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  ‘I’m going to Jaipur, not hell!’

  Chapter 4

  HOW DID NEEL MEET THE GIRL?

  It’s 7.02 am. The Indigo Airlines flight touches the aerodrome of Jaipur. This is the first time Neel has come out of Kolkata to a new city—Jaipur. All his life, his parents have made him tread on one single track: first school to home-home to school, and then college to home, home to college. It’s only when Titiksha came into his life that he started going out a bit—malls, cafes, restaurants, even though not very regularly since Titiksha is a workaholic. While others would look forward to a Friday night, Titiksha would look forward to get back to work soon.

  As Neel confessed earlier, the work-obsessed streak in Titiksha is only because she wants to secure their future together. She has never told Neel much about her family except that her parents hate her independent streak as much as she hates their regressive mindset. And that she has been on her own financially from a long time now though she is only twenty-five. Is it because she never had a cohesive family to begin with that she wants to desperately make one with Neel? As a child whatever you think you deserve but miss in life, you go after it like a hunter dog the moment you become an adult. What Titiksha doesn’t know is Neel’s parents have told him that they are friends with her family and have no problem with them living together. Neel has kept this family-friendship part a secret from Titiksha fearing her reaction. She reacts weirdly at times, and violently too, to insignificant things.

  Twenty minutes after the flight has parked itself, Neel comes out from the airport exit. It’s a small airport and everything is in order. There is a sizeable crowd maybe because of the popular annual literary festival, Neel guesses, which draws literature lovers to Jaipur from across the globe.

  As Neel moves out, a few taxi drivers clog him. Neel feels nervous with this sudden attention but he doesn’t make it obvious. For a moment, he thinks he should have carried on working in the private bank in Kolkata. To be where one always is, seems comfortable all the time. But now he has taken a decision, and his being in Jaipur is a consequence of it. Life is anyway a tennis-match of sorts between one’s choice and its consequence. As Neel ponders which cab to choose, studying the eager looking faces of the drivers, a short and stout man with a bushy hairdo and long sideburns reminiscence of the 70s, comes to him pushing the other cab drivers aside.

  ‘Dur hato madarchodo. Yeh mera hai,’ Neel hears him say as the man snatches his American Tourister bag from him. The other drivers move away to other passengers.

  ‘Is taraf sir sahib,’ the man says while walking away from him and towards the other side of the road where most of the cars are parked. Neel follows him urgently lest the man steal his Tourister.

  ‘Myself Lappan sir sahib. Your flight is early or I is late?’ His English makes Neel avoid answering immediately.

  ‘My flight landed early,’ Neel eventually says after a long pause.

  ‘Thank Godji. I’m pick you up and drop you on Diggi Palace. You have booking?’

  ‘I have a booking?’

  ‘Yes sir sahib. You are Neel Chatterjee, right sir sahib?’

  ‘That’s right. But who booked a hotel for me? And how do you know me?’

  ‘I.’ Lappan focusses on the traffic as he takes a left from a signal.

  ‘You?’

  ‘I not knowing you, sir sahib. Same people who booked I for you.’

  ‘Who is that?’

  ‘Titiksha ma’am. She emailed me your foetoo. So I know you.’

  ‘Foetoo?’

  ‘Yes. Foetoo-garph.’ Lappan takes off his hands from the steering wheel and turns to gesture Neel what exactly he means.

  ‘Photograph.’ Neel makes a correct guess.

  Initially Neel was feeling uncomfortable because the car had transparent windows. In Kolkata he always moved in his father’s car which had black tinted windows. He is feeling okay with every passing second.

