168. OS: 7: The Other Woman (Part 35)

 Part 35

Arnav paced his room, a frown of perplexity on his anxious face.

“Kya hua, Arnav bitwaa? Are you borried about Anjali bitiyya?” Mami asked on seeing him striding around his room on her way to the terrace to spy on the gardener through her pair of pink binoculars.

“No,” he muttered.

“Then bhat ijj wrong? Tells, tells,” Mami asked.

“Mami, how do you write poetry?” ASR asked.

Mami gasped loudly. Her pink toy fell from her hands on to the carpet.

“Bhat?” she asked, turning her ear to Arnav to hear him clearly.

Arnav sighed. “How can I write poetry?” he asked.

Mami took a long moment to digest the question. Then she asked, “Arnav bitwaa, bijjiness chodke kavi banne ka irrada he kaa?”

“No. I..I need a poem,” he muttered self-consciously. “Akash will get back only next week. Otherwise I could have asked him...”

Mami, whose only acquaintance with Hindi poetry was the lyrics of the latest item songs in Bollywood, thought long and hard.

“Arnav bitwaa, bhy phear bhen Mamijj here?” she asked. Then she sang, fluttering her blue-green lashes,

O come to me...

Na na na na

I came to see

Na na na na...

Arnav stared at her.

Lipswaa pe beimaaniyaan..

Do do thodi nadaaniyaan...

Lipswaa pe manmaaniyaa...

Do do thodi nadaaniyaan...

“Mami, what is this crap?” Arnav asked.

“This crapwaa ijj Pink Lipswaa by Sunny Deol,” Mami explained. “It ijj good poetry, Arnav bitwaa.”

Arnav almost pulled his hair out in frustration.

Getting rid of his Mami, he called his Jiju for help. Only a man could understand another, he thought.

“Jiju, I need poetry,” he said.

After a second’s silence, the lawyer asked, “What for?”

“Err..Khushi wants it,” Arnav explained.

Shyam frowned. “She is participating in some recitation competition?” he asked.

“Err..no.  Jiju, she wants me to write it for her. I mean, on a paper. Something like a ...a...prem patra,” Arnav confessed, feeling his face flush.

Shyam burst out laughing. The phone fell from his hand on to the sofa as he collapsed on it, guffawing.

“Kya hua?” Anjali asked.

“Chotey...” Shyam gasped. “Chotey is going to...write a prem patra...in poetry.”

The thali fell from Anjali’s hand.

 Arnav heard the sound in Shantivan. He switched off the phone to escape his sister’s amazement.

A long time later, Shyam called Arnav on his official phone.

“Saalesaheb, if you are determined to floor Khushi with your poetry, you might try looking at the classics online,” he suggested, trying to keep the smile out of his voice.

“The classics?”Arnav asked.

“The old ones like Shakespeare. Or you might try Hindi/ Urdu poets. What about Ghalib?”

“Who?” Arnav asked.

Shyam swallowed his laugh. “Try Poetry for Dummies,” he advised.

Arnav looked at excerpts from poems with a jaundiced eye.

"Go and catch a falling star,
Get with child a mandrake root,”

“What the!” he exclaimed. He was struggling to get Khushi to agree to their marriage and here the poet was already talking about babies?

He scrolled down the page.

“One day I wrote her name upon the strand,
But came the waves and washed it away...”

“Really?” Arnav exclaimed aloud, his brow cocked. But where was the sea in Delhi? Arnav grimaced. This would not work.

“I taste a liquor never brewed
From tankards scooped in pearl...”

Khushi was no tippler! If he wrote such nonsense, she would very well take him for a sharaabi. As it was, his path to Khushi was filled with hurdles.

Naqsh faryaadi hai kiski shaukhi-e tehreer ka
Kagazi hai pairahan har paikar-e tasveer ka...

Arnav’s eyes widened. Unbelievable! What was this?

He shut the laptop with a firm hand. He would have to manage on his own. No Shakespeare or Keats could help him. How would he quote Ghalib or other Indian poets when he couldn’t understand them?

Arnav stood up and walked to the window leading to his garden. Wind blew the curtains against his face. He caught the fluttering fabric in his hand and stood looking at the calm waters of his pool.

‘Why couldn’t Khushi ask me for a flower or a plant? Or money? Or a business deal? Or a house? Or a car? Or a diamond necklace? Or the world? Why did she have to demand a prem patra? How on earth can I write a love letter? Words always abandon me when I need them the most. How the hell am I going to manage this?’ he wondered.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket and switched it on. ‘Maybe I should call Aman and ask him if I can hire someone to write poems...’ he mused.

But then the unpalatable picture of an unknown man crafting words for Khushi rose in his mind to disturb him.

No, no, he would do it.

He walked to the mirror, took a notepad from the cupboard next to it, looked for a pen, found it and returned to his recliner to compose his epic.

Two hours later, Hari Prakash knocked on the door with a tray in his hand.

