In the mornings the time ticks by not to the sounds of the wall clock, but to the chimes of the doorbell.   First comes the servant to clean the apartment, then arrives the old lady to take out the trash, and finally the press man carries the clothes away to iron out their frowns and creases, the world's most conscientious therapist. Cleanliness in Bombay, like a car in America, is manufactured on a giant assembly line.

But Nalini awaits the arrival of the dabbawallah the most. For the others have made possible a clean marriage, but the dabbawallah, he has had made it a bearable one. She reserves the brightest smile of the day for him. Nalini beams so profusely upon seeing the dabbawallah that his tired eyes twinkle when she hands him the stainless steel lunch box for her husband Nikhil.

Her dabba will be magically transported along with fifteen million other lunchboxes to hungry offices across the city. There is never a single error on the part of a dabbawallah that could cause a South Indian to get greasy North Indian curry, or God forbid, a vegetarian a bowl of mutton.   She admires the dabbawallahs that are lotus flowers of efficiency blossoming in the mud swamp of chaos that is modern India.

The top container, Nalini reserves for the dal rice, the middle container for the most affordable vegetable of the week, and the piping hot rotis, she places at the very bottom.   Just before closing the box, she places a note over the rotis reminding Nikhil to pay the electricity bill on his way home.   She smiles as she puts in the note, as her mind is transported to the blissful period of time a few months after they were married, a state of affairs that had seemed impossible even as they were circling the sacred fire.  

For in the beginning, there was anger. Nalini had never thought that she would have to go through an arranged marriage. She had stood through scores of marriage ceremonies for her sisters and relatives with tears in her eyes and condescension in her heart. How could anyone spend the rest of their life with a person they didn't know? She wasn't going to end up like them. She had a boyfriend and she would get married to him.

But that hadn't happened.

Instead, her father had smiled a smile, an astrologer had matched their horoscopes, her mother had broken a coconut on the temple steps, and she had married Nikhil.

She was consumed with resentment when she entered her new home in Bombay. Nikhil had never dated a girl in his entire life, and his awkwardness fueled her anger even more. Where her boyfriend Gautam had once held her confidently and kissed her, Nikhil continued to brush against her accidentally.

The differences between the two men from her past and present were endless. Like her, Gautam wrote fiction. On the other hand, Nikhil wrote software code. Gautam was the true cosmopolitan Bombayite. He listened to Pink Floyd, and said American sounding things like Take Care . Nikhil spoke about politics at work and the politics of politics...

The thought of what could have been made her even angrier, causing her to throw tantrums over completely irrelevant issues. She would complain incessantly about having to sacrifice her career as a journalist for their marriage.

-But you are the one who has made to choice to stay at home to focus on your writing, Nikhil had protested.

She called him a stupid cabbage and slammed the bedroom door in his face.  

In the midst of all her anger, the dabbawallah was an oasis of peace. Every morning, Nalini took some time off from being upset to be impressed by his clockwork efficiency. For the first three months of their marriage, he created moments where life seemed as easy as one two three.

Deliver dabba to office. Pick up the dabba from office after lunchtime. Exchange this dabba for a new one next morning. Every day. On the hour.

One morning, she saw a note in the empty dabba.

-Are you feeling somewhat better? it said. It was signed Stupid Cabbage.

She couldn't help smiling. She asked the dabbawallah to wait. She opened the dabba she had just prepared, slipped in her reply and handed the lunchbox back to him.

-When was I somewhat bad that I should be feeling somewhat better?

Nikhil didn't make any reference to her note when he returned from office. They ate their dinner in silence. But she didn't leave the room, as she normally did when he switched on the TV.   They saw Boris Becker play the quarterfinal at Wimbledon together and she clapped her hands when he won at the end.

Much to her delight, there was another note the next morning.

-Ah, the ways of flowers are a mystery. They think one way and act another. Unlike the stupid cabbages.

-Listen, she wrote. You must be careful about what you say about the flowers.

That evening, they enquired about each other's well being.   He talked about his coworkers. He complained about his boss who had never put in a day's honest work. She showed him an article she had written.

It was easy to be angry, but it was more fun this way.

Neither of them made any reference to the correspondence that had taken on a life of its own.    Every morning brought new delight, and the evenings were spent in a heady mix of recollection and anticipation.