  So typical of Titiksha, Neel thinks to himself, beating his fingers rhythmically on the seat reacting to the song playing on the car’s radio. Whenever they fight, Titiksha stops talking, but makes sure all is fine with him. This is one reason why Neel thinks he will always love Titiksha. She may fight like a bitch but always cares for him like a mother. He wants to call her and give her a long kiss but he knows she won’t pick up. A faint smile appears on his face. He knows Titiksha will continue to avoid him till he goes back to Kolkata and pleads mercy by promising her that he has given up his dream of becoming an author. But, will he be able to back track on this decision? His smile dries up. No, he won’t go back to the mundane life he has been living as a bank employee. That’s death and he won’t be able to live death anymore. Neel has understood life is too rare an occurrence to waste it doing something other than what you want to.

  ‘Jaipur you come first time, sir sahib?’ Lappan speaks.

  ‘First time.’

  Lappan slows down the car, rolls down his window pane, looks to his right, and folds his hands in a namaste, touching his forehead. A curious Neel follows his sight and realizes they have just passed by a small Shiva temple below an archaic looking tree.

  As Lappan’s foot presses on the accelerator again, he glances at the mirror atop and smiles at Neel.

  ‘You believes Godji, sir sahib?’

  Belief is a tricky word Neel has never come to terms with. What to believe and what not to? Is belief a product of a personal experience or a subliminal acceptance of an already prevailing protocol?

  ‘Yes,’ Neel lies. The truth is he hasn’t been able to understand the concept of God ever. Or religion for that matter. All he has inferred is men love to make shelters for themselves; from psychological to emotional to spiritual. God is one such shelter. Love is another. Probably.

  They arrive at yet another traffic signal. Traffic is heavier here. Lappan turns off the car’s engine, takes out a cigarette from his jacket’s pocket, and lights it. As he exhales in peace, the smoke slowly floats in the air to reach Neel. He feels a knot in his stomach while inhaling it. In that chilly winter morning, a sweat drop trickles down his sideburn. Another travels down his forehead. His breaths suddenly become shorter and faster than normal. He is looking at the cigarette obliquely, almost petrified. He thinks he may choke to death. Neel tries to unlock the car’s door and move out but he isn’t able to. He screams out for help clenching his throat which seems to be narrowing down. By the time Lappan turns to realize what’s happening, Neel manages to unlock the door and stumbles out. People around don’t care. The traffic signal turns green. A biker applies brake else he would have almost hit Neel. He hurls abuses at Neel and drives off. People have stopped in their tracks to see what the commotion is about. Neel has managed to get what he abhors—everyone’s attention. He is all the more nervous. Lappan gets out of the car and tries to help Neel get up.

  ‘What happened, sir sahib? How you get out?’

  ‘That thing…’ Neel tries to point out but there’s no cigarette with Lappan now.

  ‘What thing, sir sahib?’ Lappan looks genuinely concerned.

  ‘The smoke…’ Neel is feeling a tad better now but he has brought half the traffic to an unnecessary halt.

  ‘Oh! I not knowing cigarette air is bad for you, sir sahib,’ Lappan says finally getting the point.

  ‘Sorry sir sahib. But please get inside the car now else the police kicking my hard pumpkin behind harder,’ Lappan says guiding Neel into the car.

  Cigarette…its smell brought back something. Something vague and warped.

  Neel is satisfied with the room Titiksha has booked for him. After a quick hot shower, he comes out to see his breakfast laid out on the table. But he leaves it untouched since the day’s events at the literary festival venue have commenced. He knows this because his hotel—the Diggi Palace—is also the venue of the festival, and at that very moment, he can hear a lady sing an Indian classical song. The festival schedule said the song shall start the proceedings for the day. But what he is troubl
ed about is why Titiksha took care of his hotel bookings when she doesn’t want him to become an author in the first place. Does it show she is actually coming to terms with his decision to become an author? She has to; reconsideration is out of the question for him. Neel picks out a well ironed beige coloured kurta, a Nehru jacket, and a pair of jeans to wear.

  He is now at the Front Lawns where one of the talk sessions is in progress. Multiple such sessions have started simultaneously at a few more places within the Diggi Palace. But Neel decides to be in the Front Lawns for he has heard a lot about the author who is speaking now.

