Rajvir Sngh was a classic example of a misnomer He was so`far-out' of the meaning of his name that it was ridiculous Even his buddies had stopped teasing him .They did'nt think it was funny any more.
Rajvir had grown up under the menacing shadow of his father By a queer quirk of fate, his father was born on the day of Hitler's suicide and, true to the Hindu doctrine of trasns migration of souls, had received most of Hitler's traits, with a few from Attila the Hun thrown in as an added bonus.He was therefore bereft of that indefinable something that separates men from the beasts How often he had seen his mother, cowering under his gaze,gathering her three children under her `pallu',shielding them from blows Compared to his house,a CIA detention centre would have appeared as a play-way nursery, with `jingle bells'playing in the background.
.His elder brother , quite naturally, had borne the brunt of this frontal attack on human dignity. Over the years, he had quietly submitted to all the invective, all the beatings and , slowly had become impervious to them, like the stoic comedian of a medieval morality play His sister-Nandu, a few years younger to him, however, was everyone's darling .Even Hitler lowered his voice when she was around She could pull his moustache, scatter rice in his beard and bounce playfully on his ample stomach. Rajvir adored her .In time,they had grown up together and had beome such soul-mates that sometimes they understood each other without saying a single word. It was uncanny.
Somewhere down the line, Rajvir had taken to reading.He devoured everything--from religious tomes to pornography; from Zen to Tintin; from Krisnamurthy to The Archies. He was fascinated by the endless and extra-ordinary variety of life--from the Bantus to the Maoris. However the one story that constantly remained in his heart was the ancient tale of Youssaf and Zulekha :how the handsome young man was bought in lieu of a wad of cotton,how he had served the elderly woman with all his heart. Youssaf's rare code of loyalty had had an everlasting impact on his tender mind He would often visualise himself as the Youssaf of yore.It gave him some sense of self;some faith in his own abilities.
How rudely his sense of self was to be shattered became clear to him when, at twenty years of age,he went to a big city for higher studies. It was a co-educational institution and there were very few boys in his class.And Rajvir was the most handsome.He was tall,strongly built,with dark, wavy hair which flew all over his face even in the slightest of breezes.But it was his eye-lashes-----an inch long------which fascinated all the giggly girls.Coupled with his blue eyes; an intense longing lurking in them, it made a deadly combination.The girls almost swooned, looking at him.For them he was a later-day Adonis ; if ever there was one. Once a girl had playfully pinched his cheek and called him Cupid. The name had stuck., to his great mortification.
But Rajvir was Rajvir. His tongue would stubbornly refuse to detatch itself from his palate whenever a girl addressed him With their bright capris and halters they appeared to him like so many fire-flies and so many will-o-wisps.In time however ,they had taken his silence as an affront to their opulent charms and had moved on to more responsive men; but not before giving him another sobriquet `:Bhondoo'.Rajvir was shattered. During the day, he would visualise himself frolicking with all the lovely girls, at exotic locales,in vales and hills,`mid mists and blossoms. During the night , he would curse his cloisterd up-bringing.His dreams were often wet -sometimes with tears.
It was with the same lurking trepidation that he went to work in a soft-ware company.He was diligent ,hardworking and very soon became the manager of that sub-office.He hired a small flat and began giving shape to his vision of a `good' life. He cooked his own meals and rode a bus to the office.Back home, he would relax with a book, watch some TV, would root for Sachin, Jensen Button and Rooney,and day-dream a lot. At twenty five years of age ,he was well content.
It was then that Maryada walked into his office.It was a rainy day and even his drab surroundings had acquired a washed look.She was the daughter of a post-man and had come to earn some money in her spare time to put her younger brother through college.Pretty in a petite sort of a way,to Rajvir she looked as if a `devi' had consented to step out of a shrine to unravel his convoluted life.Her eyes were shy, very shy , as if she thought the world too stark, too naked a place for her.It was a miracle of sorts. A Rajvir in feminine form.
They took to each other like the the twin hemispheres of the globe,They could sit quietly with each other for hours, just soaking up the joy of their togetherness--their conversation only rarely going beyond desultory business talk. To the other people in office it appeared abnormal; "in these times....this" they muttered under their breath.
Rajvir was ecstatic. He had invited Nandu over,to meet her.Maryada had cooked the simplest possible biryani.Standing in his kitchen,she looked to him as the living incarnation of The Blessed Damozel---straight out of a poem.And the biryani was delicious.Nandu was overjoyed.'Now my darling would be well looked after",she thought,thankful for life's little surprises.
The next morning ,as Rajvir was mulling over the happy possibilities of the previous evening,the door of his office flew open and a woman walked in."Hi, I am Natasha,daughter of Mr.Bhootlingam of Cerberus Computers.Natasha was around thirty, a platinum blonde -her mother being an American--with afigure to put J-Lo to shame.She was so sure of herself that to Rajvir it looked like a crime against humanity, nothing short of blasphemy .But he could see that he had also made an instant impact on her,"men were never meant to be so damn handsome,goddammit,"she was saying to herself.Rajvir had as much chance against her as a snowball in hell.Not that he wanted to be saved anyway.Rajvir walked out of his office after her , and, in the evening, moved in with her.
Natasha's house---she lived alone--was a hedonist's delight.Water beds ,glass ceiling,a huge swimming pool, the works.She had so much money it made him sick But these thoughts were momentary. Natasha was heavenly as a companion, inventive ,and ,very, very naughty.The sheer eroticism of their togetherness was unimaginable
He started going with her to the parties.She would cling to his arm.To her innumerable socialite friends however it was clear that Rajvir was the arm-candy.They looked at Natasha with barely concealed jealousy.He dutifully danced with all of them, aghast at their brazen invitations.
After a few months they flew out to the West Indies.She taught him scuba-diving.Once,twety feet below ,she had pulled out his mouthpiece.He was already half-drowned as he sputtered and gasped to the surface.She was squealing in delight at his discomfiture.Another time ,she had taken him up in a plane,hooked him and herself in one parachute and had jumped out in a free-fall. She kissed him all the way down, pulling the cord at the last possible second.She laughed ,in deep exultation.Rajvir was frozen with terror.
Back home ,Rajvir would often stay awake,wondering at what had transpired.It had been three years since he had walked out of his office on that fateful day.He would often remember the story of Youssaf .The stark comparison ---and contrast--of his life with that of Youssaf left him breathless.'I am just a gigolo",he thought,his heart sinking.He got up and looked at himself in the mirror.The person who stared back at him was a stranger to him .And his eyes were blank,empty of all expression."What are we?"he despaired; "poor helpless human beings; always pining for what is not....Kya kahin hai ik mukkamal jahan'? kya kabhi milta hai kissi ko ?/"he thought,cadent tears streaming down his cheeks.
Today, as he was walking back to Natasha's house, he was sick to the core of his heart,longing to meet Nandu and Maryada. He knew he had betrayed both of them.As he opened the door of the plush house, he stopped dead in his tracks. Nandu was sitting in a chair, staring at Natasha. He could sense that they both had been crying.AsNandu started speaking, Rajvir was barely aware of what she was saying.Only that it was a ,little about a dream, something about Maryada and something about a certain way of life.And suddenly something in Rajvir clicked into place.He went to his room, packed his old pair of jeans,his old shirt and came back to the room.He could hear Natasha screaming.And he was thinking; money or poverty? company jet or a rickety bus? water-beds or bed-bugs? Caribbean cruises or just a walk to the India Gate?
He looked at Nandu.She nodded, slowly, almost imperceptibly.
Rajvir walked out.....
.........The next day he met Maryada.....
She had a one-year old son........
