Fishy Chronicles 66: Lockdown Diaries: Of Just Desserts

The Covid-19 lockdown stretched our days and one day melded into the other, much like waves in the sea. There was no start and no end – just an indeterminate expanse.

Enforced confinement is an unusual state for all three of us. Anjali and I bickered often. Sometimes Genie would be irritated and disappear for long periods, which was a dampener.

A normal day involved housework, cooking, eating, some shouting, on a lucky day some swearing, on a good day lots of jokes and then the TV would come alive to drown out the noise. Most days it started with the news and then veered to the Fox Life channel and then we'd subside into our secret food hell. Genie and Anjali would often turn to me and say, "You've  got to cook that." 

Anjali had taken to joining me at the Gonsalves home, then we’d walk around our housing complex several times until Mr Duggal, the secretary of our housing society, alerted by the annoyed security guards, would ask us to get off the grounds and go home. As soon as we heard the loudspeaker being switched on and Mr Duggal clearing his throat for his big announcement cum name-shame business, we disappeared. So when he did make his announcement, we were looking out of our sitting room window. Neighbours would come to their windows and see other walkers on the ground and, I assumed, wonder why Mr Duggal was making it personal by naming just us.

As in most apathetic Mumbai societies, no one stood up for us. But after the fourth time, Anjali suggested we write a formal letter of complaint to Peaceful Society committee, alleging harassment.

“What do you say, Genie?”

“Hmm.”

“Why is he targetting us when the garden is littered with walkers!” Anjali had a way with words. Littered was apt. Even if lockdown was in place, it meant nothing to Mumbaikars – especially in Peaceful Society. Apparently social distancing was for other people. When neighbours stopped to talk, they invaded our private space and, all too often, we found ourselves stepping back. Surely the deadly virus would overpower a weak mask and conquer all within droplet-catching distance.

Everything was due to the lockdown. We nagged Genie and our every waking moment was devoted to annoying him. He was our mouse and we were two cats arranged on either side of him. Genie ignored us totally, but still made us tea in the mornings and evenings and snacks.

“Do you have to let that awful thing drink out of your cup every day?” Anjali spluttered one morning when she saw my darling mosquito friend Norbert take the first sip of my morning tea, flavoured with lemon grass. I heard Nobby’s satisfied sigh. Yes, I nodded.

“Tell her the universe will not spin if I don’t,” Norbert said.

“The universe will not spin if he doesn’t drink from my cup,” I told Anjali absently, watching my friend fly off and sit on the fish tank.

“Bullshit. Plus, imagine all the disease in his proboscis.”

I imagined it. And let it go. Life was too short. It hadn’t killed me so far. Though I did not know what disease, if any, lurked in me. Norbert buzzed around me and settled on my ear. I shivered from the tickle. “Don’t listen to that silly girl.”

“Norbert is welcome to drink from my cup any time,” Genie gave us a killer grin. And suddenly Norbert was off and flying towards Genie. I saw him sit on Genie’s ear, whispering animatedly.

“Same thing. Disease,” Anjali grumbled. “Where is your electric fly swatter?”

Norbert jumped off and flew towards Anjali. “Nobby, no!” I shouted. He held still in midair and then flew back to Genie and hid in his hair.

“Tell your friend that was a close shave,” Nobby said. How easy it was to rile yoga-loving Nobby – wasn’t meditation supposed to calm the soul?

“Er, we don’t have a fly swatter,” I told Anjali.

                                                      **

This is a fictional series about the 30-something narrator, based in Mumbai. Her former pet fish and parents’ former man Friday have returned to stay indefinitely.

Lockdown Dairies revolve around the Covid-19 confinement. Time hangs heavy for the narrator... with many irritations.  

                                                     **                                                                             

"Why not?"

“We don’t have a mosquito problem,” I said waving my hands at the room. We had never had one after my acquaintance with Nobby and we were off limits to his friends.

“Bullshit.”

“Have you been bitten while you’ve been here? Ever?”

“Er, not that I can think of. But I’ve seen swarms of mosquitos outside. It won’t hurt to keep an electric bat handy. What if those guys get in?”

“They won’t.”

“How can you be sure.”

“Have they bitten you while we’ve walked about… even at night?” Anjali was silent. “That’s Nobby’s doing.”

“Bullshit. I wear Odomos.”

“I don’t and I’ve never been bitten… at least in this society.”

“Sorry, my darling, I can only manage the guys in my territory. Can’t do a thing when you go outside Peaceful Society, you know that,” Nobby said, sounding upset.