-Who am I to say bad things about the flowers? I love flowers. In my previous life I was a gardener.

-Ah ha! Now I understand why you talk about fertilizers in your sleep. Hey listen, if you were really a gardener in your last life, then will you make a new flower just for me?

-I have found a new flower. Then why should I run around and make a new one?

-Oh really? How is she?

-She is so beautiful that people cannot help but look at her. When they stare at her for a long time, she gets angry and turns a deep shade of red. Then, she appears even more beautiful. At all times, she is my friend. She spreads joy in my world with her fragrance.

-She sounds lovely. I must see this flower. What have you decided to call her?

-Nalini.

When he came home, there was an uncomfortable silence. It filled the flat with its restlesnness, a feeling they were not yet prepared to cope with.

They decided to go for a walk on Worli Seaface.

Everything became a little different that day. He took her hand at the bus stop.   They smiled as they indulged in inconspicuous caresses, fingers against palms.

The sun had forgotten that it was evening time and continued to blaze on the pavement. They relished the cool breeze of the sea. She thought of Gautam, and for a moment, felt guilty for enjoying the company of this other man who was her husband. Drops of sweat formed in rapid succession on her forehead and she found it difficult to breathe. A huge gust of wind blew along the seashore. Dust particles began to circle around in whirlpools and entered her nostrils. She knew that smell. It was going to rain.

And sure enough, the heavens gave way to all of their pent up outpourings, and the water from the sky overwhelmed that from the sea. The children on the street broke into a mad dance, extending one arm in front of them, and then the next. Nikhil was dancing too. She had never noticed how disarming his smile was. With his upright posture, he appeared taller than he actually was. He pulled her towards him. From the corner of her eyes, she saw a businessman get down from a car, loosen his tie, and throw his head back in complete relief. The summer with its humidity and sweat had caused all the people of Bombay to stick uncomfortably together. Now, every person had come apart from this unfeeling mass, and basked in this feeling of solitude. It was little wonder that not one person noticed, even when he kissed her in the middle of such a large crowd.

*********************

Nalini enquires about the dabbawallah's child, who studies in an English Medium School. She helps him with his homework every weekend. The dabbawallah's only wish in life is that his son does not follow in his footsteps. He tells Nalini frequently that he is willing to spend every rupee he earns on his son's education. Nalini assures him that English is a very easy language to learn.

-We learnt their language, they couldn't learn even one of ours, she tells him, and he nods his head impressed with the logic.

The servant continues to scrub dishes moodily in the kitchen. Nalini enters the bathroom and locks it securely. With a practiced ease, she reaches for a cigarette pack over the flush bowl.

She adjusts the bindi on her forehead and looks critically at her reflection in the mirror. Running her index finger over her skin, she resolves to stop drinking so much coffee.  

She lights a Gold Flake cigarette and takes care to blow the smoke through the window. This is the other secret she has kept from Nikhil.

She puffs intermittently, as smoke clouds take shape and make their way up in the air. She sits on these clouds and wills them to take her away to another place, or a different point in time.

She loves the feeling of being transported. Nalini thinks back to when her father used to carry her on his shoulders on the way home from movies while explaining the various intricacies of the plot.

-Appa, why did the hero hit that man?

-Because he hadn't done his homework.

-Really?

-Nalini, will your Appa ever tell a lie?

As she had gotten older, her father had stopped smiling and making silly jokes. Instead, he became consumed by the thought of getting her married. The prospect of having an unmarried daughter in the house weighed heavily on his mind, and he became increasingly more serious with every passing day.

Nalini didn't share his enthusiasm for marriage. It was a concept that irked her. So much of what went into getting married was predetermined. Looks, complexion, and even a person's singing ability had become items to be auctioned off in a crowded marketplace. Intelligence was preferred, but not necessary, like the ability to speak a foreign language in a job description. All a girl had to do was 'be good', a promise she had made to her father on the first day of college. A dutiful daughter was then expected to preserve and accumulate this goodness like compound interest in a bank till the day she got married.

She exhales moodily, and another smoke ring takes her to the time when she saw Gautam for the first time at a bus stand.

He leaned against the stand, calmly detached from the honking, the crowds and the heat with a smile on the corner of his lips, as if he was party to a joke the rest of the world didn't know. Enveloped by this comforting secrecy, he emanated a sense of freedom from every pore of his skin.

