The Demise of Dilli

It was the 20^th of September. This was his first thought as he woke up to the sound of a loud bang from the western side of the city.

Those around him have been expecting something like this ever since the assault by the enemy began a week ago. That is why he remembered the date – he had been counting each day from the time the first shots were fired. Even at the first instance the shots were not a “normal” exchange of gunfire that had started since last month. He knew that it was different. As if each of those bullets embedding themselves into the walls or a human body had a different sound to it. The bullets made their intent clear as they left the barrels of the new rifles (they had a sharp, polished glint that shone in the sun) of the enemy.

As he got on to his feet he knew that this was it. Last night there were long conversations with ample foreboding about the coming day. No one could get any sleep because of a combination of hunger, thirst, excitement, and fear. Maybe people just wanted to talk; like they do when sitting around the tomb of a holy man, talking in whispered, reverent tones, and most tellingly, praying fervently. The difference was that they were not gathered at the tomb of a person but of a city. As for him he did not speak a word. He rarely spoke ever since he came to the city, and before that he could not remember.

Well what can one do but face it that the time has come, he thought to himself with typical stolidity.

People had already started scattering – some moved westwards while a bigger mass seemed to move in the opposite direction. He looked around to find who was in charge and but could find no one. He looked hesitantly around, deciding what to do. Since both the options were equal to him as he cared not a bit about either he picked up his rifle and moved westwards towards Kashmere Gate.

He was joined by assorted men. Some wearing their now worn out red uniforms. Some others were in their kurta-pyjamas and by hearing their refined Urdu he could make out that they were natives of the city. A group of Brahmins were marching impressively – being led by a subedar. Some vagrant kids had also joined the motley parties and were dancing vigorously while deftly avoiding the slaps and curses heaped on them.

He remembered that he was thirsty. It was not yet dawn but the air had a hot, stuffy feel to it. And everywhere there was this acrid, burning smell of gunpowder. Maybe once they reach the gate he will find some water.

They all knew that the gate was coming closer as the explosions and gunfire started getting louder and the smoke thicker. He saw a man approaching from the opposite direction and stopped to ask him where he can find some water.

Even before he could say something the man barked back, “Don’t go there, all is lost! Run and save yourself,” and then continued on his way.

There was a large mass of soldiers gathered near the gate. Many were stationed at the top of the ramparts and shooting at all possible angles. Couple of times a minute some one would fall down and then stay still. Those near the gate were in heated discussion with a senior-looking soldier. They were debating whether to reinforce the gate or fall back. Some others, especially the younger ones – those who had not yet seen death at close quarters, were cursing everyone else and trying to get the gate opened so as to charge the enemy.

He did not think it appropriate to involve himself in the discussion. He was a follower. His immediate concern was to find water.

He saw a soldier taking a sip of water from a small mashk tied to his side. He went up to him. The soldier saw the parched lips and without saying a word passed the mashk. As he uncorked it and raised it to his lips a huge explosion deafened him and pushed him flat on the ground. It became pitch black. His head felt like it were hit by a rifle butt. He looked around for the water. He pushed aside a couple of bodies one of which was of the soldier he had just met. His foot stepped on something soft and he saw the mashk with its water poured out, settling some of the now rising dust on the street.

A huge cry had arisen from the other side of the Kashmere Gate and now everyone around him was running amok. Rifles, swords, turbans, cartridges, sandals, spears, tattered papers left on the ground. There were some who were crying with pain, blood pouring out of their stumps of legs, arms, even heads. Those with at least a good leg or two hands were dragging themselves. The ones who looked most at peace were the ones who were not moving.

Except for his throbbing head from where a trickle of blood was now flowing down on his face, he felt fine. Once again faced with an decision he was indifferent to he started going westwards again – this time running.

He passed Kabuli Gate – not yet breached but also not protected any more as there was not a soul to be seen nearby.

