TOMORROW: Eight years. For eight years she had been his mother, wife, lover, friend. With searing passion, she would tear his shirt off at night. With soft tenderness she'd sow the buttons on the next morning. She, a woman who had never had a mother to teach her this, had prepared a thali full of food so if he ever came to her hungry, he could eat. For eight years, a warm meal had awaited him in her home, even if, during that time, he only had eaten at her table perhaps eight times.
Eight years of following him through sand dunes and deserts, across hills and valleys. Of packing and moving at a moments' notice. Never making her own friends, creating her own world because she was his only friend, and the BSD was already his world. He had been wild and rootless, so she had uprooted herself too, wandering behind a wanderer, setting down stakes only to wrench them up every-time he did.
She was a woman who had never been taught loyalty, seen constancy or understood fidelity. Alien concepts, all this. Born to a prostitute in a border town, brought up in a travelling troupe of ever-changing dancers and their patrons, she had been a creature of the desert, forever shifting, forever changing. And yet for him, she had remained his constant companion, not because he demanded it, but because her love for him did. For eight years, no other man had touched her. She had never seen this between her mother and her clients, but instinctively, she had offered the fidelity of her body to the man who had never wanted it.
And as his informant, as the woman who went where others could not go, she had been his most loyal supporter, the reason behind a lot of his successes. Fighting her instinctive distrust of the police or the authorities, she had given him information, warned him about criminal acts, waited in his tent with bandages he would not use, for his return.
He had been her compass--swinging wildly between emotions, all of them bitter, none of them loving. So she had mirrored what he needed back to him. Becoming just as wild, just as bitter. Her life, her background had not taught her to read or write. But it had taught her men. This knowledge she mined for eight years, trying to tame a wild beast, and only getting herself mauled. But she had persevered, because he needed her. And to be needed, by a woman who's past had taught her that she was disposable? There could have been no greater way of chaining her to him. She accepted that it was a chain created in her own mind--certainly not one forged by him.
Every day she tried to give him more, and longed to BE more. But when he would only take that which she least valued---her body---she accepted that too. She writhed with him on her bed and on his, feeling him inside her, feeling ecstasy. But that did not mean that she did not feel more.
And she got used to hiding her passion when it got too great, giving him just a glimpse of her love, since that was all he would tolerate. With no place to go, to express its intensity, the love she felt for the man she could not love would choke in her throat, tasting like bile instead of amrit. On the nights he was not there to absorb even a tenth of it, Laila would cry silently, screaming inside, seeking some form of relief from the emotions engulfing her soul. Loneliness had never hurt more than it did on those nights.
But she thought only of him on the nights when he did come.
She, who had dressed every day for 3000 days for one pair of eyes, would see those eyes ignore her carefully selected lehenga as he barked at her to undress.
She would wear her carefully hoarded jewelry, and he would comment on how it wasted his time as he ripped it off her waist or neck--a barrier, not singaar.
Imagining his hands touching them as she chose her bangles, she would be silent as he crushed her churis in his impatience to rid himself of their noise.
Thinking of his pleasure, she would dab ittar on her throat, only to be tossed onto her face on the bed when he came to her for raw, basic sex.
She would absorb his anger into herself, giving him the comfort of her soft body and caressing lips so he could rest, finally, in her arms.
And for the few hours he slept, she would empty all her love over him, touching his face, stroking his hair, clenching her lips against the sobs that wanted to drench him with their despair. The aches and pains she would feel after his almost brutal love making kept her company, as she waited for him to return. There were nights when she would be used, and then rejected from his bed, he would ask her to leave, or do so himself. She would collect her scattered clothing, tears smarting her eyes, and a fake smile gracing her lips, so he would not guess at her devastation.
And then, every sore muscle or bruise would be carefully hidden, so she could see him again, so he wouldn't feel ashamed and perhaps stop coming to her at all.
And yet, she knew he did not feel shame. Perhaps it was because in the world they lived in no would ever say anything to him about what he did in her rooms at night. But she would sometimes wrap her dupatta around face before going to a mandir, because she knew the sniggers that would follow her there. The names she heard from people---as she bought her vegetables or visited her tailor---street-walker, wh**e, s**t ---she did not have his gun, his rank or his manhood to protect herself from them. She had her bold eyes, her cutting tongue and her defiance.
Thick-skinned s**t, the people around her said. But drip enough poison onto the skin, make it deadly enough, do it for long enough--and sooner or later, it absorbs into the blood. And so, for eight years, Laila had hardened, using weapons that shattered her as much as they scattered the enemy. She knew that Rudra would not change, had not changed during the eight years of their strange co-existence. But during these eight years, of loneliness, longing, taunts and defiance, Laila knew that she had.
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And then, in the ninth year, Parvati Vader came, to change everything, and everyone.
And the strangest thing was, Laila did not blame Parvati for how she had taken everything from her. She did not blame the woman, when she knew it was the man who had given it all away. Parvati had not made Rudra do what he had done. She was the reason for Rudra leaving, marrying, moving on. But she had not made him throw Laila aside without an explanation, an honoring of the eight years they had shared. She did not even know who Laila was.