He had walked up to her and asked her if she wanted to have tea with him. She thought of her father and refused. Even then, he continued to talk to her, her denial reduced to a minor speed breaker in the highway of their conversation. For the next two days, he asked her to join him for tea. She refused him on both occasions.

-Do you even like tea? he asked on the third day.

They had ordered milk shakes at the Haji Ali juice stand with the vastness of the ocean spread before them. Nalini learnt that Gautam was part of a rare breed. He was a writer without a day job.

-Rich father, he said without a hint of apology.

He showed her a world that she had always suspected existed beyond the horizons of her myopic existence. Songs by English rock groups. Books by Somerset Maugham. Movies set in far away cities like Istanbul.   She relished the fact that that in total contrast to her father, she could be herself around Gautam. She could even be Bette Davis if she wanted to and learnt to smoke cigarettes with the same casual ease.

After two years, she had agreed to have sex with him, at first out of the fear of losing him, and then giving way to the flowing winds of freedom that he had come to personify. Afterwards, they would lie down and share a cigarette, as the ash blew to places on their skin and foreheads under the exertions of a creaky ceiling fan.

The smoke ring wobbles uncertainly as it hovers over the moment when she is tip toeing silently to the door of her father's apartment.

She had decided to leave everything behind. She had not even packed a suitcase. Nalini wore the Mental Inside T Shirt with the Intel Logo that Gautam had gifted her along with a pair of frayed dark blue jeans. She also had on comfortable sneakers, in case any of the running sequences they depicted in the movies materialized in real life. Where was the need for the Kanjeevaram silk sari or her childhood photo album? The past was the past, and the visions of the future filled her with a mad excitement.

She experienced a moment of guilt as she left the door unlocked, but the feeling was rapidly conquered by visions of Gautam waiting for her. She imagined the faint smell of cologne mingled with the aftertaste of cigarettes on his black shirt. She loved it; it was his smell. She couldn't predict how he would react when she touched him, and she loved that feeling too. Gautam inspired feelings of both danger and security in her, a tasty and dizzying cocktail of emotions.

They had decided to meet at the Victoria Terminus station at ten in the night. For a couple that planned to elope, it was the best place to meet in all of Bombay. The grand Gothic façade, with its tall arches and spirals and thousands of gargoyles spoke volumes of all that was possible only if one listened to the voice of imagination. Nalini waited expectantly on the crowded street, her eyes glued to the giant face of the clock.   The hours passed, and the sounds of the traffic dimmed. She could eventually hear the shoe polish boy beat his brush on the stand, and a street vendor fry onions in the stillness of the night.   When a suspicious policeman walked up to her after three hours, she decided to go home. The gargoyles mocked her in a cacophonic chorus as she got into the taxi, and she averted her eyes from their piercing glances.

Once home, she answered her father's questioning look with an apologetic grimace that strained at the edges of her face and held back her tears.

It is a grimace that to this day does not sit on a smoke cloud and go away.

*********************

The tune of Fearless from her favorite Floyd Album Meddle begins to play as her cell phone   display lights up.  

-Hello Nalini.

There is only one person in the entire world that can say her name and slip immediately into complete silence, waiting for her to speak.

-Hello Gautam, she says, brushing away the smoke clouds with a wave of her hand.

-I want to see you. The voice is the same, but it sounds different. She thinks it might be the phone connection, but knows that it is time.

-I don't want to see you, she says hurriedly like an inexperienced orator delivering a well rehearsed line. There are a hundred other things she wants to say, but they all crash into each other and result in a silence without meaning.

-I really don't want to meet you, she repeats, trying to convince herself. I am very happy with my married life, thank you very much.

-Nalini, if I didn't show up that night, there must have been a good reason. Won't you give me the chance to explain?

She realizes instantly that she can. In fact, she owes it to him. He has never asked her for an explanation for anything she ever did. That is why she loves him. She wants to cry, but not in front of him. She disconnects the phone after hastily agreeing to meet him without giving any thought to the place or time he suggests.

She walks towards the bedroom, and pulls out a sitar from the corner between the wall and the stainless steel Godrej cupboard.   She draws it towards her. The sitar is covered with dust and some of the pegs are loose. But her fingers are still calloused and rough from the time she had learnt to play the sitar with Gautam.