  Neel looks for an empty seat. But there’s none left. He looks around. He finds a bit of space for standing on the other side beside a cameraman. From there it may be difficult to see the author but he will be able to see him clearly on the giant screen which is at an angular direction from the cameraman.

  Neel goes there and stands with folded hands admiring the international author on the screen. He is yet to read any of his books but he stands with an expression as if he has read, analysed, and re-read all his works more than the author himself. He glances at the crowd and realizes most of them have a clone of his expression on their faces. Are they all being pretentious like him?

  He is an international author known for his unconventional, almost pushing onto profanity for many, take on relationships. This author’s latest book, which is also available in the festival’s bookstore, talks about a memory pill which, when popped, helps people select their memories, and how a small town decides to hold an annual sex day every year where anyone can sleep with anyone with the choice of the memory being with oneself. What the author claims and wants to relay through his work is the possible memory of something and its uncontrollable ramifications that makes people often shy away from their innate wants and desires. If human beings, the author says, were not capable of making memories, then as a race our dark desires wouldn’t have had any filters.

  Some people applaud the author’s thought, certain women wonder how rough the author would be in bed, few detest his thoughts, and the rest behave they understood whatever the author is saying by nodding their heads constantly.

  For the next forty minutes, the author talks about what all hardships he faced prior to getting published, his style of writing, and why people should write. He believed that writing is the most effective and constructive stressbuster. The audience is allowed to ask questions. Neel has a question ready in his mind. He raises his hand too like others, and his turn comes after three questions have been asked. The people present are looking at him with anticipation, making him more nervous. He sees himself on the screen and doesn’t like it. He puts across his question to the author uncomfortably.

  ‘What should a debutant author do when he wants to tell a story but he has none?’

  ‘Well, in that case, sir,’ the author says in his native accent, ‘You have to simply wait for the story to come to you.’

  People applaud as the convener of the session announces the author will be available for a book signing event opposite the Mughal Tent. The crowd disperses. Neel stands there. He is in a dilemma: whether to go for a quick breakfast since his stomach is churning or to get the author’s autograph. For that he will have to buy his book first from the book store in the campus. Breakfast! He decides and follows the crowd to the other side of the venue where there’s a coffee-sandwich-tea corner. But the queue is too long. Precisely then the man across the counter shouts at him, ‘Sir, your chicken grilled sandwich.’

  Neel is taken aback. He is not even in the line, and he has been offered a sandwich. And it’s the exact one he had eyed after seeing the menu pinned on the nearby wall.

  ‘Mine? Are you sure?’ Neel inquires.

  ‘Yes. That’s what the girl said. She has even paid for it. Please take it.’

  ‘Girl? Which girl?’ Neel says in surprise. For a second he wonders if Titiksha has followed him to Jaipur. The very thought gives him the creeps.

  The man gives Neel a your-shit-is-not-my-shit glance and gets busy catering to another customer. He clearly doesn’t have time for this. Neel turns to see if there’s anyone looking at him. Girl, the man had said. People around are in small groups, busy, either chit-chatting or having their breakfast. The ones who are standing alone are busy talking on their phones. Then he notices a girl walking away rather urgently and yet not quickly enough for him to not notice her. Gaping at her butt with his mouth half open, Neel’s first thought is—a perfect butt—one that could arouse even a hermit. She is wearing such taut cotton trousers that they define her butt’s shape in a left-nothing-to-imagination manner. And as she walks her left butt cheek wiggles in a funny manner. Isn’t she aware so many would be checking out her butt right now? Neel looks around to realize nobody except him checking her out. He feels ashamed but the temptation ahead of him wins. Sometimes it doesn’t matter how sure one is about one’s moral lock, someone does turn up and twists open that lock. The girl has just done that to Neel.