And Rudra, who was the one who owed her his guilt, his explanation, a scene, a screaming match, tears and closure---Rudra had not bothered to give her even that. One day he had simply..stopped coming.
Rudra had done that, because he had changed for his Paro--but he had not changed for his Laila. She hated Rudra, as much as she had ever loved him now. She hated him for being able to change at all, eight years later. She hated him because she could not follow his example, could not forget him, could not change herself back to the Laila who did not feel, who did not love. She could not go back into being the carefree, happy, amoral Laila she had once been eight years ago. She could not welcome strange men back into her bed. She could not go on without the loss reverberating in her mind. She hated him for that, for the loss of herself, of her passion.
And most of all, she hated him for leaving her for his new future, his new life---without once acknowledging that she now had no future or life left to her, without him.
She had honored him. He had dishonored her.
So, as Laila had aimed her pistol at the back of the woman he now loved, she had not felt anger towards her victim. She had whispered her hatred to the bullet, charming it with her anger, wishing for Rudra to feel what she was about to do to Parvati. But the bullet had never been meant for Parvati's pain---it had been shot to cause Rudra's anguish.
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"Accha...accha..Thank God...and after Parvati woke they did brain function tests and the neo-natal scan... those came back?...Accha...Oh Thank God... Surgery ho gaya? Premature hoga, but babies are fine? No of course, the next 24 hours are critical, but if she's out of danger, and the delivery went fine, and if she has woken up...Rudra is with her? Wont leave? Good...we can hope for the best if they are together...right... kuch bura nahi hoga if he is there with her now...thank you, General...this is the best news you could.."
"Yes...I am at the station...no, Laila would only give the statement to BSD--She asked for HIM...naturally, he won't...I came...she has not been charged yet, the police waited for someone from the BSD to come to decide on those. Charges bhi kya hoga,murder or attempted, woh bhi sure nahi tha..
Yes General Singh, if Sumer Ranawat is a match, that's better for the babies, I agree-- And the doctors are sure about the babies? Delivery ke waqt koi complications toh nahi hua? Caesarian toh hogaya...and the facilities for the babies? Absolutely sure? Rudra kaise...accha. Well, I don't think he will move from the cabin, anyway, General. Nahi, I don't think that chinta ki koi baath hai. If Parvati is awake, that's all that he's going to need ... Yes, I will..please let me know if anything..Thank you...Bye sir."
**********************************************
"Ba-bi-es? Woh shabdh angrezi mein baccha hai, na?"
The color had leached out of Laila's face, leaving the rouge she had applied this morning as stark red circles on her cheeks. Her heavy black kajal had smudged onto her face as she had waited for Rudra to come to her. To kill her, to strangle her, to rip her to pieces. Anything. But to come to her. He had not. His friend, this Officer Aman Kundra had. He had sat across from her, tight lipped, asking her what she had done, and not why she had done it. And so, she had faked bravado now, playing up to the audience of one.
Pulling up the tattered remnants of her defiance, she had casually made her statement, sitting with one leg up, draping her arm as vulgarly as she could across the chair. Relaxed, seemingly indifferent, as within her burnt the knowledge that she no longer had anything of Rudra's--not even his hate.
Parvati had survived.
Laila was actually rather glad about that. She had been mad, driven into a frenzy where all she wanted was for Rudra to cry as she had cried. All she could think of was to wound him, a terminal wound like her's had been. To end his hope for the future, like he had ended hers. In her rage, it had been a simple equation of taking from him what he had taken from her.
Laila had had to beg and plead with lecherous informants, sleep with old BSD constables to "pay" for her news with her profession. She had had to service clerks and make ruinous pledges with unsavory men to finally find out where Major Rudra Ranawat had been re-posted after Chandangarth. She had found the house that the happy couple were living in, after not having heard from Rudra in ten months. She had tracked him down, and waited for him to leave, so she could leave him a calling card he would never forget.
She rather thought that she had been mad.
But as Aman took the phone-call, from General Singh Laila had listened, avidly, trying to understand the English mixed in. She had strained to catch the words, and the one that she understood was the one she had never imagined, even as she had shot Rudra's woman in the back--exactly where Rudra had knifed Laila.
Baccha. Paro had been pregnant. Rudra was going to be a father. Baccha.
Parchment white, Laila surged to her feet, grabbing Aman's hand as he shut off his cell. He shrugged her hold off, a look of distaste on his face. Laila barely noticed the rejection. She turned to him, her hands together and palms pressed, as if in prayer. She whispered "Baccha theekh hai?"
************************************************
Aman looked at the woman who had almost killed his Parvati. His, as much as Rudra's. In different ways---if he saw Parvati as the sister he had lost, Rudra saw Paro as the wife he had found. But his, just the same. His flat, un-emotional voice now narrated the confessional statement he had been writing before the call had come from the General. The joy at the news--that Parvati was alright, the babies, his nephews, had been born, premature, but still healthy---that joy left him now as he stared at the vicious bitch in front of him.