He continued around the perimeter and reached Lahori Gate. Well it could not be called a ‘gate’ anymore as there was none to be seen. A part of the gate had impaled a man who lay on the ground, while the rest was found in innumerable small pieces some of which were on fire. Everywhere there were bodies of both “types” – us and them. It was funny he thought, a decision could classify one into the other when most of the enemy and the rebels were of the same country (now that all the Kings/ Queens/ Generals/ As-Yet-Untitled leaders had rallied to the unwilling Badshah of Delhi).

So there were many of them and many of us; some firangi soldiers; and a couple of gora sahibs – there insignia hats, pleated trousers, and polished boots now consigned to the dust.

He took this whole scene in a moment as immediately he heard music playing. He thought that the head injury may have finally allowed him to make sense of this madness by turning him into madman. Of course, he was not that fortunate – explain away the things around him by looking inward and declare himself incapable of understanding it. A brass band was now approaching the gate and it was playing one of those firangi tunes that sounded familiar.

He looked around for a place to hide but could find none. The band was almost upon the ‘gate’. He fell face down among the dead and injured. The odor was overpowering and he now longed for the burning smell of gunpowder. The place had suddenly gone quiet with even the moaning of the injured and half-dead coming to a stop.

The band came into the picture led by a flag bearer. They seem unperturbed about the scene around them and marched as smartly as they would on a parade ground. The conductor marched smartly in front, exhorting his band with vigorous pumping of his arms. The lack of a baton did not seem to dampen any of his enthusiasm. The sole drummer seemed inspired and was banging the drum as hard as he could. A column of well-equipped troops followed.

He kept very still as his instinct told him to. The stillness got stiller. Those who were lying injured and had not the sense to act dead or were in too much pain to think straight were soon put out of their miseries. The band never paused for a second – they seem to celebrate it all. The band and the troops marched on undoubtedly making for the main prize.

As the band started fading in the distance he felt a rage within him. He was unsure if it were because he was a coward or he was still alive.

He groped around looking for his rifle and found it. He got up and started following the dust cloud. He wanted to shout but his voice failed him and all he got out was a hoarse whisper. He started running behind the troops and when he could run no more he stopped. They were not more than 50 yards from him. He shouted out something. No one seemed to notice him again as the loud band drowned out his cries of fury. He then put his rifle on his shoulder, cocked it, and pulled the trigger. It was going to be or them and if he is going to die he might as well take someone with him (to hell or heaven he did not know). The rifle made a ‘click’ sound, he froze, and nothing happened.

He remembered that there were two things he was looking for last night – water and cartridges. The barrel of his rifle was empty. His throbbing head now exploded with anger and he broke down.

He woke after many minutes or hours. The street was deserted and he tried to get his bearings. The noon sun was upon the city and then he remembered that he can follow this road to the Grand Mosque. It was almost time for the afternoon prayers and he should be able to find a drink of water.

He left his useless rifle behind him and started walking.

The area was ‘Balli Maran’ the residence place of the famous Urdu poet, Mirza Asadullah Khan “Ghalib”. He had been there once before. In the early days when there was optimism and a new found faith that had once been lost in the by lanes of the city for many decades now. He chanced upon a mushaira where the great Ghalib was also present. His couplet now seemed appropriate now.

Fikr-e-duniya mein sar khapata hoon

Main kahan aur ye wabaal kahan

(I trouble myself with the worries of this world

When I should be at some other place and so this calamity)

He inadvertently made a silent prayer for the well-being of the poet – if anyone could explain what happened in the city after all is done and dusted it would be the poets, and Ghalib was undoubtedly the best of those.

As he ruminated over these thoughts the wall of the mosque was upon him. It was hard to miss as such was the imposing structure. He was at the western entrance and the mosque stretched as far as the eye could see. It was also deserted. At this time, the surrounding area used to be filled with prayer-goers. At a place where everyone was an equal the head gear used to betray the social status. A skull cap was for a small tradesman or artisan, the tall Ottoman-ish cap was for a more literate person, the heavy turban adorned the Afghani. Now not a head or even a stray cap was in sight. The pigeons – kept for sport by the inhabitants of the city were also missing; they too seemed to have gauged the gravity of the situation and either kept to their coops or moved with their owners. Stray dogs, patronized by the people at the usually full eating places after the prayers, had also gone missing. The emptiness was claustrophobic.

