrat Ka’ in Hindi for the TV channels. I’m sure, Ekta Kapoor would lap it up!

 -        Whatever you may opine brother, I have a feeling that this is not a mere coincidence…something stinks...

 

                                                         ******

  

The advent of monsoon in Mumbai is dramatic. It arrives almost inevitably at a pre-appointed date, season after season, almost as if the weather-God also wants to contribute His bit to the professionalism of Mumbai. You wake up one morning (usually between the first and second week of June), heavily overcast, which soon breaks into heavy incessant precipitation – that continues for a week! Suddenly all the grime and heat and dust of big bad Mumbai is wiped off in a whiff, and the flora of Aarey gets a healthy green hue in a matter of days…

 The number of joggers, walkers and lovers reduce dramatically in the monsoon soaked Aarey. The croaking of lovelorn toads and chirps of crickets adds to the eeriness amidst the shrubs and bushes, which all on a sudden assumes a healthy glow. The winding street through the hillock of New Zealand hostel is almost deserted, save for a few like me, who enjoy their rain-drenched walks.

 One such rainy evening, as I was completing my walk I saw few labourers unloading concrete benches from a lorry by the side of the road. And a woman, her face hidden behind her unfurled umbrella supervising the process. Then I noticed the white Maruti and the big white Labrador peeking out of the rear window of the car…

 Mrs. Pronita Bakshi … !

 Almost with subconscious spontaneity, I sauntered across to where Pronita Bakshi was; my mind inundated with a heap of memories and gossips. In an instant, she spotted me and offered her familiar smile of recognition.

 -        Mrs Bakshi! You, here in this rainy deserted evening? It can be dangerous, do you know there are leopards around? 

She chuckled, and replied,

 -        In that case you are equally at danger. Besides, I have Bagha to take care of me – she pointed at the rather benign-looking Labrador, happy to keep itself dry and cosy inside the car. I was sure Bagha would never step out in the rain to save his mistress in distress should the occasion arise.

 -        Don’t get wet in the rain, come, come, under this umbrella – she said.

 -        I am already wet – I said – but took a few steps forward towards the lady. Close enough to get a whiff of imported perfume she was wearing!

 -        So what’s happening? I asked.

 -       I got delivery of these concrete benches today, so what to do? Where am I going to lug them around? It’s best to place them at their locations right away. Will have to fix them to the ground later – can’t leave them loose like this forever or else these will be stolen.

 I slowly walked alongside her towards a bench placed under a lamppost with a high-powered sodium vapour lamp glowing brightly, dissipating the darkness that was slowly but steadily engulfing the surroundings.

 It was a solidly constructed concrete bench coated with red mosaic. On the backrest there was an engraving which read “My small initiative for the weary travellers who wish to rest their limbs a while – Vinit Ahuja”.

 Oh, so Vinit was Mr Ahuja’s name. Strange, it never had occurred to me that Ahuja Saab, like all of us, also had a first name. For me, he was only Ahuja Saab!

 Nevertheless, I couldn’t help asking,

 -        Vinit Ahuja – is that our Ahuja Saab? Why, where is he, what has happened to him?

 -        Oh, you didn’t know? Of course, how would you have known, he never disclosed his first name to anybody.

 -        Where is our good old man now? - I asked with a little trepidation, fearing the worst. By then, I was more or less sure that I would get all of Ahuja Saab’s whereabouts from Mrs Bakshi, irrespective of whatever relationships they shared.

 The unloading was almost done, save for one bench. Mrs Bakshi instructed the lorry driver to proceed to the next lamp-post which was about two hundred meters away for unloading, and then said,

 -        Come let’s walk – you can come under the umbrella, it’s still drizzling.

 As I walked alongside Mrs Bakshi, I enquired once more,

 -        But Ahuja Saab …what about –

 -        He’s no more - said Mrs Bakshi, almost inaudibly.

 -        What? For some reason, the news hit me hard even though I was expecting it. Anything could happen any day to an eighty-five-year-old, yet that evening it somehow left a lasting impact on me. Or perhaps it was the effect of the eerie surrounding…

 -        Yes, it’s almost a month now. In Chennai. From her voice, I could make out that Mrs Bakshi was on the verge of breaking down.

 -        But he was having sound health? How all on a sudden…

 -        He almost went blind in his left eye. We decided to consult Shankar Netralaya in Chennai. Ummm...it was my decision, really. They wanted to operate on his eye, and then somehow he picked up an infection … no antibiotics worked … complications went on increasing … he was moved to the Apollo Hospital. His conditions deteriorated rapidly. His vital organs, one by one, stopped functioning. And then one day his heart stopped.

