IPKKND FF: JALEBI by Jalebi Jane Thread 1: EPISODE 001-042 - Page 63

JALEBI by Jalebi Jane (EPISODE 027)

I HONOUR YOUR FORBEARANCE, SISTERS. I take liberties that no storyteller has a right to. Not only do I constantly interrupt the narrative with my wild speculations and audacious opinions, but I have often left you hanging at the cliff's edge for weeks (months!) at a time.

Yet you have borne it all beautifully.

Indulge me once again. Permit me to steal you away from the three girls in Janakpuri and convey you across the city to Fatehpuri, where at this very moment an interesting meeting is about to take place between Pari's determined suitor and hopeful lover, Aman Behl, and Pari's established guardian and protective Dadasaheb, Professor Khan.

"Have you been waiting to see me, son?" demanded a stern voice from outside Aman's vehicle. It was accompanied by a sharp double-tap on the car window. The sound made when the tip of the questioner's walking stick met against the glass.

Aman almost jumped.

So absorbed had he been in his phone conversation with the private detective, Mr Chopra, that he had failed to notice the elderly gentleman's approach.

This was entirely uncharacteristic. For when one has spent one's early life scrabbling in the streets to survive---as Aman had---one has an acute awareness of one's environment at all times. It was one of those self-preservation mechanisms that had never left Aman even when his environment had ceased to be hostile.

He realized he was being questioned by no other than Pari's Dadasaheb. Pari's grey-green eyes---the sea in which Aman had so often drowned---were before him; no less striking, except, of course, far less alluring.

But wait! What was Aman even doing in Fatehpuri? Or more specifically---what was he doing outside the house which Pari shared with her grandfather at this early morning hour?

Aman scrambled out of the car, and even though he had been caught off guard, he managed a decorous adaab.

His greeting was returned graciously but those Pari-like eyes narrowed as though they were sifting through their memory bank. "Which year do you belong to?"

"Which year?" Aman repeated.

"Yes-yes. In which year were you my student?" the Professor asked, a hint of impatience creeping into his tone. It was the irritation of one frustrated by his own forgetfulness.

Aman then made the connection. Of course. As a retired professor from the University, Dadasaheb had assumed that any young person parked near his home must be a former student waiting to consult with him.

But before Aman could correct that impression, he had waved aside his own question and ushered Aman down the lane, towards the front door of the house. "Come along then. Come into the house. I'm too old to discuss your future prospects leaning against the car---"

The old man, moving faster than anticipated, was nearly at the door before Aman realized that he must be stopped.

Immediately!

What would Pari think if she found Aman---bina invitation; bina warning---in her front room? With her grandfather?! She would naturally resent his presumption. What girl would not?

Aman had known for many months that one day he intended to make Parisa Khan his wife. But she had no knowledge of how far his heart had travelled in this direction. All she had agreed to---as yet!---was a matinee this Saturday. And all his objective for this morning had been was to wait a respectable distance from her house and surprise her with a lift to the office. An affectionate gesture, no more. An opportunity to spend a few moments with her outside Headquarters. A simple pleasure which their professional relationship thus far had not allowed, but one that was not so inappropriate now that there was no hierarchy between them. They could relate as equals; both employees of Arnav Singh Raizada.

But he saw now that this sudden appearance, this impulse to surprise her, might unravel all his future hopes.

"One moment, please!" In his voice was a firm---even agitated---tone which told Dadasaheb that something was awry. He stopped and Aman explained, "I am not a former student. My name is Aman Behl and I work---"

"---Aman Behl!" It was Dadasaheb's turn to be surprised. "A name I know as well as my own! You're Pari's supervisor at the textile house. She's always speaking of your kindness to her."

Aman exhaled with relief, and was launching into a speedily crafted explanation to account for his presence in their neighbourhood when a perplexed look suddenly clouded Dadasaheb's eyes.

"But wait! Pari's already left for the office to meet with you. She told me that you had requested she come in early this morning to attend to some urgent work. Yet here you are. Did you come to fetch her? Surely there has been some miscommunication between you two---" With a concerned brow, he broke off his sentence, reached into his pocket, drew out a telephone and peered at the screen. "Let me see. She always sends a message once she reaches the office---" He soon smiled and said, showing Aman the text message on the phone, "See! She's already there."

Well, we all know that Arnav Singh Raizada had not employed a fool as his right-hand man. Aman understood what was required of him for Pari's sake. He must keep up his end of her fabrication.