-Pluckable fingers for pluckable strings, she says aloud.

-Remember, Gautam had told her a few months after they had met. The raga is the purest way of expressing an emotion. Evoke and Inspire, Nalini. Evoke and Inspire.

She had crossed her legs more tightly together and knitted her eyebrows purposefully. Evoke, she reminded herself, Evoke. Only then Inspire.

Gautam sat on the carpet, a classical guitar laid down before him, appearing relaxed as always.

- We will play the raga Malhar today. The great singer Tansen, Gautam said in a loving tone, making him appear like a close and personal friend, sang this raga in Emperor Akbar's court. When he sang this raga, the heavens used to open up and cast rain upon the earth. Just you see, the same thing will happen today also.

Nalini had smiled. It was the monsoon season.

Now, she places her hand on the side of the fretboard just above the main bowl of the sitar.   She tunes the instrument and fingers the strings as the lush sound fills the room. The wooden bookshelves, the glass tables and the wall painting of Krishna with a mischievous smile on his face look on with silent anticipation. She supports the sitar with the hand as her fingers begin to tentatively traverse the fretboard. Individual notes trickle out of the instrument and drop into her immediate airspace. She imagines the sound of a neighboring instrument to guide her. Notes blend into ripples, and ripples turn into rivers that result in waves upon waves of sound, every crest and trough inspiring a feeling of admiration, awe and humility in her. She gives herself up to the music. Delicious moment follows delicious moment. At first, she first forgets to listen and then she forgets to exist.

She hears the door to their flat being forced open loudly. Nikhil appears at the arch that forms the entrance to the room.

-I have been ringing the doorbell for the last five minutes. Luckily, Mr. Kamath was at home, and he was able to find the copy of the key we had given him several months ago.

Nalini places the sitar against the wall with a guilty look on her face. She looks to her side, and feels relieved when she realizes that she is sitting alone on the carpet.

-What's the time? she asks. Nikhil had been coming home later with every passing night. He had told her that it had something to do with the increased activity at their office due to the year closing.

-It's after ten, he shouts out from the bedroom.

He comes out into the hall wearing a white vest and a lungi that cling to his wiry frame. The dark circles under his eyes stand out like defunct headlights and stamp his face with their personality.

- Let's have some dinner.

She has forgotten to make dinner. But the exhilarating sound of the sitar continues to ring in her ears making it difficult to feel apologetic.

-Let's order something from outside, she says. It has been a long time since we have had restaurant food.

-I work so hard...Nikhil shakes his head. He is about to say something, but instead sits on the sofa and turns on the TV. The sounds of the people dying in some part of the country fill the room.

Nalini walks to the phone and dials the restaurant. She feels like eating street food and orders bhelpuris, ragada patties and pav bhaji. The mere act of taking their names fills her with an aroma that takes her back to her college days, when the wind played with the palm trees, and ruffled her hair as she stood on the cobblestoned street waiting for the bus.

-Ok Madam. Twenty minutes, the waiter shouts over the din of hungry customers and clanging stainless steel glasses.

-Milkshakes. Two mango milkshakes, she shouts out, just as the line is about to get disconnected.

She steps back into the hall through the strings of beads that make up their transparent curtain. The announcer on the TV is lamenting the increased communal tensions in Bombay. Somebody has defaced a photograph of the mother of the militant right wing Hindu politician in the city.

-I appeal to the people to maintain peace and calm, the octogenarian looking Chief Minister says mechanically from the TV screen.

More than anything, Nalini wants to turn off the TV set, put on a Pink Floyd album, and sit next to Nikhil on the couch with her head resting on his shoulder. She thinks that he would like it too. Since marrying her, Nikhil had begun to listen to English music and learnt to appreciate the moodiness of Waters and the mellifluous meanderings of Gilmour.   

-Nikhil...

-These stupid politicians, Nikhil says immediately after sensing her presence. They are most responsible for the communal problems in this country. Do you think they couldn't have stopped those idiotic Hindus from bringing down the Babri mosque in 1992? And then they continued to stand by when thousands of people died in the Bombay bomb blasts and riots. What India needs Nalini...

She sighs inwardly. She knows what India needs. She has heard it hundreds upon hundreds of times.   India needs to aspire to be just a power, and not a superpower like America. That way, India won't have to invade foreign countries. That way India can flourish in a culture of non-violence. That way India can be a shining example for the rest of the world. That way...

