END TERM ASSIGNMENT- PROMPT 3

THE BARBER'S TOMB

It was getting progressively difficult to get out of bed. The proverbial Dilli ki sardi had not disappointed. But thankfully, for at least two hours a day I could drag myself to the balcony and enjoy some sun. And so I did, cup of coffee in hand, taking in the familiar view.  The loud couple with the FRIENDS poster across the street were fighting again. It was very hard to tell if the guy was just flexing his muscles, or trying to establish his point, or maybe both? The girl walked out, straight into Solitary Bean Bag guy’s cat, who was helplessly calling out for it, two terraces away. 4 years in grimy North Campus, and I am still not used to its Tetris-like buildings that fit right with each other, quite literally making everyone’s lives intertwined. The cat suddenly stopped, stared right into my soul. I had to look away, at the solitary plant that I kept in my balcony, and the cigarette butts strewn like corpses on it. Aman forgot to chuck them in the dustbin. He always does.

Soon, the sun disappeared, and I could feel the cold wind running down my nasal cavity. My nose hairs are always the first to beckon the coming of winter. Aman would crack up every time I mentioned this.

“And which body part beckons summer?”

“My forehead. It starts getting all pimple-y”

My answer would crack him up even more.

Delhi winters are the best time to go around the city. The cool fog blurs out all the dirt, like an efficient Instagram filter. People sweat less, and the metro rides feel less gross. And there is nothing that the occasional chai-sutta cannot fix. But it still cannot redeem anything from the tasteless ritual of shopping.  And especially, shopping for your parents. But here I was, right at the entrance of Janpath, shopping central for Delhi’s urban middle class, just by the shabby metal detector that definitely did not work. It was close to midday on a working day, so the crowd was relatively sparse. Also another thing about winter, the shopkeepers seem to be in a better mood, which makes bargaining way easier.

Two minutes later, a cab halted in front of me. The back glass had stickers from every taxi service out there, online and offline. Aman got down, still visibly sleepy.

“Why can’t you ever take the metro, you decadent piece-of-shit?”

As a comeback, he decided to mess up my hair. Still too sleepy for a verbal battle. I have a theory that his biological clock is somehow connected to the sun, which makes him less snarky in winter because that part of his brain somehow needs regular supply of solar energy, and which ultimately makes him more bearable in winters, like that weird blue alien in that movie that was pretty much a Bournvita commercial .  But this was only the second winter that I had him around. Last winter, he was a lanky fellow, showing up everywhere in his football studs. Now, post-college, he looked aged, his lips darker with all the smoking, and I could count at least three grey hairs.

The first shop on the right from the metal detector is always my first stop, my favourite. It is cramped from top to bottom with collectibles, arranged in no order whatsoever, just like how I like to keep my own things; in an order that only I understand. Shopping here was like a treasure hunt, and I had my best partner with me.

“Why didn’t you just order something online?” Turns out Aman did get some sun in him after all.

“Just be grateful that I did not decide to go to Sarojini.”

Aman’s delicate South Delhi frame does not deal well with the hullabaloo of Sarojini, and I did my part to remind him that as many times as I could.

“You can quit the drama, dude. I know you only came because I promised you Theobroma after this.”

He pursed his lips, trying hard to stifle his smile. I feel like too many boys spend way too much time trying to stop themselves from breaking into wide smiles. Girls too.  Our college farewell photos were just a collection of people trying to find that perfect curve that would not show too much teeth; an entire generation ashamed of their dental hygiene.

 Except Oparna. Never her.

“How can I help you, ma’am?”

The shopkeeper was looking earnestly at me, but I could not answer his question, settling for a half-smile. And then the treasure hunt began. Right at the entrance were the mirrors and lamps, in every colour perceptible to the human eye, each with intricate designs. Tiny golden birds with trinkets and what-not were hung like packets of potato chips in a grocery store, which you had to flip through to enter the store. And once you get there, you just have to let your eye wander because it is an impossible task to find only one thing to fix your gaze at. On the table there are hundreds of coasters, fridge magnets, pens, diaries, all with tiny Taj Mahals or Qutub Minars or Jama Masjids. The walls on all three sides were covered from top to bottom with paintings and other wall hangings, depicting gods, Gandhi or just a young woman dressed like a Mughal princess. And in front of them were the big statues of Buddha, Nataraja and almost every god in the Hindu pantheon.

“I can’t decide if this place looks more like a medieval whorehouse or a Bhansali set.” By now, I was seriously reconsidering my solar power theory for Aman.

“You will get shops like this literally all around Delhi. With better collection. It’s your parents’ anniversary man. Quit the chindi attitude for once.”

My eyeroll was enough to silence him. But this was not about being chindi anyway. Two years ago when I discovered Janpath for the first time, I knew I was going to keep coming back to this place again and again. That was another time. Oparna had dragged me along with her; she needed some good cheap clothes for her fashion blog, and I was her favourite tag-a-long. Which was weird because I am not the most enthusiastic shopping partner, and I am absolutely clueless about fashion. But when Oparna makes up her mind about something, there is no turning her down.