 Mrs Bakshi was now sobbing, trying hard to control her emotions only to be betrayed by the teardrops than were trickling down her fair cheeks. I had no doubts that Ahuja Saab’s demise left a deep impact on her. I could sense that she was holding herself responsible for this tragedy. My hunch was confirmed when I heard her say.

 -        I shouldn’t have forced him to go to Chennai. He was managing well with his right eye. He could have easily lived a few more years. I… only I am responsible for this…

 -        I don’t think it’s proper for you to blame yourself. Whatever decision you took was for his well-being, wasn’t it? How were you to know that a minor operation could lead to such a severe infection? As far as I know, his sons live abroad. Weren’t they present during his last days?

 -        His elder son flew in from America, his middle son from Dubai. But none of them could perform the last rites. By the time they arrived, it was all over. Everything happened so swiftly…. mumbled Mrs. Bakshi.

 -        What about his youngest son and his wife. Ahuja Saab was particularly fond of his youngest bahu – he had confided in me once.

 Mrs Bakshi somewhat managed to gain control over her emotions. Wiping tears with her handkerchief, she said,

 -        He never kept any relations with his youngest son. For him, he was as good as dead. They never communicated with each other for years…

 While this news of Mr Ahuja’s broken relationship with his youngest son came as a minor shock to me, the old thorn of suspicion started pricking me yet again… How on earth did Mrs Pronita Bakshi manage to know so much about Ahuja Saab and his family? That she was very close to him was no secret, but how close was very close? Should I ask her point-blank on her relationship with Mr Ahuja? Wouldn’t it be too gross? As I was weighing the pros and cons on whether or not to ask Pronita Bakshi my inquisitions I saw her wipe her fair nose till it turned pale crimson and say,

 -        It’s good, we met here today. Before his death, Ahuja Saab remembered you.

 -        Me? My astonishment knew no bounds! – But he hardly knew me! I exclaimed.

 -        Yes. You. He had this extraordinary skill of gauging people even through the limited exchanges he had had with them.

 -        And what was his opinion on me?

 -        He held you in very high esteem. He told me to consult you should I face any problems in future.

 -        Consult me? On what?

 -        On anything, any earthly matters. He told me for whatever you were, you would never cheat anybody. Today I want a few advice from you. Would you oblige Mr? 

 By now I could feel an extra tautness in all my senses. What exactly was Mrs Bakshi planning to ask of me? I only hoped it had got nothing to do with Ahuja Saab’s jewellery and ornaments.

 -        Ok, ask – my voice cracked a little as I replied.

 -        Ummm…I don’t know how to make a start. Well, before his death as a testator he had given me all his properties through a will. I am now the legal heiress of his flat, his bank deposits and also the jewellery that belonged to his late wife. Honestly, I do not need any of his riches. I, therefore, used up the bulk of his bank deposits, cash and share certificates for these benevolent causes, like installing these benches, planting a lot of trees all over Mumbai. I also plan to sell his flat and open a trust for orphans and special children to cater for their studies. The problem is with jewellery. I have no clues as to what to do with them. You see, I do not wear any jewellery. But they have so much sentimental value attached to them that selling them would be a breach of trust to his departed soul. He trusted me so much. Before his death, he pleaded me not to sell them…in fact, he wanted me to use them…

 I saw Mrs Bakshi on the verge of breaking down, yet again.

 I cleared my voice, and asked her bluntly,

 -        Pray tell me, Mrs Bakshi, did you have any relationship with Ahuja Saab? Before I tell you anything on this, it’s important I know the truth.

 She did not immediately answer.

 I, however, was persistent.

 -        You have to tell me, dear Lady, what made you so close to Ahuja Saab? Why on earth did you go out of the way to take care of his well-being, and why the hell did he write every last bit of his nickel on your name when he had legal heirs in his three sons…

 Mrs Bakshi chuckled, mirthlessly. She weighed her thoughts in her mind for a while before letting them go,

 -        Why didn’t you any hear any stories on our so-called relationships? She stared at me, her left eyebrow revealing a hint of curve. For the first time, I noticed that she was indeed a beautiful Lady.

 -        Stories? What stories? I feigned innocence but it sounded unconvincing even to my own ears.

