Many Lives

The sound of the ignition felt like a song. Shekhar chose the mercury-plated sunglass, put it on, stiffened his collar and shifted the gear to second. The Elantra slid down the underground parking space. He parked it perfectly between a black big car he could not identify the brand of, and a red Mercedes. He opened the glove compartment and looked for something, almost urgently. Without much luck, he kept back the sunglass, beeped the car lock and walked up the stairs. He returned to something he would not do often. He opened the car and burst one of the red balloons lurking harmlessly in a bunch in the back-seat.

As he walked up the stairs, the logo of The Windsor Group glittered bright through various nooks and corners. Yesterday, he came out of a white Porsche and could not pronounce it clearly. Saying he rode the 'Posh' was enough. He found way more than what he was looking for in the glove compartment there. Four sticks off a Benson & Hedges, an ironed white handkerchief and a silver pen with a white dot. These people will never find out. They are way too carelessly rich for it, he thought to himself to justify the act.

Each dawn, Shekhar would religiously manage to wake Rekha up with sloppy greetings of such tender sweetness. That was all that his purpose in life was. He would often get a warm embrace in return, as she left the bed to begin her day at Rita Kamani's studio. She would slip into delicious slumbers as she helped put on bridal costumes on probable brides. As one after the other slumped on the floor, failing to touch the bride's heart -- "Oh it is too pink! I want an onion shade", "Naani would kill me if I settle for such an ill-fit!", "The self-embossing is bit too subtle" -- Rekha would pick the clothes and put them in their respective corner waiting to be ironed back. This habitual smile of affectionate understanding, and caressing the silks and georgettes felt like evenings of events unfolding unto her. She would be draped in one of Miss Kamani's creations and Shekhar would come to the occasion in one of the big cars, in clothes that grooms are shown wearing in glossy magazines. They would exchange heavy rings under soft lights and the celebrations would involve white tiered cakes and green bottles of champagnes, none of which she could either pronounce, nor spell. Sometimes, his phone would ring to inform him of an immediate decision he must make, so she would wait at the venue. She went back to Shekhar only on Fridays nights. On Saturdays, they found a joint off-day after two years of waiting.

The first miscarriage made them more ambitiously ingenious than ever. They enrolled for Spoken English classes and sped up their service career. The second one brought them closer. They slipped into a location of permanent improbable moments. The saving grace perhaps, was that they slipped into it together. Once a week they would be alive and living, in the presence of each other. All the many lives they led alongside, could not erase the one common sorrow in their togetherness.