He climbed the long steps to the mosque – each step an effort that parched his throat a little more. He felt was like climbing the stairs to an execution, a heavy step at a time; and upon reaching the top finding that the execution is stayed, cautious triumph. He was desperately looking for his stay if he could only find some water. The ablution area would have water.

As he entered the mosque through the enormous gates he was not surprised to find the place empty. There was no muezzin calling people to prayer, nor were there mendicants begging for alms. He made it to the place of ablution at the centre of the mosque. The water was still. It was red.

He sat down as there was nothing else he could do. He did not remember how to pray. Actually, he did not even remember who he was.

He had come into the city a few days after General Bakht Khan came with his troops from the Bareilly cantonment. He was an able-bodied man and so everyone assumed he was like them from one of the other places. He did not know if he should question that assumption. He could not recall in what state he entered the city or, where he came from. Did he have anyone back home? Was he a shopkeeper, a farmer, or a poet? These were still secondary questions as he did not even remember his name.

The troops soon named him Benaam/Baimaan Khan. Be-naam translates to ‘no-name’ and Ba-imaan to ‘one with faith’. So he was addressed interchangeably by his two names. At that time, Khan was an eponymous takkhalus or, way of addressing as it implied a fighter. He stopped bothering about his past soon enough; he thought himself to be a nameless, faceless person fighting for a just cause, a cause that has been a century in the making. And there were enough nameless, faceless, but not country-less, people around him for company.

As he sat in the Grand Mosque he felt a wave of calm flowing over him. He closed his eyes, leaned back against the wall, and allowed his mind to go blank.

There is only so much mental peace can help you satiate your physical needs, but the latter eventually takes over. That is if you are not a sufi, sadhu, or a poet. He at least knew he was none of the three. His thirst makes him get up and move towards the exit.

As he climbs down the same old grey steps he sees a crooked old man walking up, presumably for his prayers. Old people, in particular, are very concerned about their religious duties. It is because they are too old to do any other useful chore or else, having felt that they wasted their youth and middle age in going after duniya (world) it is finally time to grant God His appointment with them so that He blesses them with a good aakhrat (after life). Either which ways, he did not have the heart to tell the old man that there is nothing up there, even God. If he has to leave his worldly abode, he might as well die during his appointment with God than sitting at home or at a tea shop. He can then be counted among the martyrs.

He made his way out and moved in the direction of the market of ‘Chandni Chowk’. There he should find those sherbet-walas whose aerated rose water drinks were legendary. The thought of a cold sip of water involuntarily let his tongue wipe his dry lips. His tongue had lost its moisture.

As he came closer to the market he started hearing a buzzing sound. Those darn flies are everywhere he thought. They were always there in Chandni Chowk simply because there were so many sweetmeats and food items for them to choose from. Even the customers had learnt to co-exist with them; after all they were God’s creatures and had the same right to food. So usually, leftovers were kept outside of the shop where the flies could hog on the delicacies that even the poor could not. That is why they were called the shahi makhiyan or, the royal flies.

When he reached the market he found all the shops closed. The sweetmeat makers had abandoned their huge vessels, the oil all over the street. A rainbow of spices lay in the dust outside of another shop. There was nothing and yet the sound of the flies puzzled him.

The kids who coming back from their morning madarssa classes used to surround the numerous tamarind trees were also conspicuous by their absence. They were experts in stone throwing – with a single shot they could get a bunch of the sour tasting stuff to fall down. But they also had to be careful. Often times, the stone on its downward trajectory used to find a passerby, and then they could be in for a big thrashing. The fleet footed older kids used to escape while their younger accomplice, a brother or, a cousin, would get caught. It was like a graduation rite that everyone has to get thrashed once – the tamarind would taste sweeter then. Now that there were no open shops, it would have been a great time for the kids to throw their stones at will. But like their fathers and uncles, they too were missing.