“Of course I know that, my sweet yoga-boy,” I said to Genie’s ear. I suddenly knew what I was going to cook for breakfast. I looked at Genie. He had had a bath, and his hair was wet. He still wouldn’t say where he went every morning. I looked out of the window and took a deep breath to quell my irritation. Some ladies in the building opposite ours were watching. I went to the window and closed the thin curtains.

“You're shutting out the light. Leave the curtains alone,” Genie ordered.  

“Er, there are some girls in Wing E watching us.”

“Some guys too. Open the curtains.”

I pushed the curtains apart slowly, looking out curiously. One topless married guy looked away. But Mrs Bakshi and her daughter from the eighth floor and the paying guest girls on the sixth looked on unabashedly.

“Some would say it is tit-for-tat,” Genie said coming up behind me, amusement in his voice and nodding vigourously at the overjoyed women.

“Why tit-for-tat?”

“Ask your binoculars.”

I felt chastened. Embarrassed by my activities of the past few weeks. “Karma is probably the word to use,” I mumbled.

“Just desserts. Tit-for-tat. Karma. Same thing.”

                                                          **

Fishy Chronicles 55: Uncle's Man

Photo: A. Peter

“Where are we going?” Danny asked. 

I had met Danny at Joy Uncle’s place. Apparently, my uncle had seen it fit to arrange a meeting with a man without my knowledge. To get my prying relatives off my back I had got Danny into my car and driven off before my cousin Roma could follow.

“To the beach,” I said, looking into the rearview mirror. There wasn’t a chance Roma would give chase. I had moved fast. I turned to look at Danny, Beasty Aunty’s great nephew, and felt a jolt. He was watching me and smiling.

“You told me that already. Which beach?” he said.

“You said you weren’t familiar with Mumbai.” 

“I’m familiar with the Chowpatty and Juhu beaches.”

“You’ve been to both?”

“No.”

“Then?”

“Just read about them,” a wide grin. I narrowly avoided hitting a car. Maybe he was fingering me for incessant questions. Tit for tat.

My phone rang. Roma! Now I would have to face a shitload of consequences.

“Aren’t you going to take that call? It’s from your cousin… unless you have a friend called Roma,” Danny said.

“Nah. She’ll give up in a bit.”

“Won’t that make things worse?”

“Probably. But why sweat the small things.”

“Why, indeed.”

I turned to look at Danny but he was looking straight ahead, calmness personified. I was beginning to regret this exercise of running away.

“You know,” Danny said, “your cousins could think we are eloping.”

I braked hard at a red light and we were thrown forward, but held back by the seatbelts. I rubbed my collarbone where the seatbelt had bitten me. I saw Danny inhale slowly.

“S-sorry about that, Danny. We can turn back if you want.”

“What do you think will happen when we go back?”

“Nothing will happen to you. You’re the innocent one here.”

“I meant, what would happen to you?”

“Er… I-I thought I’d drop you off and go home.”

Danny’s eyes bored into mine, “What about the man and woman who came with you?”

“Them… yes... I’ll figure out something.” I waited for an answer, but Danny did not reply, so I asked, “Do you want me to turn back?”

“No.”

“Why not?” Why was I trying to rub him the wrong way. I wanted to talk to this man some more.

“I’d like to see one of those beaches. You still didn’t say.”

“Say what, Danny?”

“Say which beach we were visiting.”

“Juhu Beach.”

“Why this beach particularly?”

“It’s posh.”

“Oh, really. How?”

“All the Bollywood stars live in Juhu and they come to the beach to do their morning deeds, swim in the sea for exercise and take their baths at the same time,” I said to see how he’d react.

He smiled slowly. “So… why is it posh if it’s mucked up.”

“Star-quality shit.”

Danny laughed. And I felt a frisson of excitement – something I hadn’t felt in a long time.

My phone rang again. 

“Are you going to take the call?” Danny pointed at my phone. It vibrated with the urgency of Uncle’s irritation. The rats had already tattled and we hadn’t been gone 30 minutes.

Danny took the phone and I watched, my mouth dry with horror, as he swiped the screen, put the phone to his ear and said hello. I heard Uncle bark and I wanted to cringe.

