Her First Rally

The men stared at her pointedly: men in the metro stare at any female who wears jeans. It also helps if she's fair, has straight hair and chews her pen. She lent back against the door and sighed as she looked at the route-map that she knew like the insides of her house: another five stops after this one. She chewed her pen even more and nervously fidgeted around. Trying hard not to dwell on the number of people she would be addressing, she concentrated on her speech, on the basic framework, on the quote of VD Savarkar she had picked up from the Party' s students' manual.

"This station is Rajiv Chowk. Change here for the Blue Line"

The doors opened to a sea of desperate buzzing men, almost like a swarm of thirsty bees and they swept into the compartment, taking with them the few who had to get out.

Please stay clear of the doors.

The men against the tide panicked, pushed and squeezed their way through the now-closing doors in a manner that would have made Darwin proud.

Rana slouched in the driver's seat, legs sticking out of the car window, a burnt cigarette in his mouth, a half-smirk lining his unshaven, gaunt face. He coughed and spat, the cigarette flew out too. It provoked nervous laughter from the rest—he silenced it with some well-chosen words, soft and menacing. They sat there, the four of them, three behind, one by his side—staring at their watches, keeping an eye on those exiting the metro station and entering the car-park. Rana didn't like the air in the car, it was just too edgy—it was a simple job and yet, these stupid bacchas were afraid. First-timers were fun to boss around, but the onus of the entire thing fell squarely on Rana's shoulders, something that usually wouldn't have bothered him too much: if only these stupid kids stopped shifting so much in their seats.

"Open the windows. Now. I need fresh air" he said, and much to his consternation, there was more shuffling; and to drown it, he put the radio on and hummed along with one of the latest Punjabi Hits.


Another four stops to go, she thought. The tension, which had up to now been languishing unnoticed in the insides of her stomach, now crept up, above her chests and to her throat, where it settled, forming a big lump. Another strand went down from her stomach, paralyzing her legs, giving her pins and needles. To distract herself from her state, she stared back at a man who had been shamelessly staring at her ever since she got in: he looked away, embarrassed. And it hit her again: she was the face of the party; this was her first rally; hundreds, maybe thousands of people standing under the mellow sun, waiting for her, chanting her name. Her name.
The tension had finally got to her head.

"Let's go over this one more time, mother-fuckers" Rana said, stretching and cracking his knuckles.
They immediately all stiffened up, sitting upright, overtly attentive. It irritated him.
"She is tall, fair, wears black shades and an orange salwar. She boarded the 10 28 metro, which means she will be here in exactly .. " he paused, to look at his watch and continued, ".. 5 mins. I am guessing she will walk past us to her car, which I am unable to trace, but is somewhere here. Just stay calm and when she does walk by, get out and form a circle around her. I want no touching, understand: one hand on her and I'll fuck your sisters. Just surround her and shut up. No talking. I do all the talking. Who does all the talking?"
No answer. He looked around. The guy in the back seemed to almost cry softly.
"Bosudi-wale, do you want to go back to drinking your mothers' milk?" he bellowed.
If that had meant to be a war-cry to inspire, it inspired just one emotion: fear.
"It's a fucking female. We are NOT hitting anyone! No fights, just talking. What is wrong with you guys?"
That's when he noticed, following their gaze: at the edge of the car park, along their row, fifteen cars to the right, was a police car.
"Right" he said, not taking his eyes away, "these chutiyas had to turn up here also. Its ok, if we keep it quiet, they won't notice. Ok?"

"It is said, in the puranas that a leader is not—" she said in her head and paused. Something was not right.
She shut her eyes again, and focused. The words had to flow and yet be forceful and loud, it had to sweep people off their feet. Focus, she muttered. And then went again:
"It is said, in the puranas that a successful leader—"
The metro screeched to a halt just then, causing her to momentarily be imbalanced. She held onto the railing and looked around, hoping no one noticed.
Twenty pair of interested eyes stared back at her.
This station is ______.Please stay clear of the doors

Luckily, the phone rang just then, to distract her: it was a message wishing her luck, she read it, shrugged and looked up—two more stops to go.

'Now, men, get off. As quietly as you can" he said, opening the door and closed it with a soft click.
"And keep an eye on the—"
The rest of what he said was lost in three doors banging like gunshots in the still air. Instinctively, his eyes immediately ran to the policemen standing: they hadn't noticed. Rage filled him, he wanted to bang something too, someone's head maybe, but he held his calm and said:
"Silence people. Silence"
They stopped muttering, but he could sense their fidgetiness. It was getting to him now, making him nervous.

And then he saw her get out. He had never seen her before, but he knew it was her.
"Look!" the kid next to him bellowed and Rana was quick to stamp on his feet. It had the desired effect: he shut up.

She got out of the metro, made her way up the escalator. All was a blur now, she couldn't think anymore. Mechanically, she made her way up the stairs and walked in a haze until she realized she was going the wrong way. She pulled herself up, turned around and walked: the station was unfamiliar and she shouldn't be making such mistakes. Time was of essence. She made her way towards the correct exit, ignored the security guard whose eyes tracked her until she was finally out and breathed in the fresh late-winter, early-spring air. It had a refreshing, calming effect. She spotted the car she was supposed to take quite easily for there were few cars and walked towards it.


They saw her coming their way: she was something divine, Rana thought. He'd have much liked to woo her than threaten her. She walked gracefully, like an angel straight from the epics; her short kurti clung on to her body attractively; her shades were placed delicately over her fore-head.
Someone behind him whistled softly but suggestively. And he controlled the urge to smash him to pulp. Instead, he glanced quickly at the oblivious policemen and said just one word: Now.