As he walked further into the heart of the market he saw big heaps of assorted clothes. He could make out a maroon ladies silk dupatta, a child’s peach shervani, a soiled white dhoti in one of those heaps. He wondered as to what was the need for the shopkeepers to throw their shop’s clothes out on the street – were they trying to give them away so that the enemy could not get their hands on them? Strange were the ways of these merchants.

When he drew closer to the heaps he saw a human hand underneath one of them and he realized what was the inhumanly play that unfolded before him. That is why the flies were buzzing all around. They were heaps of dead people. He was staggered and numb. Nothing that had happened during the day had prepared him for this sight. Men, women, and children were lying dead. The dead were as diverse in their background as were once the residents of the city – there was indiscriminate and senseless death all around him. When has death made any sense, he corrected himself. This deed could not have been done a long while back, as the blood had not thickened yet. There was sickness in the air and not for the first time he longed for the smell of gunpowder. Was it the marching band troops that did this? He cursed himself once again.

The damn flies were everywhere; can’t they leave the dead alone. He tried to wave them off in vain, but no sooner he moved did they come back again. He looked around and saw a color-maker's vessel filled with water. Maybe I can drown the damn pests, he thought. He picked the up and threw the water. He missed his targets and the water fell on the street, mixing with the blood, and throwing up wisps of smoke that rose up from the hot earth.

He had enough of what was happening. He resolved to ignore his sworn allegiance and go directly to the fort and demand an audience with the Emperor. He will tell him all about what he saw in the city – the breach of the gates, the marching band, the water turned red, and the dead that were now there in every street and corner.

He saw a sword lying near a heap. He picked it up, wiped the redness off his shoulder cuff, and tied it with the cloth around his waist. Then he ran.

As he turned a corner he saw the enemy troops marching. He paid them no heed and ran along their side and overtook them. There were a lot of people running around on their own but no one thought about running together so as to challenge the enemy. They did not pay him any notice and continued on their brisk march. Their destinations were the same.

He reached the fort and ran right in. The guards standing at the door did not pay him any attention. They were surveying the scene folding around them, treating each event as a blade of grass that has been thrown at the mercy of the wind. Whichever way the blade goes that is where the wind blows. His running into the fort in mix states of stupor, confusion, and anger indicated that the wind was blowing towards outside of the fort.

He ran into the Diwan-e-Aam or, the court of the people where all the common folk and ordinary citizens used to petition the Emperor, and from which his lordship used to give his various firmans and dispense justice. Ever since the troops started flowing in to the city there were daily upheavals in the Diwan-e-Aam such that the Emperor had stopped coming altogether and the proceedings were usurped by all kinds of princes, courtiers, generals, and palace officials. Therefore, he did not expect to find the Emperor here. For that he had to go to his personal chambers and the court of the special people where the likes of Ghalib paid court or, the Diwan-e-Khaas.

He made it to the entrance of the Diwan-e-Khaas. He looked around for the page so that he can send his petition to the Emperor. He found no one. He shouted out but got back his own echo. He then tentatively stepped into the courtyard where he saw some peacocks from the royal menagerie sunning themselves. How the birds mimic their owners – the absent pigeons at the Grand Mosque and the blissfully unaware peacocks at the palace. The flowing fountains in the grand courtyard were not running, but he could see the water was their in the water channels. He thought about taking a sip but his sense of decorum for the place prevented him from doing so. It was early evening now and the shadows were creeping up on the palace.

He summoned his courage and made it to the far end, where he had seen the Emperor for the first and last time.