“Hi, Uncle. Yes, she’s beside me... driving... Sure, I’ll ask her to come back. But, we’re nearly at the beach... Why are we going to the beach?” Danny winked at me, “Because I asked her to take me there, Uncle. ... Juhu Beach… I thought I could catch a glimpse of a Bollywood star. Yes... I’m a big fan of Amitabh Bachchan. She’s taking me to Amitabhji’s favourite dosa joint, right opposite his house.”

I couldn’t bear this any longer. I eased out of traffic and parked on the side of the road. By now, Uncle seemed to be tiring of Danny’s positivity. I heard a silence and then a sharp order. “Okay, Uncle. Just as soon as we’ve had dosas and walked on the beach, I’ll ask her to return home.” There was an impatient click.

Danny handed me the phone. “Right. You owe me a dosa and a walk on the beach.”

“Er, you don’t want to watch Amitabh Bachchan’s house?”

“Not really. Are you a fan?”

“No.”

“Are you?”

“No. But for Uncle’s peace of mind, and to make sure your neck is not on the line, I’ll be Amitabhji’s fan.”

“It wasn’t necessary, you know. Joy Uncle would have just chewed me out and forgotten about it by dinnertime.”

“Yes, but you’ve forgotten Aunty Betsy and the audience. I don't want to give them something to remember. Plus, I don’t like the idea of you being chewed out.”

I couldn’t make out what was going on, but I felt good. I could feel the blush all the way between my toes, but, what the heck, Danny and I were going to eat dosas and spy on the Big B.

For now.

                                        ******
This is a fictional series about the narrator, who lives with her former manservant and pet fish deep in Mumbai’s suburbs. Her uncle has set up a meeting with a potential groom without her knowledge. To avoid her spying relatives, she takes the man on a drive. All goes well until they reach Bollywood star Amitabh Bachchan’s bungalow.

                                        ******

“You know, I met him once,” Danny told me.

“Really? When, how?”

We were standing under a large, shady tree in Juhu. We had stretched two elastic dosas over an unbearable hour. Finally, the owner of the South Indian restaurant asked us to leave. We had got a seat diagonally opposite Jalsa – the Bachchan family’s home. I was glad to give up on my half-eaten dosa.

“At a launch. I was one of a group of people assigned to take care of him. I was starting out at the company then. Mr Bachchan was good fun.”

I nodded. Here I was a die-hard Mumbaikar always looking to meet a Bollywooder, and Danny, an outsider, had met the Great B easy peasy.

“What are you thinking?” Danny asked.

“How unfair it is that you get to meet him and I couldn’t… haven’t so far.” I looked at Jalsa’s tall wall with a jaded look. Was the Big B really worth it? Could I scale that wall? Maybe Genie could help.

I gasped. I’d left Genie and Anjali at Joy Uncle’s place. Who knew what my idiot family would say and do to them.

“What happened?” Danny grabbed my arm.

“Sorry, Danny, I just realised I left my friends at Uncle’s place. At their mercy. Might be a harrowing experience.”

“Aren’t you overreacting?”

I was taken aback. “What do you mean?”

“I mean I doubt Uncle would be rude to your friends – they had nothing to do with you whisking me away.”

“I don’t want them to be easy targets.”

“I don’t think Uncle would be unreasonable.”

“I’ve known the family longer... all my life. I don’t want to take that risk.”

“Besides, they look capable of looking after themselves. I say we walk on the beach a bit and then turn back. Shall we say half an hour around the beach and then we head back?”

“Sure.” I looked at Jalsa and thought I saw something move in a window. I felt a hand on my arm and a pull. I moved reluctantly towards my car.

“Do you want to ask me anything?” Danny asked at the beach.

“What do you mean?”

He looked taken aback but then smiled kindly. “Before we go back, would you like to ask me anything?”

“Why?” I said. The sun was shimmering distantly on the sea. The heat of the day was receding and it would be sundown in a couple of hours. I looked up at Danny. He was red from the heat and beads of sweat stood out on his forehead and slowly slid downwards. A couple of his blue shirt's buttons were undone, revealing chest hair trapped under a white vest.

“You really don’t want to get married, do you?” he said, his eyes boring into mine.

I stopped in the sand. Shit. We were having the talk. “I’m sorry, I was caught unawares. I don’t know why Uncle invited my friends too.”

“Who’s the man?”

“Er, they’re friends of mine.” How was I to explain Genie.

“Are they married?”

“Y-yes.”

“Okay. The lady looks very interesting. What does she do?”

I felt my fizz evaporate. “She’s a writer. Lives in Uttaranchal Pradesh.”

“Do they have children?”

“Who?”

“Your friends.”