He gave a rueful laugh. "My mistake," he explained, "I thought that to compensate for calling her into work early, I would give her a lift. I presumed she would not yet have left home. Entirely my error. I should have called before coming."

It seemed Dadasaheb accepted his explanation, for his next words were, "well, then you better go now. Go quickly! She must be waiting for you." And then with the same energy that he had earlier employed in drawing Aman towards the house, he now used it to hasten the young man away.

Aman said the appropriate things and returned to the vehicle. But his mind was beleaguered with what this conversation implied. He would have preferred to remain parked under that tree for a few moments to consider the matter; however, Dadasaheb stood in the sun, waving him off.

Aman entered traffic and negotiated the required lane changes, his attention not behind the wheel but on his questions.

Why had Parisa concocted an excuse to leave the house early? Where had she gone? And with whom?

And let me say this, Sisters, that perhaps if he had not been so besotted with Pari, he might have found many benign reasons for why a young woman would tell an occasional lie to enjoy some freedom away from her over-protective grandfather.

But Aman was deeply smitten with Miss Khan. Thus he could only think along that one disturbing track: Pari had gone to meet a lover.

The mere idea soured his mind and sickened his stomach. Still driving, he telephoned security at ASR Headquarters. It was a very-brief very-disappointing conversation. No, Miss Parisa Khan had not yet signed in this morning.'

So. She was certainly not at the office.

From this knowledge, Aman's tormented mind formed a picture of a couple locked in passionate embrace; the man was not Aman but the woman was the woman whom Aman had admired, desired and loved for over a year.

Then all those latent doubts, whom someone with Aman's history never outgrows, began to surface. One by one, they mocked him. They asked whether he might have misread Pari's interest. Yes, she had appeared pleased about their Saturday plans, but had the excitement been solely for the chance to see that Bobti-Sobti film? His mind then scrutinized their text conversation from last night. Yes, she had seemed flirtatious, but had his desire projected more meaning into her words than she intended?

And thus he tortured himself, eventually reaching the punishing conclusion: How could he have ever had the audacity to dream that a woman from a respectable home would attach herself to a man who could not even name his own father?

He had just entered the underground parkade when his phone rang. It was Pari.

Aman infused his greeting with cool indifference: "Yes?"

Pari: Good morning! How are you? Are you at the office?

Aman: No. Are you?

Pari: No.

Aman: At home?

Pari: No. Uhm. I'm at a friend's home.

Aman: What can I do for you?

Pari: Do for me?---

Aman: You called. There must be a reason.

Pari: [pause] Is something the matter?

Aman: I'm driving.

Pari: Oh, I'm sorry! I'll be quick then. Would you mind if I had the morning off?

Aman: Why not?

Pari: Sure?

Aman: Mr Raizada's away and as you now report to him, you can take the entire day off.

Pari: That won't be necessary. I'll be back after lunch.

Aman: Fine.

Pari: By the way, I had some thoughts about Saturday. But I'll tell you when I see you. I don't want to keep you on the phone while you're driving. Bye!

Aman: Wait!

Pari: Yes?

Aman: Why don't you take someone else with you on Saturday?

Pari: Oh?

Aman: I'm not really interested in such films.

Pari: [pause] I understand. [pause] Bye for now.

Aman: Yup.

By Jalebi Jane

JALEBI by Jalebi Jane (EPISODE 028)

A LADY'S IMAGINATION IS VERY RAPID. It jumps from admiration to love, from love to matrimony in a moment.* But, alas, this rapidity of female imagination is of little comfort when the trajectory is reversed.

The aforementioned telephone conversation immediately diminished the glow which had been radiating from Parisa Khan since Aman Behl had issued his invitation yesterday afternoon. That glow which had been fuelled further by his flirty texts last night.

But had Aman been flirtatious, she now wondered? Had her interest in him caused her to read more into his words than he had intended?

And here she did that thing which so many of us Heroines are acquainted with: Rather than question another's inconsistency, we begin to doubt our own comprehension. Pari's mind now ran over recent encounters and she convinced herself that she must have mistaken a nothing for something. She concluded she had been carried away by her fancy.

Had such rethinking alleviated her present discomfort, Sisters, I might support it; however, Pari felt the worse for it. For now she questioned her entire ability to judge things properly.