“Come in,” Arnav muttered.

HP walked in to see Arnav bhaiyya bent over a pad, scribbling something. Crumpled sheets of paper lay all around him, littering the carpet.

“Arnav bhaiyya,” HP said in a low voice. “Shall I clean the room?”

Arnav looked up. “Clean what?” he asked.

HP swallowed nervously. “The paper,” he muttered, lowering his eyes.

Arnav looked at the floor. He was surrounded by his discarded attempts at versification. He drew in a deep breath. What would HP think if he read them?

“Leave them. I will manage,” he said curtly.

“Ji, Arnav bhaiyya,” HP said, looking around for a place to keep the tray.

“Leave it on the bed,” Arnav said.

HP obeyed him, hoping that the jug of juice would not tilt and spill santre ki juice on the bed.

“HP, get me a black tea and a pill for headache,” Arnav requested.

“Ji, Arnav bhaiyya,” HP left him to do the needful.

Arnav looked at the paper before him. After hours of strenuous effort, he had managed to write four lines.

Would they do? he wondered. Khushi hadn’t specified the length, so maybe this would do, he comforted himself.

He looked at the phone. Had Pappu’s letter been longer than four lines?

He quickly called Khushi.

“Khushi, how long was Pappu’s letter?” he asked.

Khushi swallowed the channa she was chewing. “Six pages,” she mumbled.

Arnav’s breath froze in his chest. “Six pages?” he asked, his voice sounding unlike his.

“Ji.” Khushi had no idea that she was dashing her boyfriend’s hopes to dust.

“Khushi, how did the girl..what was her name? Minu? How did she react when she read the letter?” Arnav asked. Would Khushi kiss him on the lips when she read his four lines? He could hope.

“She tore it in to little bits, threw them on the ground and stamped on them as though she were Lord Shiva doing his tandav,” Khushi said, popping a few channas in to her mouth.

“What the!” Arnav was moved to exclaim.

Khushi nodded. “She didn’t like his shayari. Minu said that she would cut Pappu in to little pieces and feed him to her dog if he dared to write another word.”

“What?” Arnav asked in shock. When had girls become so bloodthirsty?

“Ji,” Khushi continued. “She counted eight spelling mistakes in the first line and asked him who had promoted him to 12^th standard. She said he should have been detained in LKG.”

Arnav sagged in his chair.

“Are you writing my prem patra?” Khushi asked eagerly.

“Yessss...,” he said unwillingly.

“When will it be ready?” she asked, sitting up in excitement.

Arnav felt positively hunted. “I..I don’t know. Khushi, I will get back to you. I need to...” he looked around for an excuse.

“Suniye, I wanted to ask you something,” she stopped him from leaving.

“What?” he asked nervously.

“What do girlfriends call boyfriends?” she asked.

Arnav frowned.

“I mean, what should I call you? I can’t call you Saale-saheb now that you are my boyfriend,” Khushi declared happily.

“Err..my name?” Arnav asked.

Khushi frowned. “What is the fun in calling you by your name?” she asked, pouting. “Arnav Singh Raizada. It reminds me of an old man with chasma and no teeth, frowning at the world,” she teased.

Arnav drew in a deep offended breath. “Really?” he asked.

“Really,” Khushi giggled.

“Then call me....” he paused.

“Kya?” she listened intently.

“Jaanu,” he smirked. "Jaaneman, Dilbur..."

The phone fell from her limp fingers on her lap. She grabbed it and said in to it, “Hum phoone rakhte hein.” Her breath seemed blocked in her throat.

“I think I will call you Mehbooba...or Honey..or Jalebi...” Arnav drawled.

“You..you Mashooq Singh Raizada!” Khushi accused him. “You always make it difficult for me to breathe.”

Arnav began to laugh.

 “Ek, his voice is enough to drive me crazy. So low and gruff as though he is whispering secrets in my ear. Upar se he has to say such things? How will I sleep now?” Khushi complained aloud.

Arnav chuckled at her artless admission, feeling happiness spread through him like watercolour in water.

“Khushi,” he whispered. “Tumhara naam hi kaafi he. It brings khushi to me,” he admitted.

Khushi swallowed hard, feeling a lump of tears choke her.

“Woh..woh..hum office mein he...” she tried to end the call. Otherwise she would bawl all over him even though he was miles away.

“I will see you this evening, Khushi. I will give you your letter,” he promised rashly.

Khushi nodded, anticipation and yearning filling her heart. She would get her first prem patra and that too from her boyfriend, Shaiyar Singh Raizada. It was going to be an evening she would never forget in her life. Something was going to happen this evening. She just knew it. Something big, dhamakedaar...

“I will come to Laxmi Nagar. It is time I faced Buaji’s belan,” he smiled wryly.

Khushi drew in a deep breath and clutched her heart. Now she knew how the evening would be filled with fireworks! Diwali was coming to her house early this year!