“Er, er, no.”

“What does the man do?”

“He runs a business.”

“Ok.”

“What do you do?”

“I... don’t have a job... right now.”

“Why not?” Danny shifted, so that his back was to the sun. I couldn’t see his face clearly.

“I quit working a few months ago.”

“Why?”

“I wanted a break… to do... and see... things.”

“Are you?”

“Not quite.”

“What do you mean?”

I sighed. “The money I saved was in a bank that collapsed recently (FC 43, 44). You may have seen the news…” Danny nodded. He knew. “Well, I lost most of my money. So, I can’t do as I planned.”

“Which is?”

“Which is what?”

“What exactly did you plan?”

“Mostly travelling, some freelance.”

“You didn’t really think things through,” Danny said. I felt discomfort creep up, more because it was closer to the truth. “What happened? A bad boss? A love affair gone wrong?”

My mouth turned down. “No love affair. I just wanted to get away from the office.”

“You could have got another job and then quit.”

“True.”

“Why quit with nothing in hand?”

“I did have something in hand. My savings. Travel money…”

“No.”

“Yes, dammit!”

“Okay… where did you plan to go?”

“Er, the US… backpack around Europe…” 

“Why lie?’

I felt deflated and anger rise slowly. I opened and closed my mouth but couldn’t find the words to fight back.

I turned away and walked into the sea. I felt Danny walk behind me.

My phone vibrated. It was a message from Anjali, “Good idea taking that hunk for a ride with you. But did you know he was going to be at Uncle’s? Looks like Uncle knew what he was doing.”

“What do you mean?” I wrote back.

“Genie’s gone.”

I struggled to find something to write but couldn’t. The phone vibrated again.

“Take your time at the beach. I don’t think Genie is coming back. Not today, in any case. And it looks like that’s what Joy Uncle wanted.”

                                        ******

Fishy Chronicles 52: Un-Peaceful Society

Mumbai in December is not great. After the biting cold of Amritsar, I could feel the sweat trickle down my forehead and past my ears and the uncomfortable wetness in my armpits. Anjali looked unconcerned. She was in a light pink t-shirt that had seen better days, but the only inkling I had that she felt the heat was her curly long hair bunched up on her head – she looked Rastafarian.

Worse, the Uber/Ola and pre-paid taxis were quoting outrageous fares and so we stood in a long line for an autorickshaw. Our auto guy seemed unhappy that he had to take us into the innards of Mumbai suburbia. He rode slowly in certain areas and struck up conversations with other rickshaw drivers, who were unwilling to chat but grunted monosyllables until they were able to move their rickshaws ahead. Our straggly bearded, white-uniformed, paan-chewing driver even sought change off another driver while we waited at a traffic signal. I couldn’t make out if he was friends with the next driver or that was the way they all spoke to each other – more than acquaintances in passing.

Ten minutes later, our autorickshaw driver informed us he was hungry and was going to help us get another rickshaw. I felt instant rage at being so casually offloaded. First the ex at Delhi airport (see FC51) and now this, this, this… thug. We stared at him uncomprehendingly at first and then I began to argue. But I felt Anjali hold my arm, and press it gently.

“Let’s get off. He may have pressing engagements,” Anjali said.

“Pressing engagements my ass.”

“Please let’s. The more he argues, the more his paan spittle jumps out of his mouth. Plus, he’s super unexcited about his passengers, not that I was hoping to exchange small talk. Dodging him in this confined space would be difficult.”

“They all chew paan.”

“Not all of them. Come on, let’s get out.”

We stepped out and he tossed unnecessary instructions to the group of auto rickshaw drivers massed at the side of the Western Express Highway and sped off. Our next driver was a spitter too, but he drove at top speed, avoided the bumps and potholes and didn’t feel it necessary to chat.

                                                ******

This is a fictional series about the 30-something narrator who lives deep in a Mumbai suburb with her parents’ former manservant Genie and a tank of opinionated fish.

At the gate of her apartment building she is accosted by the secretary of the housing society committee, who insists she send Genie away to his hometown. The narrator gets to know that while she was away there was high drama in Peaceful Society.

                                                 ******

We groaned the moment we got off the rickshaw. We came face to face with Mr Duggal, Peaceful Society’s Committee Secretary (FC18). I forced myself to smile and say, "Namaste, Duggalji. How are you? Anyone being bad in the society?”

“There you are. Why you leave that man alone in your house. When you go, you should send him away.”