  The girl turns ever so lightly, just enough for her to see Neel. He notices her noticing him. Is she the one who bought him the chicken grilled sandwich? The girl slips her hand in her back pocket and brings out her mobile phone. Neel now knows it was the phone’s vibration that made her left butt-cheek wiggle funnily. She smiles at Neel. It is difficult for him to see her face since she is wearing big shades covering most of her face. Neel gives a compulsive smile. She takes a turn towards the Front Lawn where he was minutes ago. She has to be the one! Neel infers from the smile she gave him. Certain smiles are subtle clues to profound secrets of the heart. He goes running towards her but she is nowhere in sight. She should be somewhere in the crowd, Neel tells himself. He will find her and pay for the sandwich.

  He keeps thinking how did she know he likes chicken grilled sandwich, and more importantly why did she buy it for him.

  Right then the author’s words ring in his ears: You’ll have to wait for the story to come to you.

  Neel is shaving inside the bathroom by the mirror atop the washbasin and shaving. He only has a towel wrapped around his waist. He keeps pulling it up every time it slips down, exposing his butt cleavage. As he shaves he keeps thinking about Titiksha and himself. From the time their relationship began, both kept dabbing emotional makeup, one day at a time, to remain appealing to each other, for each other. But now they have put on so much makeup that the real emotion seems to have lost forever. Why is he thinking like this? He has called Titiksha many times since last night but she has not picked up his call even once. He left her two messages as well:

  Message one at 9.33 pm: Thanks for the hotel booking

  Message two at 11.38 pm: I am missing you a lot

  In the morning he got a reply but isn’t sure which message did she respond to.

  Titiksha’s reply at 7.02 am: Okay

  The minimalistic reply had the perfume of arrogance sprayed all over it. Should he act like a snob too? Or should he try hard to pacify her? Should he abuse her and make her his emotional slave or should he simply beg for mercy? What should he really do? With this question in mind, Neel takes a shower, dries himself, and rummages through his Tourister to find his best outfit. Why is he doing that? He can wear anything. Nobody is coming to see him. Nobody? Really?

  One simple action—a turn of head and a smile—and how someone can hook a person. That’s what the girl with big shades and a perfect butt did. Along with the girl’s piercing look, Neel also remembers the chicken grilled sandwich she bought for him just like that. But why him of all people?

  It is funny how you meet an absolute stranger who pulls you in a mystic way, drowning you into a sea of questions. You fight hard to swim in the beginning. But with each passing day, as each question gets answered, you learn to swim in the sea. The stranger becomes an acquaintance and the attraction turns into once-upon-a-time kind of a fairy tale. Neel hasn’t been able to forget the girl from Diggi Palace because of the sea of questions she has immersed him in: Who is
she? Why did she buy him the sandwich? Was she planted by Titiksha to spy on him? Will she be there in the festival today as well? It’s in response to the last question that he wants to be at his best attire: a black kurta this time with the same black Nehru jacket he had worn on the first day of the festival. He empties half the perfume bottle on himself. He didn’t do so yesterday. The girl with the big shades and perfect butt has, in an incredible manner, managed to alter his preferences. The thought makes him shrug at his reflection in the mirror. He changes his hair parting from right side to a bit in the middle. He thinks he looks smarter this way contrary to what Titiksha thinks. But today she isn’t around him. He can be himself. If that’s really the case then what is he in front of her? Who is he in front of her?

  Neel reaches the Darbar Hall at 9.05 am. The session on ‘How to write a bestseller’ is going on with full gusto. This time Neel gets a seat next to a girl. He looks at her from the corner of his eyes not sure if it’s the same girl he saw yesterday. She is reading the festival schedule. Neel looks up and sees the author on the stage animatedly declaring to the audience that ‘a bestseller cannot be planned’ and that ‘one needs to connect to the readers in order to feature in the bestseller’s list’. What he doesn’t say is that every month he has a dedicated PR team who makes sure they buy 70 percent of the overall sales of his book for the month, keeping his book in the coveted bestselling list for most part of the year.

  Neel notices the girl sitting next to him toying with a cigarette between her fingers. Neel swallows a lump in his throat and gets up. There’s a sudden escalation in his breathing. But nothing worrisome happens because he shifts his place quickly.