"Pari?" Khushi interrupted her thoughts. "Did Mr Behl object to you taking the morning off?"

Pari saw that Khushi and Payal, both wearing expressions of anxiety, were waiting for her to indicate whether their plan could proceed. And like a true Heroine, she parked her own distress into a corner of her heart and refocused on a problem of much greater magnitude: Shyam.

"He said I could take the entire day off if I wished to," she stated.

Khushi gave a cheer. "Oh, he is such a nice man!"

All Pari could do was try and smile, but her heart felt even more mortification. True, Aman was nice. To everybody. And she had made the sad error of interpreting his general goodness as a romantic overture.

I suspect Payal must have sensed something of Pari's dis-ease, for she did not join in Khushi's cheer. She reached for Pari's hand and asked (for the fifth time), "are you certain about this, Pari? I confess this change in plan relieves me considerably, but I'm not comfortable asking you to do what I myself dread doing."

"You didn't ask. I offered. And I'm not afraid," Pari gave Payal's hand a squeeze. "As I said, I'd be more fearful if you followed him. For if Shyam confronts me, then he will find a stranger behind the veil."

Yes, Sisters, you heard her correctly. Khushi's plan had been amended by Pari when they had filled her in on the events of the previous evening. Indeed, there was so much to exclaim at---Shyam's duplicity, Buaji's crime, Khushi's predicament, Arnav's rescue and more---that at first Pari had been thoroughly silenced. And then in the next instant, she had leapt to her feet and made the offer.

"I must follow him," she had announced.

The two opposite her immediately and vehemently protested. How could they possibly put her in such a position of risk? What faces would they show Dadasaheb if something went wrong? It was unthinkable!

But Pari had brushed aside their concerns and fished out her mobile to call Aman. You know the rest, Sisters.

And now while Pari slipped into the burqa, Khushi and Payal discussed their own schedule for the day.

"I'll go to Headquarters and at first opportunity check the contents of the memory stick," Khushi stated.

Payal added, "And Buaji and I will go and see a lawyer---a proper lawyer!---and seek advice. Shyam has frightened her with the prospect of imprisonment, but surely her age and situation must be taken into account. Perhaps if she comes forward on her own accord, the Treasury will suspend a prison sentence and allow her to pay a fine." She ended with a sigh, "Of course, all the money she has misappropriated over these years will have to be returned too."

But how would even a fraction of that be repaid? Khushi could not imagine. She suspected that the pension cheques had paid for this Delhi house. A house now in Shyam's possession.

And Khushi foreshadowed that if they could not find something which would force Shyam to return the house to them, they would have to sell the Lucknow haveli to pay for Buaji's grievous theft. At least the haveli was still in their possession. And it had a clear title since the sale of the Gupta business had paid off the outstanding mortgage.

Yes, of course, it would be unbearable to part with their beloved home. A place which represented all their collective memories, but what alternative did they have? Debts must be paid.

But to voice all this to Payal at this stage would not be helpful. Instead Khushi suggested, "Jiji, I think you should go see the lawyer by yourself. Buaji appears even more fragile this morning than she was last night. What the lawyer says may finish her on the spot!"

Payal nodded in agreement.

Pari now stood before them shrouded in black. Entirely anonymous. Of course, those who knew and loved her would know those sparkling eyes and pretty hands in an instant. But that was precisely the point. Shyam did not know her to recognize her.

But the reverse was also true. She did not know Shyam. She must be able to identify him in order to follow him.

This was resolved easily. Khushi showed her a photo of him. It was amongst the dozens she had taken with her phone on the evening when they had all celebrated Payal's birthday. To see photographic evidence of how easily that man had insinuated himself into their family life made her shiver with revulsion.

And shame.

For you will recall that Khushi was responsible for Shyam becoming acquainted with the Gupta household. And now with the gift of hindsight, she balked at how irresponsible they had all been. Surely in a world such as ours, one doesn't accept what a man says about himself as truth, simply because he has the appearance of trustworthiness? For weeks Shyam had tricked them and enjoyed free access to every part of this house. He could have murdered them all in their very own beds!

And here they were sending their sweet Pari after that vile creature. Khushi began to feel fresh concern, but Pari had anticipated her.

"Khushi," she said, "If I don't go right now, I might miss him. I'll text you every half an hour."

"Every fifteen minutes," Khushi corrected. She drew Pari into an fierce embrace and added, "and let me know precisely where you are at each stage."