“Who?” I said, despite knowing he was referring to Genie, who at this moment was standing at the window of my flat and looking down, a huge grin on his face.

“The man in your flat!” he said trying to sound agitated but only looking lascivious. His dirty mind was in overdrive, likely doing gymnastics.

“Er, Genie?” I said.

“Eh, how can you forget his name? You’re always chatting him up, pressing him for information on her!” Anjali said annoyed, jabbing her index finger into my breast.

Mr Duggal looked nervously at Anjali. She was another unknown quantity that surrounded me. She was pretty and he stared at her openly, but she knew him well.

He turned to me and opened his mouth, but I cut him off. “Where do you want me to send Genie, Mr Duggal?”

“Send him to his hometown like everyone else sends their serva…er er.”

“Servants? Are you calling Genie a servant?” Anjali pushed herself into Duggal’s face. I looked up at my window nervously. Even when he worked for my parents, I was respectful of Genie. No one, in any way, could mistake him for a servant.

“No. No. Please calm yourself, Madam. But you must not have a man staying alone in your flat. People will talk.”

“If he’s alone, what is there to talk about!”

Duggal turned his face and body towards me, “Please, dearie, you must ask him to go to his hometown when you go on holiday.”

“Not feasible considering how often she travels,” Anjali crossed her arms, narrowed her eyes and glared at Duggal. He moved back a step.

“I don’t know, Duggalji,” I pulled Anjali back next to me, “I don’t know where his hometown is. He might get offended if you keep calling him a servant. Besides, I think he had work here.”

“Arrey, people talk. How come you don’t know where his home town is?”

“I never asked,” I lied. I was tired of asking.

Anjali’s mouth opened to give Duggal and I a tongue lashing, but Genie was now at the building’s entrance and smiling at us. Mr Duggal turned, and gave a nervous start. Genie came up to us slowly, his eyes moving quickly over our angry faces and over the nervous secretary.

“Saying nice things about me, Duggalji?” Genie gave the secretary a winsome smile.

“Er, I was asking her about her holiday. Where did you go, my dear?” Duggal turned to me.

“Jaisalmer. We rode camels all day,” Anjali said.

“Accha…” Duggal opened his mouth to ask more questions, but Genie had pulled Anjali’s knapsack off her shoulders and grabbed my strolley and marched off. We smiled at Duggal and hurried behind Genie and giggled in the lift.

“It’s surprising how tongue-tied Duggal is around you,” Anjali said.

“He wanted me to send you away while I’m out of town,” I said.

“Surely he doesn’t mean that,” Genie murmured, smiling.

“What happened while I was away?”

“I brought lots of women to the apartment and had a party every day.” The lift door opened and he stepped out, unimpeded by our luggage. I stared at his back, wondering why Duggal was agitated and nervous.

“Seriously. What set him off?”

“HEY!!! What did you get us!!” Fish screamed as I entered. They screamed other things as well, and I went to them and pressed my face to the outside of the tank for their noisy kisses. I rushed into the kitchen, washed my hands at the tap, opened the fish tank’s lid and slid my hands in. I had missed my babies. They brushed my hands, snuggled into my palms and we chatted and murmured and cooed. When I realised things were quiet behind me I turned to see where the other two were. Anjali’s hands were holding her mouth and she was laughing silently and Genie was grinning. I glared at them and straightened.

I dried my hands and fed Fish a little of the snacks I brought them. When a smelly bubble popped, I stopped. I couldn’t make out who had farted. I put away the eats and turned to Genie.

“Are you going to tell us what happened?”

He placed three mugs of tea and some puffs on the coffee table and sat, fidgeting until he found his comfortable spot. “You remember the security guards that Duggal always had issue with?”

“Yes. We discussed all this at the last AGM, Duggal wanted them out and won a feeble majority when the Society voted.”

“Well, the society got rid of the security guards and hired new ones.”

“Yes, yes. We got a circular to that effect.”

“The new guards didn’t turn up.”

“What!”

“Yup. And the Singh home got robbed.”

“What! Which ones?”

“The ones in C-606.”

“They have the German Shepherd and Labrador?”

“Yes. That family. The home was cleaned out. Mr Mendonca saw the open door and called the chairman and the police.”

“Shit!”

“That’s not all. Duggal couldn’t get replacements, and the old guards asked for 50% pay hikes and to be reinstated. He refused.”

“They were giving the new guards 50% hikes, but Peaceful Society didn’t give the old ones a hike for more than five years…” Anjali poked me and glared. “Er, and then?”

