KOFFEE WITH KIRAN
CHAPER - 3
Emon pulled out of the parking space of his apartment building with a nostalgic feeling. The relatively sparse traffic on the road surprised him. He thanked his stars for that. He pushed himself further into the seat, trying to make his driving a little more gratifying. At the Bandra causeway junction, he stopped the car, as the light changed from amber to red. He was unconsciously humming a popular Hindi song, when a small boy holding a stack of books-newspaper-magazines came near his car, knocking on the window. He showed him the headlines of "Mid-day", a very popular afternoon newspaper, to arouse his interest. The trick worked, Emon picked up the newspaper after lowering the glass window.
“How much?” he asked.
“Three Rupees,” replied the boy, shifting the books from his right hand to the left because of the discomfort. The precariously stacked books had little support except for the palm of his hand and his small chest. But like a professional juggler, he maintained his grip and rhythm.
Emon picked up the change from the dashboard. He paid him three rupees, which the boy pocketed with amazing ease. He was about to press the button, to raise the glass, when the boy started displaying books and magazines with his free hand.
“Sahab, this is a good book, buy it. I have just one copy left,” the boy pleaded, pointing towards a popular book.
Emon was not a native of Mumbai where culture evolved on daily basis. He thought the word “Sahab” which loosely meant “Sir” was used indiscriminately and without any emotion in the city. He always smiled when he was addressed as “Sahab“. He did the same now.
“How do you know? Have you read the book?” Emon asked, still smiling at the young entrepreneur.
“No Sahab,” replied the young boy, his freckles glowing softly in the sunlight. “I would not have sold news papers on the signals, if I was a literate.”
Emon immediately regretted his comment. To ease the boy’s embarrassment he asked, “Then how do you know this book is good.”
The boy again shifted his wares, but this time the other way.
“Because I have sold many copies, Sahab.”
Convinced by his logic Emon continued the conversation with him.
“Sorry, but I have already bought a copy of this book.”
“Then buy some magazine Sahab,” the boy requested, with a hint of desperation in his voice. He was aware of the signal timings. He knew he had less than a minute to make the deal or he would lose another potential customer.
Emon was about to refuse him, when he caught a glimpse of Kiran’s picture on the cover of a leading film magazine. He was now sure something was wrong with her face. It was still beautiful but had it not been for her eyes he would have found it difficult to recognize her.
“I will buy that magazine. How much does it cost?”
“Two Hundred, Sahab,” replied the boy, smiling, having successfully clinched the deal.
Pointing towards Kiran’s picture he continued in his street smart language, “Sahab, this actress will be the next Madhuri Dixit of Bollywood.”
Emon paid him the money.
He could not help but chuckle at the young peddler’s comments. “Here, take the money. I am impressed with your knowledge and judgment. Yes, even I believe she will be the number one actress in future.”
Meanwhile, disgruntled drivers started honking as the signal light turned green. He pressed the button to roll up the window, shifted gear and moved with the traffic flow. From the side view mirror he saw the boy waving with his free hand and then saluting him.
At the next red signal, Emon took a peek at the headlines. It suddenly dawned on him, that the sparse traffic had nothing to do with his stars. It was a Sunday. He smiled at the way his life had transformed in the last three years, free from the shackles of ‘time’. There were no commitments to the number of hours he had to put in, nor did he have to worry about weekdays and weekly break. One of the perks of being a writer, he thought.
He could never figure out the days because he from home. Even Anoushka worked three hundred sixty five days a year.
He put on the radio to check if there were any traffic jams on his route. He thought it was a smart move from the FM channels like Radio Mirchi and Radio City to broadcast traffic situation across Mumbai for their listeners. Fortunately, there were none and he reached the airport on time. He parked his car in the exclusive parking area reserved for the press; a privilege, which he still misused, even after he discontinued working for the small afternoon newspaper some time back.
Melancholy gripped him as he reached the terminal. He could never stand airports or for that matter railway stations, bus stations, where people separated from their loved ones. The visit to the airport always depressed him where people hugged their family and parted ways, the pain and anguish clearly visible on their faces. Even now, he saw a newly wed girl, judging from the fresh floral henna prints on her hands, crying inconsolably on her father’s shoulders near the departure lounge. The ambience of the place made him emotional. Every time he came here, his eyes wetted and the painful lump in his throat returned. God change me, he would plead. Reluctantly, he shifted his thoughts from the girl to the big monitor hung above. He was in luck again. The flight had just landed.
