Be-Friend

Cause there were pages turned with the bridges burned, Everything you lose is a step you take ~  You’re on your own, Kid.

Pratap walked into the scheduled meeting to find Ajabdeh sitting with the Mishra entrepreneur. A part of him was irked with her adamant nature, another knew perhaps their grandparents would have praised her. But Pratap believed in his heart that times had changed, and in this competitive world, her emotional side would harm the business. He had contemplated through the night and ended up calling his father in the morning. The instructions from Udai were clear. She had the last say, and if it was a mistake, she would bear the consequences in the next review meeting. His job was not to guide her. Pratap had to swallow his pride and work under her. That was it. He shook hands with the man who gushed that they would not regret the decision. Then he surprisingly dropped an invite to their place in Jaipur, as his wife had insisted. Pratap was about to decline it when Ajabdeh said she could not promise it, but she would try to visit during her stay if possible.

“My wife would love to have you around. She makes the best Ghevar, you would not be disappointed.” Chakrapani Mishra smiled before he took their leave. Pratap eyed Ajabdeh, unsure of whether to strike up a conversation in the office. What if they disagreed and argued? Not a good thing to show the employees.

Pratap could not bear the indifference with which Ajabdeh worked either. She acted like he was another of her employees, and everything between them at work had an air of professionalism that he thought he would appreciate until now. At home, she barely talked to him, if not about the work, and spent most of her day in her room. Pratap was at a loss about how to address the situation. On one hand, he hated the air of formality, but on the other, he acknowledged the peace it brought with it. He decided it was impossible to spend two weeks without having proper conversations, and it had barely been four days, and the place and his surroundings were suffocating him.

With that in mind, Pratap ordered Chundawat to clean up the study and library for him. He wanted to read. Ajabdeh walked into the house to find people in the study. She walked in eagerly, followed by a silent Pratap, as she enquired what was going on. Chundawat looked across to Pratap, saying he had done as instructed and left with the workers. Ajabdeh looked around the cleaned study and library, the shelves looking like they used to in the summer vacations.

“What is going on?” She turned to a pleased Pratap, examining the books as she asked with narrowed brows.

“I thought Dadi would not have liked it if we were here and the library was unattended. She always used to say she trusts us to take care of Dadosa’s books.” Ajabdeh nodded in agreement. Pratap took out a book from the rack, one of his favourite books for children by Enid Blyton, “The Enchanted Forest”, and turned the pages. He had scribbled his name on the corner of the first page. He turned the yellow-stained paper to find Ajabdeh had scribbled her name on the next page. She always used to receive his hand-me-down books once he was done with them. He extended the book to her.

“Remember this one?” She nodded as she leafed through the Ramayana Dadi used to read. A part of her imagined it still smelled of her. Pratap smiled, watching her smell the pages and then cough a little because of the settled dampness and dust.

“You should take the ones belonging to you back home…” he insisted, looking away as he took out another book. It was Romeo & Juliet.

“Nothing here belongs to me.” She said plainly as his heart skipped a beat. He cleared his throat and tried to sound cheerful.

“Why?” He extended the book in his hand. “Doesn’t this belong to you?” She eyed the novel in his hand and shook her head. “No, I read it here.”

“Wasn’t this your favourite?” He insisted, unfazed by her monotonous voice. “Take it.”

“No, it's shallow…” She insisted, “Like you said.” She regretted letting him know that she remembered his words as eyes met, and she could read the satisfaction in his eyes.

“Have you read Layli Majnun?” Pratap knew he was pushing the buttons, but any interaction was welcome at this point. “...Like I said…” Ajabdeh put the Ramayana back in its place and picked up the Mahabharata without answering him. She turned to leave with it, planning to read the first part during the week.

“If you did, we can discuss…” Pratap made her stop at the threshold. “Like old times.”

“I don’t want to discuss anything with you.” Her voice was firm, her back to him as she closed her eyes to control her temper and walked away to her room.