“And then another house was robbed – that young tech guy who’s usually never about.”

“Go on, for goodness sake!” Anjali said, now totally hooked.

“We had to form groups and guard the building in turns,” Genie said. “After three days we had to rehire the old security guards, because the new ones still hadn’t turned up. Apparently, Duggal had massive fights with a few local security agencies because they couldn’t send people quickly enough, so some agencies aren’t responding to his calls.”

“And did the old guards get a raise?”

“No raise.”

“What?”

“Sadly, no. Some of the society members tried to get the committee to give the old guys a pay hike, but the Secretary and the Chairman were adamant. Once the guards realized they were still going to get their old salaries, they took off en masse. So now, Mr Duggal is in hiding and the men are taking turns to guard the building.”

“So why does Duggal have his panties in a knot over you?” I asked. “He wanted me to send you to your hometown. Besides, the cops will find out who it was soon, unless the goons were covered and the footage is no good.”

“There is no footage.”

“What? Why not?”

“Some of the cameras don’t work. And some were damaged before the robberies – facts we came to know later. And no one expected another robbery to occur right under the cops’ noses immediately after the first.”

We were silent. Genie nudged our cups of tea towards us. Sometimes he acted like a butler, and at others oozed charm like Agent 007.

“What has all this got to do with you, Genie?” I asked.

“I suggested some of the able men in the society help me guard the society till reinforcements were available. But Duggal and the Chairman refused.”

“But why?!”

“I have no idea,” Genie shrugged. “But Mrs Duggal, Zeba and a number of members agreed and the society asked for volunteers. And you know women outnumber men in the new society committee… right?”

“Right.”

“And the women out-voted the men…” Anjali said.

“Right… there are only three men in the committee now – Shah, Duggal and D’Souza.”

“And five women in the committee,” I said. “And with Mrs Duggal glaring at Mr Duggal all the time, that resolution must have been passed in record time.”

“Indeed. A near full majority.”

“How long will you have to do guard duty, Genie?” Anjali asked.

“Not for much longer. A friend who has an agency is sending us six guards by Saturday.”

“That’s good. I feel sorry for the old guys though.”

“Don’t be.”

“Why not?”

“I tipped my friend that the old guards were being laid off and he hired all of them. Who knew Duggal would burn all his bridges with the other agencies. I gave my friend Duggal’s number and asked him to keep my name out of it. All the old guards are coming back – after some training, new uniforms, etc, on higher wages.”

Anjali and I looked at each other and burst out laughing.

“Does Duggal know?” I asked.

“No. But he’ll know for sure when they start at 8am on Saturday.”

                                                ******

Fishy Chronicles 47: Bon Voyage. À Amritsar!

Golden Temple 
(Photo Credit: A. Peter)

I was searching my bag for my identity card and air ticket when I felt the hard bulge in a side pocket. I stood in the queue at T2 airport and waved to Genie, smiling. I was finally going to Amritsar and he had a lot to do with it, with a fair amount of pestering from my cousin Roma and Fish. 

Fish were quiet this morning when I said goodbye. Pervez and Penaaz huddled in a corner of the fish tank and watched me. I knew they would stay tense until I returned. I felt sorry for them, but, in a freakish way, I felt happy too – someone loved me and was waiting for me to return. 

I located a kiosk, keyed in my PNR details, grabbed my baggage tag and walked slowly to another queue, this time a long one. I thought about my trip. It was going to be my first one alone and I was beginning to feel tense. Would I make it safely to my hotel? 

Last night Fish went through a long list of dos and don'ts with me. They insisted I return to my hotel before dark,  installed a safety app on my phone and showed me how to use it and told me to hold my purse tightly at all times – at which Genie jokingly suggested I put my cash in my bra instead.

                                             ******

This is a fictional series about a 30-something Mumbai woman, her former pet fish and her parents former man Friday Genie. 

The narrator is going on a holiday alone for the first time. A surprise awaits her at Delhi Airport.

                                             ******
In any case, the lecture on safety did nothing to soothe my nerves. Plus the headlines every day of rapes and murders. Roma visited us yesterday and told me to read the newspaper. She spoke so oddly and in a roundabout fashion that I was not sure what she wanted. 

But when I opened the paper, I felt ill. An inside page was full of cases and how none of the victims had found justice. 

“You know, Genie, Roma was acting so weird. Told me to read today's newspaper, especially page 12... but it's full of stories of rapes that weren't solved or cases that are stalled in court. Why did she want me to read it? So urgently too...”