Emon loved the smell that emanated whenever the automatic sliding doors opened; sending out ripples of cold air along with a mixture of thousand different perfumes. Just the smell of this magical air sent him on an emotional journey across the world.
Sid was the first passenger from the New York flight to come out of the gate.
Tall, heavily built with thick a moustache he was a brand freak and always wore designer clothes and accessories. Emon had never seen him wearing anything ordinary, even during his struggling days. He waved, after seeing him through the glass partition.
“Hey, good to see you,” Sid said, shaking hands.
“You look great . The jacket suits you,“ Emon commented.
Sid beamed happily. Emon picked up his second bag, leading the way towards the parking area.
As soon as he fastened his seat belts Sid removed the Blackberry from his shirt pocket. With amazing speed he composed and sent an Email. Emon shook his head in disbelief. He knew Sid for almost four years. In all these years his habits did not change. Even today he preferred sending mails and SMS’s to people rather than talking to them. Once they hit the road he lit two cigarettes and passed one to Emon.
“Sent a mail to Jenny, informing her that I have rreached Mumbai safely,” Sid said, as if reading his mind.
“She gets worried if I forget to inform her,” he continued, taking a deep drag.
“You are lucky to have such a devoted secretary.”
“I know,” he said.
Emon noticed a sudden change in the tone. Was there something to it, he thought. He looked at him and saw a strange expression on his face.
“Hey buddy, are you okay?”
“Yes, of course," he said, stammering a little. "How is Anoushka?”
“Fine,” Emon replied, “She could not come to receive you, caught up with some urgent work in the office. She will see you in the evening.”
“No problems.”
Sid turned around and picked up his bag from the back seat. He removed a carton of Lucky Strike and set it delicately on the dashboard.
“For you.”
“Thanks.”
‘I have brought a beautiful gold watch for Anoushka, hope she likes it.”
“I am sure she will. So, how was the trip?”
“Jai Ho,” he said, the latest buzz word; alternative for Excellent.
A deep roaring sound caught Sid’s attention. He turned his head and saw a brand new Mitsubishi Pajero. He continued looking at the vehicle till he lost eye contact with it. Emon smiled. He knew Sid was fond of big cars, especially the SUV’s.
“I will give you the details when we reach home," he continued, stamping his feet on the floor mat to dislodge the ash which had fallen on his handcrafted moccasins.
There was a momentary pause before he continued.
“I have good news for Anoushka. One of the top international fashion houses is interested in hiring her.”
“It is between you and her. Don’t involve me.”
Anoushka was a fashion designer by profession, working for “The Glitterati”, one of the top fashion houses in India. She was the one who transformed it from an unknown name to what it was today, an institution in the fashion circles. She was second in command, very passionate and highly talented.
“I don’t understand what she sees in that son of a bitch. She should have left him long back. Her boss is an opportunist and a pig,” Sid said, rolling down the glass pane, and flicking away the cigarette butt.
“The name is Sahil,” Emon reminded him.
“So? That does not give a passport to exploit people.”
Emon was surprised at his reaction. Over the years his friend had changed. He had begun to hurt many people, but fortunately, he still remained the ‘good old Sid’ for his friends at least.
Suddenly, out of nowhere, a child ran across the road. Emon instinctively applied the brake, stopping the car just inches from the boy and the traffic signal pole. The boy was so scared, he bolted across the road and vanished out of sight. He was about to curse him when his eyes swept over the signal lights. It glowed red. GOD, I could have killed the child, he thought.
“Emon, are you okay?” Sid asked, adjusting his seatbelt. He pushed himself back and continued. “Shit, I think I had a heart attack.”
Embarrassed, Emon swore profusely.
“I am sorry, Sid. I was in my own thoughts.”
“You haven’t changed at all, have you?” Sid asked, watching him closely for the first time since he got in the car. “You were an emotional fool then, and even now.”
After a brief silence Sid continued.
“Look, you have a house, a car and a loving wife with a big contract in your pocket. So what is bothering you? Aren’t you happy, Emon?”
“You have got it all wrong. I am very happy and contented with my life,” Emon said, punching him lightly on the shoulder. They did not talk much after that. Sid shuffled between his Blackberry and the newspaper, while Emon drove watchfully, avoiding crowded roads.
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