It was a couple of days after he was co-opted in General Bakht Khan’s troops, when the latter announced that they are going to the fort and demand an audience with the Emperor. Then they marched into the Diwan-e-Aam where they were met by more troops from other places. There was only token resistance from the palace guards who were helpless in preventing the breach of the Emperor’s private quarters. The erstwhile king who was now the Emperor never had an army. He found himself pushed to near the front of the courtyard. The noise was enormous – it seemed more like Chandni Chowk’s marketplace than the court of the ruler without a kingdom.

It was then that they saw him. A frail old man in royal regale came walking out supported by pages on both sides. He had a crown covered with jewels and pearls. He wore rings on all his fingers, and with his right hand he supported himself on a staff. He sat down cross-legged, keeping his arms on his legs. Even though he looked physically weak and was politically powerless, the aura around the Emperor was awe inspiring. Here was the descendant of Timur. A hush descended on the unruly troops and all eyes were on the man they came to support and fight the enemy for.

All the generals and leaders then went forth, curtsied, and told the Emperor their reason for coming to the city. They laid their swords at his feet and asked them to give them his blessings and support. They ordered their troops to do the same. The Emperor then stood up and proclaimed the troops to be his and gave the charge to what were his generals now. All the troops then swore allegiance to him, promising to fight to their last for the sake of the Emperor and the country.

He remembered wistfully the memory that was etched in his mind. As he stood before the empty platform he once again felt those strong emotions and went weak in the knees.

As he was recalling those scenes, a small band of what looked like palace officials came by carrying some chests. Like others through the day, they also ignored him, as if expecting a common soldier to be in the court of the Emperor. He called them out.

“What are you doing here? Go and save yourself. There is still time to cross the Jamuna river,” said one of the officials.

He smiled ruefully to himself. Leave the city and go where? He had no home, at least not any recollection of it, and all his memories were captive in this city. He belonged here.

“Where is the Emperor? I want to see him urgently as there is a lot that is happening outside that he needs to be aware of,” he replied.

“The Emperor had left the fort a long while back. And we are well aware of what is happening in the city, we don't need you to tell us. That is why we are also leaving the palace and fort and be advised that you do the same,” the official said.

He did not say anything and sat down. He did not feel thirsty anymore.

After a while he heard the marching of the troops and the now familiar brass band. There may not be an Emperor anymore or any of his army but I am still here, he said to himself as he took out his borrowed sword. As the sun started setting over the city he sat patiently. Another nameless and faceless martyr who no one would know about, forget about remembering him. And he would stay their, fulfilling his allegiance to the country he too would never know but will always remember.

It was the 20^th of September of the year 1857 and Dilli was no more.

A Hot Day In Delhi

I could feel the blast of hot air as soon as I stepped out of the airplane.

Summers in Delhi are as predictable and unbearable as one of those TV soaps and yet one cannot escape either. Despite the hefty UDF, ADF, or one of those numerous fees taxed on the "fortunate" people who had the misfortune to use the airport, Delhi airport still was missing those aerobridges that prevents sensitive people like myself from being exposed to the elements. And especially so of Delhi's.

I had not planned to make the trip. In fact I had not been to the city since the last 7 years. And yet the heat in the air reminded me that I probably never left. It was only due to a last minute glitch in Mumbai that the conference was switched to the city and unavoidably I had to make an appearance as planned originally. There I was ensconced safely in my 57th floor office in Hong Kong, but as someone said, "Religion can only move mountains, it is Capitalism that moves the world." Not highly original, but apt in my case.

I trudged to the awaiting bus and to a welcome experience of smelling my fellow passenger's BOs when they grab on to those what-you-call-'em for their dear lives. I smiled wryly to myself, Delhi summers do have a way to get the best sarcasm out of you.

I finally picked up my luggage and trudged to the pre-paid taxi booth. "Aha! I see computers," I said to myself, quietly appreciating (sarcastically obviously) that the land of underprivileged and poor can actually afford such extravagances for the privileged air travelers.

"One cab to Hotel Centura in South Delhi," I told the clerk.

He looked up and saw me through his horn-rimmed socialist-era spectacles.