I knew the answer before Genie formed the words. “Roma doesn't want you to go... now. She's afraid for you. That's why she rambled so much.”

I was having second thoughts too. Things were never going to change for women here. There had been a recent rape-murder that was highly publicised. Worse, the victim's name and other details had been published, which was an absolute no-no. 

My thoughts went immediately to my early working years. I was returning home past 11pm one day and jumped into the first class compartment of a moving train, only to find it empty. It was a super fast train and was only going to stop at the big stations. The compartments next to this one were general and a number of men leered at me through the thick metal mesh separating the first class section from general.

I stood at the door, trying to stay out of their sight. At Charni Road, I thought about getting off and running to a second class ladies compartment. But the train started moving – I had procrastinated too long. 

Suddenly a man jumped in and my heart nearly jumped out of my mouth. “This is a ladies compartment,” I said, hoping he wouldn't see my fear.

“Yes. I know. I'll get off at the next station,” he winked and flicked his head back to budge the oily cowlick out of his eye, but it stayed put. He was thin and dressed in drainpipe, stressed jeans, frayed at the heels and slim fit light blue shirt. He turned to look at the guys behind him in the general compartment and let out a short shrill laugh. It made me uncomfortable and I moved into the compartment and sat down. My heart began to race. 

I prayed God would protect me. How foolish was I to enter an empty bogey. This first class bogey was usually deserted at this time of night. I felt panic when I saw him come towards me... smiling. It was not a calming smile. 

“Stay away!” 

“What? I'm your friend, let's talk. Want some sweets?” He  lunged and I screamed in terror, but couldn't avoid him. I screamed and screamed and one of his hands grabbed my neck and squeezed and the other covered my mouth. 

I punched his solar plexus and bit his shoulder and refused to let go of his flesh. I heard him scream and we struggled wildly. I felt a whack across my face and he pushed me hard across the compartment. I fell heavily on the ground, feeling dazed. 

He pulled out a knife, his face red and twisted in a rage. I screamed and screamed and jumped on the seat and over it to the next and pulled the train’s chain. Nothing happened. 

I jumped off the seat and ran towards the men on the other side and screamed for someone to help me. But all I heard was frantic babbling from the men.

He lunged at me again. I remembered Papa telling me to bash the nose, dig my fingers into the eyes, punch the solar plexus and knee the crotch. “Hard, mol, hard!”

I stilled my thoughts. I could hear the men behind me urging me to jump off the train. I waited for the man to come closer. He was running towards me snarling, blood on his shirt where I had bitten him. I had a sudden thought – would I get an infection from biting him. 

When he was about two feet away I let out a blood curdling scream and leaped at him, punching upwards as hard as I could in the direction of his nose. He was stunned for a fraction of a second, then howled in pain and fell backwards. 

I jumped over him, but he caught my ankle and I fell heavily on him. We wrestled and I bit him again and he cried out. I jabbed my fingers into his left eye and he howled. I felt sick at inflicting so much bodily harm on someone but I was drowning in terror. 

“Stop screaming, you idiot!” I screamed at myself, managing to free myself from his grip and running to my bag on the floor across the compartment. 

He stood up and I tore open my bag and grabbed the canister. He rushed towards me and I cowered on the seat, spraying and spraying and spraying, my face turned away and screaming in terror. He screamed, now begging me to stop. I ran after him, spraying all the while. He scratched at his eyes and I saw the lights of the next station loom in to sight. Dear God. Help was at hand. I ran to the doorway and screamed hoarsely for help. 

I prayed the platform would come to me faster. I heard the men next door shouting at me not to jump. When the train slowed into the station, I screamed for the police. People stared but no one budged. 

I waved at a police man screaming that I was being attacked. Some men from the next compartment jumped off and ran into mine. But the man had jumped off from the other side of the compartment and we couldn't see him in the dark.

Someone gave me my bag and told me to go and file a police complaint. I sat on a nearby bench and burst into tears. Some women came towards me and patted my head, trying to console me. 

After a long time, I called my friend Jasmine in office, who spoke to our boss Leonard who had just put the edition to bed. 

“If you go to the police it will take forever and they'll only try and fob you off,” Leonard said.

I felt sick and incredulous at what Leonard was suggesting. My parents were out of town and there was no one at home. If I called them they'd be sick with worry. 

“Er, er, but he attacked me... I think I should be filing an FIR,” I said, crying.