 Or maybe it was just me. I always found myself scramming for words when talking to her; nothing that I thought I wanted to say seemed worthy of her. And every once in a while, cigarette dangling from her full lips, she would trace my jawline with her long finger, which she repeatedly assured me was my greatest asset. After that, I spent several hours trying to figure out her body’s greatest asset, but I failed.  And now it’s been 6 months since I last saw her.

Aman was furious when I picked up the first Ganesha statue that I found. He had never been to my place, but he assured me that we already had one like that, because apparently every Indian middle class family did. He was not wrong. We had at least 3 Ganesha figurines in our living room. But I wanted to play safe, especially after the fiasco last year, when I found out that Buddha heads cannot be accommodated under Vaastu rules.

After two rounds of brownies at Theobroma, I was able to convince Aman to accompany me to Humayun’s tomb; his frail South Delhi frame is not suited for touristy things either.

“This is your fourth year in Delhi. And if you have already been to this place so many times. I just assumed the tourist in you would be gone by now.” The frown lines of his forehead were deeper than I had ever seen them. He seemed tired, and it was not just sleep deprivation. All of a sudden, everything that everyone has ever told me about Aman flashed through my mind; all their tones sympathetic, like he was some kind of terminal patient. Sometimes he had the same look while talking about himself; with a smile that was clearly meant to hide something.

“It’s okay if you don’t want to come along. I can always go alone.”

On any other day, he would have gently punched my arm, blasted off a few insults and then dragged me along anyway. But not today. He took a deep breath, gently tucked the few strands of loose hair behind my ear, and walked off.

The huge mausoleum complex was glowing in the winter sun when I walked in. More than the main complex, I have always been more in awe of its entrance. Right in the heart of the city in which half of the people had their living room entrances opening straight into the main road, was this sprawling structure with gates so massive that it is impossible to actually see the main mausoleum until one has crossed them. It is actually alarmingly close to one of the most densely populated parts of Delhi: Nizamuddin basti. Which also means that it is super close to the best mutton curry in town.

As soon as I climbed on to the platform, I saw her. It seemed like the four walls of the building had conspired to create for her the perfect silhouette. My first impulse was to turn back and leave, since there was absolutely no question of me actually going up to talk to her. Then I thought maybe I should just hang back for a while, watch where she goes, and with whom. But then I modified my strategy and went to the Isa Khan tomb instead. In a mausoleum where more than 100 lie buried, it is not difficult to find a place to hide from familiar faces, unlike the dead for whom this complex was built. Technically speaking, all of the dead Mughals in here must have a very cramped up afterlife, some probably stuck with relatives they hated all their lives; much like the lives of the nosey aunties of North campus.

I turned around to see her standing right in front of me.

“Oparna…”

“I knew I couldn’t possibly miss that jawline anywhere. Even if I wanted to.”

She had not changed one bit. Her long ebony tresses settled gracefully over her hips. I was surprised to see that she was alone, half-expecting an entourage of wide-eyed boys courting her. Her wide toothy grin was as infectious as ever, and soon she had locked arms with me and dragged me along to the gardens. It was a pretty chilly afternoon, and not the right time to be sitting on dewy grass. So even though lying on grass was pretty much our favorite thing to do, we had to go sit on the raised platform of the main mausoleum.

“Remember the last time we came here?”

I sure did. We were forced to accompany a few of our lousy college friends for what was supposed to be a fun picnic of sorts. But after fifteen minutes of relentless photo sessions we decided to sneak out and grab a smoke. But on our way out we reached the adjacent Barber’s tomb, and realized that it was the perfect spot for us; not too close to our friends’ battle for the perfect Instagram moment but still not too far as to appear downright rude. We ended up leaving the complex only after hearing the guards’ whistling.

And now, we were back to that place, quietly staring at the ceiling.

“He must have been one hell of a barber.”

“But I don’t think the purpose of remembering the barber is being fulfilled here. I mean, we don’t even know his name, and it is clearly being outshined by the main mausoleum. Even his memory remains only in the fringes. You won’t see anyone taking selfies here.” Oparna looked at me, her eyes sparkling with a hint of mischief in them. Random arguments over inane matters were the foundation of our relationship. One time we discussed for two hours the merits and demerits of smoking mint cigarettes. By the end of it we were too tired to do anything, and so just fell asleep under the quilt, soaking in the welcome warmth of each other’s bodies.

“But the fact that we are even having this conversation is proof enough that his memory is not lost.”

An overfed stray dog then walked in, and naturally our conversation was suspended. We both started talking to him in our own mother tongues, and the dog got visibly perturbed by the mixed signals, and quickly left. We both just stood there under the large dome of the Barber’s tomb, watching the dog leave, slowly letting the rejection sink in. Until, Oparna turned around and looked at me with the half-smile.

“Do you think the barber was buried with the king because they were lovers?”

Our nervous laughter echoed between the thick walls of a dead barber’s memory.