Such audacity… Ajabdeh paced the room, irked. He pretended like everything was fine, how he left was fine, what he did was… Every time Ajabdeh’s thoughts travelled to the day, her heart raced, and her lips felt dry as if she could still taste him. It made her shudder. He had perhaps even forgotten about it. Ajabdeh reflected on her options. She could show her indifference, like she had till now, but it would be extremely difficult in the living conditions. She could act the way she did, but then it would show him she still cared; he still made a difference. He looked entertained by her reaction. Ajabdeh inhaled. She had to act like he was just another person in her life. She changed into a long Kaftan for dinner and walked downstairs to find the housekeeper serving Pratap.

“You should go home, it's late, we can manage.” She sat down on the other side of the table, speaking to the woman, who nodded and left. Ajabdeh opened the casserole and served herself, eyeing his almost empty plate. He did not wait for her to arrive. She cleared her throat and looked up.

“ I recently read Orhan Pamuk. Have you read him?” She said in a rather cheerful voice, yet with a hint of indifference if she was making small talk. Pratap’s hand stopped at his morsel as he looked alarmed. What was she up to? He shook his head. “Oh, you should. My Name Is Red was a good book.”

“Oh…” Pratap looked unsure. “I will give it a try, but I was reading Paolo Coelho’s The Spy …”

“Oh, I have read that, it's fascinating…” Ajabdeh spoke in between her morsels. “Perhaps we can discuss?” Pratap’s heart skipped a beat. “Sure… when?” he managed as she wondered.

“Maybe tomorrow after work?” She suggested. “I have a reading list, maybe we can also exchange that?”

“Sure, I will make mine.” Pratap had a sudden urgency in his voice. “We can discuss what we already read… every day after work?” He knew he was getting greedy.

“Maybe…” She concentrated on her plate. Pratap smiled to himself.

It was Jalal’s first week in Agra, and Hamida had come along to make sure he was well settled. Their old servant, Hakim, was to stay with him during his two years of course to make Hamida worry less about her son. Jalal had never stayed away from home. The first day Jalal packed his camera equipment and headed to IIP, he was a little disappointed with the crowd. They were either people doing this along with moderately paid IT jobs, or interns or students who struggled to make ends meet. They stared at him rather judgmentally for his expensive clothes and posh look. For the first time, Jalal was aware and perhaps embarrassed by his privilege. They gossiped about how people like him have hobbies like this. He was determined to prove them otherwise. On his third day, Jalal felt too lethargic to step into the premises. He reminded himself of what he was there for. Sighing a little, he was about to step in when someone bumped into him, almost throwing the camera bag from his shoulder. Her bag fell on the concrete as she yelled in dismay. “Oh no, no, no, please be okay!” She knelt, not caring about the fact that she was blocking his way, checking her bag for her camera. She heaved a sigh of relief and then noticed him.

“Sorry, I was in a hurry, my first day.” She stood up. In a pair of tight jeans and a black crop top, with her hair permed and let loose to her waist, her eyes smoky, lips glossy and nails painted with black nail polish, she stared at Jalal up and down then extended her hand to him,

“Salima.” She smiled in between chewing her gum. “Salima Khan”

“Jalaluddin Mohammad.” He shook her hand and smiled. “My third day today.”

“Great, show me around…” Salima started walking beside him. “What do you do? I am a student in Delhi… thinking of leaving my Bachelors midway…”

“I am from Rajasthan.” Jalal was reluctant to give details, scared of being judged. “Did my MBA and now…”

“Passion? Hobby?”

“Profession.” Jalal smiled. 

“Nice, impressive.” Salima smiled. “I thought you were some model before I spotted the camera.” Her words surprised him.

“Do I look like a model?” He wondered.

“Well…” Salima shrugged. “I can’t say you don’t.” She stared at the class number and smiled. “Ah, this is my room. I will see you once we get out.” Before Jalal could wonder why they would, she turned around and said, “There is a Chaat corner right down the street, we will meet there. See you.” Jalal opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out of it. He had never had Chaat from Agra’s street, and he was intrigued by this girl. The next thing he knew, he was waiting at the Chaat Corner for her, wondering if he should tell Rukaiya that he had made a friend.