 -        C’mon mister. Luscious rumours involving Ahuja Saab and I completed full circles and managed to reach even my ears, and here you are telling me you haven’t heard anything at all? Am I to believe that?

 -        Oh, that. I overheard something gossips but did not believe a word. Usually, I distance myself from such sessions. They are not to my taste. Now, hopefully, you will come out with the truth.

 -        Come, let’s inaugurate that newly laid bench, shall we? She beckoned me to sit beside her.

 I sat beside her in the semi-darkness. Save for the croaking toads, screeching crickets and pitter-patter of the steady drizzle, everything was spookily silent. The sodium vapour lamps were fighting a losing battle against the pitch darkness of the Aarey woods. In the semi-darkness, Mrs Bakshi’s profile loomed like a fairy-tale princess. The fragrance emanating from her body, now stronger because I was downwind, almost brought Ahuja Saab back to life.

 Mrs Bakshi took a deep breath regained some poise and started:

-        Many years back, Ahuja Saab was posted in Calcutta, where I was born as Pronita Mukherjee. Don't be surprised, I too, am a Mukherjee like you! Ahuja Saab, along with his wife and youngest son Vipul, lived in a rented house in New Alipore. Our house. They lived on the ground floor while I with my parents lived on the first floor of our two storied home. I was very small, small enough to move around in Ahuja Uncle’s laps. His elder two sons lived in residential hostels, and would only come home during holidays. Right from those days, Uncle was very fond of me. He always aspired for a daughter. May be in me she found the daughter which he never could have. When I was in the ninth standard, Ahuja Uncle got transferred to Bombay. Those days Mumbai was still Bombay. This, however, was not a deterrent to break all contacts with us. He wrote to me regularly, telephoned me occasionally and even parcelled my new dresses for the Pujas. By virtue of living so long in Calcutta, Uncle was aware of all Bengali festivals and rituals. Five, perhaps six years passed. I got into a college. One fine morning Ahuja Uncle arrived in Calcutta, unannounced, with a marriage proposal. He wanted me as the bride for his youngest son Vipul. My parents, initially, were a little circumspect. How could a Bengali middle-class girl, brought up in Bengali culture, adjust in a Punjabi family who are culturally so different? However, Ahuja Uncle was not ready to relent so easily. Ultimately, his dogged persistence paid off. From my side, I had no problems. Vipul was four years older to me, and I knew him well enough to have my fears allayed, even though we were not in any relationship. So I had agreed. And then, ten years back, we got married, I must say, rather ceremoniously…

 I was completely flabbergasted! I simply couldn’t believe my ears.

 Mrs Bakshi is Ahuja Saab’s youngest bahu for the past ten years! How on earth was that possible? She, a Mukherjee, married to an Ahuja but now a Bakshi! Kind of confusing.

 Pronita Bakshi was sharp enough to read my mind. She continued with her amazing life story…

 -        Life is not always fulfilling, Mr Mukhopadhyay. Sometimes it can be cruel too. Soon after our marriage, we discovered Vipul and I had compatibility problems. I would not go into details why, because it’s not important in the context of today’s discussion. All I can say is the proposal of divorce had come from Vipul. Ahuja Saab – my papa-in-law – tried his best to persuade Vipul, but all his efforts were of no avail. Finally, in a blind fit of rage, he ordered him out of his home. Vipul, with all the adamancy he’d inherited, left his home forever.  My papa-in-law stood by me. “Don’t worry Pronu. As long as I am alive, no evil can ever touch you. I dented your life and I will make it up for you. I will get you married again – just keep faith in me girl” – he had said.

 Mrs Bakshi started sobbing again, this time uncontrollably, like a child.

 -        And soon enough – she said while weeping – he found a suitable Punjabi match for me. Mr Bakshi, my second husband, accepted me unconditionally...

 -        In that case, Mrs Bakshi, I suggest you do nothing with the jewellery, just keep them in the bank vault. Give it to your daughter or daughter-in-law who would proudly carry the Ahuja-Saab’s family tradition and sentiments to the generation next…and then the generation after…

 The rain intensified and with it Mrs Bakshi’s wailings…

                        

                                                             ******

I left the place with a pall of gloom and shame. The reason for gloom was because of Ahuja Saab’s demise. He, indeed, was a kind-hearted and jovial soul. I felt shameful, because of my stooping so low in assessing a clean and simple person like Pronita Bakshi. Shameful for being so judgmental, for allowing my intellect to clog and get influenced by petty gossips…

 Soon after this, I came to learn that Mrs Pronita Bakshi has moved out of Mumbai with her family. I do not know where, nor was I interested in knowing, because for me it was a closed chapter. Only the sturdy concrete benches remained to carry forward the memoirs of a young-old man – Vinit Ahuja…

 My story could have easily ended here, but for an incident which happened about a year after Mrs Bakshi left Mumbai for good.