“Not a good idea. Everyone will come to know, police won't do much and for all you know that bastard will be waiting for you at the station tomorrow. You wait there. Jasmine and I will be there in 25 minutes. Don't go anywhere.”

They did come for me, but I was a mess. There was not a soul I could tell that time of night, so when I reached home I called up Anjali and burst into tears. 

She was furious I didn't file the FIR. But we talked and she hung onto the phone until I dropped off to sleep. At 4am, my doorbell rang. I sat up, feeling every part of my body ache. I felt fear course through me and sat transfixed. 

Then there was a frantic knocking. “It's me, Anjali! Open the door. Open the door!”

I flung the door open and threw myself into her arms and started bawling. Anjali pulled me into the house and onto the sofa and we held each other tightly. When I was done, she cleaned my wounds and I told her the whole story again. 

“Do you need to see a doctor?”

“No.” Everything ached, but I was sure I'd be sorted in a few days. 

“When do your parents return?”

“Next week.”

“What are you going to tell them?”

I was silent. I was safe now. There was no point in telling them. Besides, I could think of more serious consequences for me. If my relatives came to know, I'd be forced to leave my job. Or, worse, get married. Plus, I was sure I would be blamed for what happened because I was out so late.

“Nothing,” I said, not looking at Anjali. It was strange. I didn't do anything wrong, but I felt guilty. 

Anjali's arm came around me. By the time my parents called, Anjali and I had cooked up a story. My parents believed me when I told them that I had stayed late in office the previous day and had fallen asleep as soon as I reached home, forgetting to call them.

I strapped myself into my seat. I never told Roma about that incident. I still feel a frisson of fear in dark places and never enter an empty bogey. I haven't seen the man either.

                                              ******

At Delhi airport I walked slowly to my boarding gate. The connecting flight was delayed a couple of hours and I tried not to worry about getting to my hotel at night. Genie had told me to take an Ola/Uber taxi just before getting out of the airport. “That's fairly safe.”

I stopped in my tracks near Gate 42B. I could see long black curly hair and men staring at a woman who was immersed in her book. My feet moved faster, until I was next to her. There was a knapsack in the seat beside her. 

I kicked her foot and her head whipped up angrily. The beautiful face crinkled into a smile. “I was waiting for you, babe. Our flight is late.” Anjali jumped up and hugged me. “I missed you!”

“Where are you going?”

“Amritsar. We were supposed to go to the Golden Temple together, remember?”

With Roma. Part of a wild pact we'd made in our late teens – which involved hot Punjabi men, booze and food and, of course, the Golden Temple. We'd managed none of it because Roma and I had married early.

Anjali was in the middle of writing a book. She lived in a small town in the Himalayas, preferring the quiet and peace there to Mumbai. Mostly she hated big city humanity. She wrote literary fiction and smut. Her literary fiction couldn't find a publisher for years. But side by side she wrote romance novels filled with sex – Roma and I had read all the first drafts and were hooked. The sex-filled romances had made Anjali money. The success of her “rabid romances", as I called them, had also been the reason her publisher finally published her literary fiction. 

“What about your deadline, Anjali?” 

"I thought I'd take a break."

After talking for what felt like ages, I opened my bag to look for the bars of chocolate Genie had bought me at the airport. “Did Genie know you were coming?”

Anjali smiled. “And Roma. She's feeling miserable she's not with us.” 

“Where are you staying?”

“With you. We can move into a double room. I checked with the hotel.”

“I rented the room at a big discount. We may not get the discount.”

“We'll swim that moat when we get to it. Now, let's get something to eat.”

“Er, wait.” I unzipped the inside pocket of my handbag and pulled out the pink, wrapped roll. A whiff of kebab hit me. I unwrapped the bundle, covered in Fish's favourite writing paper, and stared at the wad of cash in my hand.  

“Whoa! That's a lot of money. Who's it from?” Anjali said.

I smoothened out the paper and my heart turned to mush.

“Dear Ducky, 

A little something to enjoy Amritsar with. We don't want the ‘something’ back. Eat well, stay safe and send us pictures. 

Call us everyday at 11.09pm.

Your biggest loves, 
Fish

Anjali read the letter. “Why 11.09pm?”

“Last night they watched James Bond – a Sean Connery one with a lot of under-cover-of-darkness calls.”

My heart felt full thinking of my dear big hearted Fish’s sweet gift and my best friend with me on a trip that we'd always planned but never attempted. I was finally here. And, I wasn't alone.