"I am sorry Sir," he said. "There is a taxi strike in the city and we are short of cabs. Therefore, we have to put two people in one cab. Would you like me to do it?"

Typical, I thought. Well there was no other option and as an old hand in the Delhi summers, I knew that anything was better than standing around in a suit - a heat stroke would only be minutes away.

I took the receipt and walked out to a crowd of taxi wallahs, touts, families with children, and assorted security men. To see how far a city has progressed all one has to do is to walk out to the reception area of the airport. The Microsoft, HSBC, Amex, GE, Caterpillar on the various placards held aloft told me that there has been a seismic change. Now if only we could change this darn weather.

As I made it to the parking bay and looked for the taxi I saw him.

There was no mistaking him. The slightly puffed up face, fancy suit, fancier sunglasses, slicker hair with gray streaks in between, and the same cocky style. 7 years and the first person I see is Rakim (prounounced Rack-eem as per his instructions years ago at IIT Delhi).

As destiny would have it we were in the same cab. As I looked at him from 5 feet away I think I espyed a slight trace of surprise, but then as soon as I spotted it, it was gone. As if he were mocking me, "Your move compadre," his curled lips seem to say.

I knew immediately what I wanted to do. Though I had played this scene many a times in my mind, especially during the early years since after graduation, I threw away all those scripts in an instance: surprise, coolness, forced ecstasy, faked happiness, bluffing, and downright hatred.

I just looked right through him and he returned the compliment. I was not surprised. We were always alike.

As we both got into the back seat, he told the taxi driver a home in South Delhi. "Doing well I see if he is living there," I thought to myself. Immediately I checked myself. There was no need to get into a curious mode and start charting his life history for the past 7 years. I don't care, I had promised myself a long time ago and coming back to Delhi should not break that.

I could not afford it. Not after all those things that happened in the past.

As the taxi driver started the slow crawl out of parking he did not switch on the air conditioning. "Bhaiyya, start the A/C," I said using the universal North Indian term of addressal.

"Sir the A/C is on the brink and it not working and everything is closed due to the strike that is going on. I am sorry but we would just have to keep the windows open."

Damn it, first Delhi, then Rakeem, and now the drated heat. Well it would soon all be over. You can take it, I told myself without quiet believing myself or understanding which of the three bete noirs I meant.

As the taxi moved on to the Ring Road I could see the once-ubiquitous trees of Delhi. I never knew their name but they used to be everywhere in IIT. Medium-sized, small leafy trees, which neither provided shade nor sustenance. Typical (again), like Delhi - nameless/faceless people in the city going about their God-forsaken jobs with neither an end in sight to neither miseries nor a hope for a better tomorrow. They are just there for no reason. While the trees may have disappeared due to the much trumpeted bastard word of the past decade - "infrastructure", the ever growing populace had taken their place.

Sweat started to pour from my brow and on to my glasses. I fumbled in my pocket to find a handkerchief. Should I loosen my tie? Pat came the reply, "Well Rakim has not loosened his, then why would you?" The old competitive self again.

It was like from day one when we were clubbed as roommates in Nalanda Hostel. It did not matter that I was one of the elite who cracked the toughest exam in India and was chosen out of 100,000 aspirants (the word still had a nice ring to it; we Indians are always aspiring to something - sounds better than the western term "rat race"). I was only in the Civil department of IIT Delhi - a branch of a bygone era when people everywhere used to be on their hands and knees whenever an "Engineer saab" was in the vicinity. On the other hand my nattily dressed roomie was in Computer Science - the top choice of IITians everywhere and one with a one-way ticket to the land of dreams and plenty - "USA des" in popular IIT parlance.

I came back to the present. Gosh what a long time ago. I firmly put those old images behind me and looked outside.