 It was just the beginning of winter – if one can classify that as winter – in Mumbai. It was well passed Diwali, and the plumage in Aarey started losing it lushness with the advent of the fall. Memories of Ahuja Saab had faded considerably in our minds – the concrete benches notwithstanding.

 I spotted the snazzy black Mercedes just behind my puny little Wagon R by the roadside on our usual walking track.  I – for that matter anybody – couldn’t have missed it. Even though Mercedes is not so much of a rarity in Mumbai, there was nobody in the group who had had this treasured possession. 

The car came again on the next day, and again the day after. It wasn’t very difficult to identify the owners of the classy new machine. A good looking, made-for-each-other type middle-aged couple, dressed nattily in branded tracks and sneakers, along with headbands and other jogging accessories.

 We got two new inclusions in our group of walkers. As usual, daily meeting breeds familiarity, which slowly transcends into smiles, a friendly wave of hands and finally a formal introduction by shaking hands. With the new couple also it wasn’t different. Very soon they got introduced to the whole group little by little. One evening as I was parking my car behind his, the couple came down, locked his car with a flick of his remote and the man proffered his hand to me,

 -        Hi, I am Ahuja. Vipul Ahuja. Meet my wife, Sunita Ahuja.

 I introduced myself and asked,

 -        New in Mumbai?

 -        Ummm – ya, in a way yes. Returning to one’s home town after long, long, time is almost akin to arriving at a new city. Besides, Mumbai has undergone a sea change in its infrastructures.

 -        Are you suggesting Mumbai is your home town?

 -        Most definitely. This is where I was born, completed my education and started my professional career.

 -        By the way, your name made me curious. Do you happen to be in relation with one Mr Vinit Ahuja? He was a regular visitor to this place.

 -        Oh yes. You guessed it right. My Papa. In fact, my first visit to Aarey was with my Papa. I was still in school. This place used to be lonelier. Now I see a lot of vehicular traffic.

 -        I knew your Papa. He was a very nice and kind-hearted person. But you were settled in the Middle East, weren’t you?

 -        Yeah - but how do you know, oh I see, Papa must’ve told you, right?

 -        Yes, he often told stories about his sons and daughters-in-law. So what brought you back to India?

 -        I got a good offer in Mumbai. Honestly, there’s no place like home. I am glad I came back after spending fifteen long years in the Middle East, even though Sunita here doesn’t sometimes agree – said Vipul with a mischievous wink – she got too used to the Arabic lifestyle!

 I looked at Vipul’s pretty wife. She was a coy girl with wide deep-set eyes and springy curls leashed by an Adidas head-band who – unlike an average Indian middle-aged woman – had maintained herself well with controlled diet and callisthenics. He must have married him after his first marriage with Pronita failed. 

 -        So where did you get to meet each other, Madam – I asked, more to continue with the conversation than anything else.

 -        Why, here, in Mumbai. I am very much a Bombayite, like him – she said.

 -        Yes, we got married just before I left for Dubai, didn’t we Sunita? That’s about fifteen years ago. How time flies!

 Fifteen years! Vipul’s disclosure started reverberating in my ears with ever-increasing intensity. Didn’t Mrs Bakshi tell me a year back on the eventful monsoon dusk, here at this very location, that she got married to Ahuja Saab’s youngest son, Vipul about ten years ago, which is about eleven years ago from now…?

-      Didn't you spend part of your student life in Calcutta? - I managed to mumble.

-       Calcutta? Never been there. Are you from Calcutta?

-       Yeah, a long time ago...  I again mumbled incoherently, my mind clouded with thick cobweb. Or was it the effect of clearing of the cobweb that burdened me for since the day I first met Ahuja Saab at the Aarey Milk Colony?

 Vipul and his wife were carrying on some conversations on this and that of Mumbai, it's past and the present etcetera; only I wasn’t listening any more.

 I was in no state to listen, for my mind was occupied with all events on that fateful rain-soaked evening in Aarey with the fair and innocent heiress of Ahuja Saab that kept replaying over and over again kaleidoscopically…

 

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Mumbai, May 2003.