And with that the girls helped Pari climb out of the window. The plan was for her to wait at Humpty's Chai Palace. It was based on the assumption that Shyam would not come to the house for his breakfast this morning, but go to Humpty's instead, and from there she would begin to track him.

Their assumption was accurate.

BEFORE I CLOSE THIS EPISODE, SISTERS, I want to acquaint you with an item on Khushi's schedule which Payal and Pari were not informed of. When Khushi set off from Janakpuri, she instructed the rickshaw driver not to Headquarters, but to a jewellers. She deliberately specified a jewellery shop well away from their neighbourhood.

And into that glittering air-conditioned space she entered before the clock had even struck nine. The security guard had given her a dubious look. He knew enough of the economics of his workplace to know that those who shopped there did not pull up in rickshaws.

Nevertheless, Khushi's smile disarmed him, and he admitted her. There were---even at this early hour---two men behind the counter. She approached the one who appeared most senior and extending her left hand she said, "Excuse me, Sir. I need help removing this ring from my finger. Do you have any special tools?"

It was not an unheard request under this roof, but the man's brows gathered into a frown of contempt. "Try soap," he snapped, and turned his eyes back to the morning newspaper which he had been leafing through.

Khushi was too distressed by her predicament to be offended by his dismissive manner. She replied, maintaining a polite tone, "I have. And I've tried ghee. And hair oil. It simply won't budge." In desperation this morning, Khushi had even tried the lubricant applied to squeaky door hinges. To no avail.

A younger man, perhaps the son of the man she had been addressing, sauntered over. He asked, in a voice more kind, "may I try?" At her nod, he gripped her finger with one hand, pulling on it, whilst his other hand worked to remove the ring.

The older man eyed his attempt and clucked as if to say it won't work.

It didn't work.

"I'm afraid, we'll have to cut it off, Miss," the younger man said.

"Kya!" Khushi pulled her hand away.

He laughed. "Not your finger. The ring! We'll have to cut the ring."

Khushi's imagination projected ahead to a scene in which she returned ring fragments to Arnav Singh Raizada while delivering a stinging refusal of his offer of marriage.

No. That would not do. She had to return the ring intact. In the exact condition he had foisted it upon her.

As though reading her thoughts, the young man assured her, "we'll repair it, of course. You won't see the seams."

"And what do you charge for that service?"

He mentioned the amount. It was not a great amount but she was irritated at having to dip into her own purse for an action caused by that officious Laad Governor. Yet, what choice did she have? She had to have the ring off before going into work. It had been difficult enough to hide it from Payal and Pari this morning. But it would be nigh impossible to work at her desk with one hand bundled in her dupatta.

As she reached into her satchel for the money, the man said, "you can pay when you collect it."

This stopped Khushi.

Collect it?

She knew that she could not leave such an item behind. However reputable the shop appeared---had she not just learnt that perce---ption could not be trusted? And it was not her ring to risk. If the ring was compromised somehow---if the gem was replaced with glass (one hears of such things!)---Mr Raizada would rightly suspect her.

"I prefer to wait for it," she said.

That horrid man---the older one---chortled with disdain and said, "Lo! The thief doesn't trust us. Now I've seen everything!"

The younger man shifted uncomfortably at his words, but Khushi only saw red.

"Thief!" She exploded, "How dare you?!"

"Do you know what that ring is worth?"

"What does that matter?" she returned. "I have never stolen anything in my life. Not even a single channe from a street vendor!"

"Hah! Let me tell you about this channe on your finger." He then proceeded to list the characteristics and properties of the ring in a stream of jewellery jargon. She caught the words carat, colour, cushion-cut blah blah blah and then the estimated value.

It was an obscene figure.

It silenced Khushi.

But only for a moment. She was ready to speak further when the man leaned across the counter, his tone now paternalistic. "Every few months a silly girl like you comes into our shop sporting a ring far above her means. Do you think you are the first housemaid we've seen who has been tempted to try on a ring left on the dressing table by a careless employer? You saw a unique specimen. A rare canary diamond! You wanted to see how it would look on your hand. What harm would there be in trying on a ring, you thought. Then it got stuck. It happens, it happens---"

Khushi had been insulted enough. She feared that if she remained in the shop she would have no choice but to scratch that man's face. She pivoted and left. The ring felt even heavier on her finger now.

*From Jane Austen's -Pride and Prejudice-

By Jalebi Jane