The few trees now left on the side of the road had a doleful look about them. This heat has no mercy. I could see the leaves turning a shade of lighter brown and leaning expectantly, as would a Brahmin or a Fakir who comes to a door looking for alms. The stray dogs looked too hot and tired to do anything but lounge around under the inadequate shade of the trees. That is before they are chased off by some humans who want to do the same. The dogs would then settle into some other location (they have plenty) and continue to pass the time, too hot to even think about food, till the dusk brings some respite of a couple of degrees and not more. "Roam as you like you dastardly curs," they seem to say to some dogs that have encroached on their territories; heat is a great leveler - their designated scavenging area would be as much baked by the sun as those of their competitors. There is no benefit to be accrued by going hither and thither - just pick a spot and stick to it, seems to be their working mandate for the summer months.

I glance at my fellow passenger. Yeah, the heat does make strange bedfellows. Here am I sitting inches away from a person I had vowed never to set sight on again. But the heat makes us weak, it throws us at its mercy, and as a moment of weakness became an indecision, I turned my back and walked right into the cobwebs that I had skillfully made over the demise of memories past.

I was curios, I admitted to myself. I turned slighly in order to get a better look at him. Where would he be working right now? Is he more successful than I am?

He must be working in India as he clearly lives in Delhi. Let me think back and remember what other flights arrived around same time as mine did. There was one from Mumbai, another from Cuttack, couple from Bangalore. He has a Jet address tag on his laptop bag, so that eliminates Bangalore and Cuttack - so it has to be Mumbai. Now what was he doing in Mumbai? There are no huge software operations in Mumbai, well not as big in Bangalore or Delhi. He has to be a software engineer. But on the other hand he is wearing a suit. Maybe he has become a banker as all those engineers tend to do now days. Four years of wasted time and subsidised Government of India education.

Ah! I see a Rolex. He has to be a banker for sure, I thought to myself as I pulled my own cuffs to hide my once-proud-of-Omega watch. A reflex reaction. There I go again.

The suit seems one of those generic Indian brands I said to myself smugly as I caressed my hands on my own patented Italian garb. Even-stevens.

He looks so smug, is he not being driven crazy by the heat and this chance encounter? What are odds of this happening? Certainly much worse than being dealt a pair of Aces twice in a row in a game of Texas Hold 'em Poker.

I always liked to calculate the odds. Back in the day of "Teen Patti" and 5 paise chaals I used to do it all the time. Even though on an average I used to win I did not quiet enjoy it as Rakim used to on losing all that money.

Well if I can't loosen my tie I can certainly remove my jacket. I did so, carefully flashing the brand tag on the inside of my jacket. He barely moved his eyes.

"How much more time will it take," I asked the driver.

"Sir, 30 minutes more," he replied.

"Oh damn it! I forgot to call my wife," as Rakim said those first words since the airport I felt someone had taken a hot hammer and banged me on my stomach with it. I ignored the operative sentence, his tone, slight clipped accent, and concentrated on the last word in the sentence.

Goddamn it! I should have known better than to come to Delhi. And even if I did why the heck I could not have gotten another cab. All because of this bloody heat that messes up one's mind - it makes weaklings out of all of us, always has and always will.

I bit my tongue and looked firmly outside of the window, gulping down blasts of hot air that hit my face any blinded me to scenes outside. I did not care, I just wanted to find a small corner and hide in it.

Rakim took out his cellphone and I heard him dialing someone.

"Hey cutie! Sorry I could not call you earlier. Yes, the flight was fine. Mumbai was much cooler than Delhi, of course. But the damn place floods like crazy at the first showers. Yeah, see ya soon."

In spite of myself I held on to each of his words. Dissecting his tones and pauses, and analyzing her responses on the other side of the line.

Stop it, I screamed silently. But the damage was done.

"Cutie". Was it not how I used to refer to her. The bastard even stole my one term of affection that I had found the courage to address her.

"Where is my Engineering Drawing submission," I shouted at Rakim on a really hot day of the 2nd semester of our freshman year.

"Well," he paused, "I gave it away. Like a Good Samaritan."