Nikhil's voice fades away, as Nalini looks at the cream colored walls of her apartment that stand between her and the rest of India.

-We have to pay the dabbawallah tomorrow, she says.

He smiles broadly. It is a genuine smile, one that lasts for a while on his face.

-Yes, yes, very important. Remind me in the morning. You can't imagine just how much I look forward to the dabba every morning at work.   He pats his stomach. God knows what would happen to my life without your lovely lovely dabbas, he says with mock seriousness.

-Yes, what would happen Nikhil?

Nalini's eyes have suddenly turned as serious as those of a farmer outside Bangalore or Hyderabad. Imagine I don't cook for you every morning. Or even imagine I'm not at home in the morning to send the dabba. Would you eat outside?

Nikhil spends a few seconds lost in deep thought.

-I guess so, he says. But it's my good fortune that I have a wife who has chosen to stay at home and fulfill her wifely duties. A good wife! he laughs loudly.

Nalini bites the bottom of her lips, as the doorbell rings. She carefully sidesteps the sitar as walks to the door to collect their food. She checks the amount on the bill, counts off the milkshakes and before closing the door, looks intently at the sky.

There is no sign of rain.

*********************

Nalini memorizes every feature on the dabbawallah's face. It might be the last time she sees him. She has decided to meet Gautam for lunch at Copper Chimney. She has then decided to leave all future developments to fate and the giant puppeteer in the sky.

-I have some work this weekend, she tells the dabbawallah, as she hands over the dabba. She hasn't placed a note in there today. I can't do the English lessons this week. Ok?

The dabbawallah folds his hands to say Namaste and nods his head gratefully.

As soon as he has made his way down the stairs, the servant, the trash lady and the ironing man make their appearances. Their comforting routine assures Nalini that the earth is still round and continues to revolve around a yellow sun.  

She reads the newspaper absently, and is struck by what an uncertain place the world is.   She turns to the comic section looking for a familiar face, even if it is that of Hagar the Horrible.   The servant has started to scrub the floor. Nalini realized that she has missed her cigarette break for the first time since she married Nikhil.

She locks the bathroom door and looks at her reflection in the mirror. She wants to wear something neutral for the meeting with Gautam, and settles on a blue salwar kameez that her father had gifted her for her first birthday after marriage.

Today is different, she realizes after smoking the first cigarette. Today is a day for many cigarettes.

The smoke clouds waft outside the window and are rendered invisible by the angry rays of the sun. Today, Nalini doesn't ask them to take her places. Today, she just lets them be.

Somebody knocks on the bathroom door. She hears Nikhil calling out her name. Nalini brushes away the smoke violently with her hands. She squeezes some toothpaste into her mouth directly from the tube. The knobs of the wash basin relent with a violent creak, even as she sprays perfume frantically in the air.

She opens the bathroom door, and shuts it instantly behind her. Foam from the toothpaste dribbles down the corner of her lips.

-Oh Nalini, Nikhil says. I am so happy to see you are ok.

-Why are you home so early? she asks continuing to breathe heavily. Is everything all right?

-The dabbawallah didn't come to work this morning. I realized instantly that something was wrong. Nikhil talks in rapid bursts slowing down consciously at the end of the sentences trying to maintain a measure of calm.

-The sun can rise from the west, but the dabbawallah can never miss his delivery...

She nods numbly.

-I tried calling your cell phone, but all of the networks were busy. I stepped outside the office. There was chaos everywhere. Nalini, there were crowds of people dispersed in the most random patterns. They were going away from the train stations. A cigarette shop owner told me that there have been eight bomb blasts on the local trains on the Western line from Borivalli to Santa Cruz to Churchgate station. Hundreds of people of have died. Students. Office workers.

Even dabbawallahs, she realizes.

-I am so happy you are ok, he says.

He holds her hand and touches her gently on the ear. Her mind is taken back to the time when she sat on a wooden bench with Gautam in Hanging Gardens. The children sped safely down the slides, the sparrows flew carelessly in the ravenless sky and the smell of the leaves from the ripening mango trees promised strands of pulp that would be every bit as predictable as they would be delicious.

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© COPYRIGHT 2002-2012 Arun Krishnan