And then she saw them and froze. She was afraid this would happen and had thus insisted on driving to the rally, all by herself. She thought no one knew how she was coming or where her car was.


The marched silently in a file and Rana stopped right in front of her, blocking her path. The rest formed a circle around her. He was impressed by their efficiency, but was far more impressed by how beautiful she was. For a second, he lost his bearings: the fear in her kohl-lined eyes nearly melted his heart, she was suddenly this delicate piece of crockery, to be handled with care. And then he heard himself say, in a voice whose texture sounded alien to him,
"Get into the car. And not a word"
She nodded mutely, weeping: tears trickled down her cheeks. Rana saw she hadn't expected this, not one bit, her face said it all.
The policemen were laughing; someone must have cracked a joke somewhere.

They had formed a circle around her now and she was left defenseless. How did they get to know? Who had told them? And how did none in her own party come to her rescue? She silently gave in to their demands and followed them in to the car. She didn't want this. She so didn't.



**********

"VOTE FOR US AND VOTE FOR HAPPINESS:SAGARIKA"
In a stunningly powerful first rally, the newly announced first-time candidate from the Students' Party, the attractive Sagarika, held the crowd of thousands a-sway in a forceful speech. Already famous, a darling of the local media due to her photogenic face, her new-age sense of style and vicious comments, Sagarika couldn't have hoped for a better debut.
Arriving in the media van (we got to her in spite of her trying to get off a stop in advance and giving us the slip!), Sagarika propounded her three-point agenda … "

FRIENDLY ABDUCTORS
In a strange case, a girl was abducted from the VV Metro station, only to be dropped back a few blocks from her house. She was unharmed and was only robbed off her wallet and mobile phone, not before the leader amongst them got her a rose and chocolates …

Colours Apart

We painted together. She chose her side of the sheet, I chose mine. We were always like that, respecting each other’s spaces. I drew a tree; she drew a Rajasthani woman, complete with red sari, silver earrings, and a waist that would set several roadside loafers’ hearts a-flutter; I pictured them too, those loafers, perched by a wall between my tree and her woman, popping peanuts, clad in designer jeans (jeans with designs), ogling, high-fiving, laughing, commenting. Instead, I drew a Sufi saint. Dancing perhaps, I don’t know. Subjectivity in art was my forte—even the question of the saint’s clothes were ambiguous, the top half seeming to suggest some type of a shawl, the bottom more like the Emperor’s New Clothes.

She looked at my Sufi and grimaced. I knew what was coming; she would first run her hands through her hair, bite the tip of her brush and let the words form in her head. And then they would pour—words poured for her, never flowed nor stumbled—she thought (and therefore spoke) faster than most people I knew and you had to listen to her in slow-motion for the first time if it had to make any sense to you.
What a waste of a pretty Rajasthani, she was saying, but I barely paid any attention.
Its good to be abstract and everything, but there is a time and a space for it all, she continued.
Time and place, time and space. Typical.
The woman is so precise and decked, with intricate details assuming precedence over long sweeping brush-strokes, she ploughed on.
Sweeping—her once-favourite adjective, only to be replaced by a string of better ones. Wonder if that’s how she is with her men too?
It is ok for the tree to be the way it is; it’s not a person and trees are meant to be flowing.
I’ll miss her flowing trees and singing chairs, oh yes I will, but it’s better now that later.
But the Sufi? He’s like this Bugs Bunny in a Nishant or .. WILL you please STOP giving me that DEMENTED smile?

“Huh?” I said and immediately wiped clean my smile and said uncertainly “Um … The Sufi is abstract because Sufis are abstract. Their whole existence—“
“The Sufis have figured things out” she snapped. “They think very clearly. I don’t see why they should be termed abstract”
“Abstractness and clarity are both subjective terms” I said, having had time to gather my thoughts, and continued “What is crystal-clear to the Sufi is still very abstract to us. And since we live by the rules of a democracy, definitely, by the simple fact that there are more normal people than Sufis , Sufis are abstract by majority vote” I said triumphantly, and added, without thinking,” Its like a solar eclipse or something ”
“You do realize that I have dated you for a couple of years now and will not fall for that old say-something-absolutely-random-in-order-to-appear-brilliant trick”

And that was why we were splitting ways: we knew each other too well. And yet, we rarely agreed on anything. And with time, we were less willing to compromise. And towards the end, we clung on to anything similar—like the fact that we both liked an almost universally acclaimed movie or that we both preferred rich sweet lassi to bad milk tea on a roadside dhabha—as a sign that we were meant to be together. Our love, however, was slipping through, like sand through a clenched fist, and the tighter we held, the faster it slipped. Eventually, we decided that enough was enough. I was glad it was an amicable split.
Even that day, our last day together, I think I nursed a hope, a silent one at that, that maybe, just maybe, she’d just read into my mind and would, out of the blue, say something that would shock me—that would tell me that we were just meant to be.

She walked up to me and placed our clearly abstract painting on my lap and said “Keep it. I want to paint again. Alone”
See, I told you, we were just not meant to be.
“I guess I’ll just go and watch TV”
“Suit yourself”

I don’t know when I had dozed off or for how long I had slept. But, when I awoke, I knew she was gone. I rubbed my eyes, and stretched and yawned and walked up to the kitchen for some water when something in the study caught my eye. It was the painting, her painting: there was a Rajasthani woman, precise and detailed, on the right side. There was a tree, much like my own, flowing and colourful, on the left. And in the space in between, perched on a wall, there were loafers popping peanuts, wearing designer jeans (jeans with designs), ogling at the woman, laughing and hi-fiving.