I was pissed more because I was used to his shenanigans involving my assignments as he was my best friend, but to give it away to some third-party was unacceptable in my book.

"What?! How can you just give it away. I spent hours on that Goddamn thing in this bloody heat. Tell me who you gave it to and I will get it back."

He smiled his mischievious smile, "Well you will have to go where no freshman has gone before: Sarojini Hostel."

"You gave it a girl!," I said with dread of redoing the assignment and with the secret pleasure that I will soon be famous with all the girls in Sarojini.

"Yes, I did," he said with apparent pride in his accomplishment.

"Well what is done is done. Tell me her name so that I can ask her to lend it back to me so that I can redo the whole thing." I forgot all about my earlier anger.

"Arre yaar, I do not know her name. She is the one who sits on the first row. The one with those pigtails."

"The one I call 'cutie'?"

Oh God, how I hated him. All those years of suppressed hate, made up self-reconciliation, mad rantings, and final acceptance washed upon me in waves upon waves. The heat made me feel dizzier.

I could not imagine them together. With their neat home: potted plants in the balcony, a leather couch in front of a big wall TV, the bed that they own, the meals they share, and so on. Clearly they were very happy together. I could make it from his voice. I could bet he could not want anything more. A Ferrari maybe (he was nuts about them since the time I knew him), but nothing else.

This has to be the worst day of my life. Well actually, it could only be the 2nd most worst day as nothing touches that last day of IIT, 7 years ago.

"I can't be with you," she said. As ever, she was simple and elegant and God how much I loved her. "You are my best buddy, but I like someone else," she continued.

I had always suspected something but this was like a punch in my stomach with a hot hammer. I pleaded with her but it was inevitable. Four years of friendship does not a love make. Why not, one may ask, why not so, comes back the reply.

I knew what I had to do. My body was covered in sweat so that my t-shirt was sticking to my back. I raced down to confront Rakim - my best buddy in the world and a backstabber.

It took only 4 minutes for me to get over four years of compadreship (I always thought it was a stupid make-believe word) - I have been always melodramatic so I had timed the 4 minutes of my rant, after which I left, swearing never to return.

I lost two precious things at once.

And now here I was, sitting with the same man with whom I still brooked resentment, which this damn hot day had fanned into flames of hatred of yore.

It was always easier to imagine them being unhappy or even if they were happy then not knowing or hearing about them (I had strictly kept off those stupid social networking sites for the same reason). The dusts of time had settled this episode of my life. But now, in one stroke of a brush, I could once again see the twin graves of love and friendship.

I did not know what to do. The carefully constructed edifice of iciness had melted away in the heat of Delhi. And I was once again exposed to the elements.

"Sir, your hotel is here."

I was woken up from my time traveling, but unfortunately a little bit late.

I got out and walked into the hotel with a heavy heart. One more time carrying the baggage of my past with me.

........

"Bhaiyya, switch on the A/C now," Rakim said to the driver while handing him a Rs. 500 note.

Rakim had a quiet smile on his face. He had noticed his old friend's first reaction when he had seen him at the taxi stand and not a single subsequent one had escaped his meticulous mind during their long and (purposefully made) hot journey.

The idea came to Rakim when he saw him taking his luggage from the Hong Kong flight's conveyor belt. It would be an interesting sociological experiment, he mused. He promptly left to slip a note into the hands of the booking clerk, asking him to make a cock and bull story and get the man in the Italian suit to share a cab with him.

The rest was easy. His old friend always had an over active mind and a vivid imagination. All he needed to do was take him to the KoolAid and he would gladly oblige.

Rakim took out his cellphone again.

"Honey! Do you want to go to that new Italian joint?," he said.

"Yeah sure, I will be ready when you reach home. By the way, why did you call me 'cutie'? No one has ever addressed me like that," the voice on the other line said.

A smiling Rakim replied, "Well I said it for the benefit of an old friend - he never got the truth before and therefore I did not want to disappoint him by shattering his long-held illusions."