What had Rudra seen in her? Keeping her around for 8 years? This aging prostitute, so overblown? Her face-- ravaged looking, so different from Parvati's gentle beauty! What could he have shared with this wh**e with the painted red circles and smell of cheap ittar and the black lines running down her face?
Aman ignored the odd, urgent question from the wh**e, and continued:
"Your name is Laila Bani Singh. Profession: Dancer. Address:No permanent address. You are accused of three attempted murders. The charges are that you tried to kill Mrs. Parvati Ranawat, wife of Rudra Pratap Ranawat, Major, BSD Army. Posting Jaipur. You fired upon the victim Parvati and on her unborn twin sons on August 17, 2015, at 4:50 in the evening. You shot Mrs Ranawat in the back, puncturing her kidney as you shot through the window of Ranawat Manzil on Bandre Gali no. 12, Kailish, Jaipur. After you shot the victim using the unlicenced pistol you surrendered to the Police at 5:50 yesterday evening, you turned yourself in to the Police. This is your confessional statement, without any coercion and freely made before me. Are these facts correct?"
"BACCHA THEEKH HAI?" The wild, panicked cry that burst out of the prisoner Laila Singh momentarily stunned Aman. The sheer, hollow desperation made him explain, more gently than he had planned--"Parvati Ranawat was carrying twins---you shot her, you must have known this. Are you saying you did not know she was eight months pregnant?"
"...Nahi..woh...woh..nahi...uski peecha thi meri saamne--woh kuch pakh raha tha, stove ki samne aur menne uske khirki se...mene nahi dekha... baccha? Rudra ki baccha ko goli maar diya menne..."
Aman interruped Laila's stuttering voice: "Twins. Uske do do beta ko marne ke koshish kiya tumne.. "
"Nahi, marna tha sirf Parvati ko. Lekhin yeh math sochna ke Parvati ke sath koi dushmani hai mennu.."Aman found himself staring open mouthed at Laila, at the insanity of this comment. But Laila looked perfectly serious as she now sat down, only her shaking hands indicating her emotions. "Sach mein, larki ne kya kiya? Kuch bhi nahi. Sab janti hu mennu. Uske sath jo bhi hua. Menne kya? Pure Jaipur jante hai, naa? Jallad aur uske chori kiya Dulhan? Usko shoot kiya, lekhin dushmani nahi thi uski sath. Uski baccha ka sath tho bilkul nahi thi-- Kyu hogi? Baccha hai--masoom hia. Theekh hai na? Baccha? Dono? Larka ho-gaya? Agar mein uske jaige pe hoti ..."
(Eng: "No, I planned on only killing Parvati. But don't you think its because I had some enmity with her. Truly, what did the girl do? Nothing. I know everything about her. What happened to her---not just me..the whole of Jaipur knows, right? The Jallad and his stolen Bride? I shot her, but I don't have any anger towards her. And with her children, her babies? Of course not! Why would I want to hurt her babies? They are innocent. They are okay, right? The babies? You mentioned two? She's delivered her two sons, safely? If I was in her place...")
***************************************
Laila looked up at Aman, at the shock in his face. She gave a soft laugh at his expression. "Nahi hu, naa? Uske jaige pe? Mein jaise auraat kaise hogi uske jaige pe?, Sindoor, aur mangalsutra wali? Kaise samjhu pati kya hota hai, kaise basau ghar? Aur paagal bhi nahi hu mein. Tum yeh mat sochna, tumhari chehre pe yeh savaal dekh sakhti hu mein. Paagal nahi hu. Lekhin---tum ye mano yah na mano---nahi janti thi uske bacche ke bare mein. Parvati ko marna tha. Rudra ko zahmn dena that. Lekhin baccha? Kabhi nahi. Yeh baath likh do, uss kaagaz pei. Nahi kiya toh sign nahi karungi usme."
(Eng: I'm not, right? In her place? A woman like me can't be, right? A sindoor and mangalsutra wearing wife? How will I understand what a husband is, how will I create a home for him? And I am not mad. Don't think that. I can see by your expression that you are wondering if I am. I'm not. But whether or not you believe me, I didn't know about the babies. I wanted to kill Parvati. Hurt Rudra. But children? Never. You write this down, on that piece of paper. If you don't, I wont sign the confession.")
"The punishment will be the same for one attempt as for three. So why does it matter?" Asked Aman curiously.
"Sach jo hai woh hi bol raha hu! Sach ka zamana hi chali gayi kya? Kaise dost ho tum, Rudra ki? Sach nahi likho ge? Woh sirf sach sunti hai. Woh likh doh. Tum ukso jaante ho? Sirf sach bol doh!" Insisted the would-be killer, wearily sitting back in her chair.
(Eng: "I am telling you the truth! I didn't know about the babies, I didn't want to hurt them. Strange! The time for truth and honesty seems to have passed us by. What kind of friend are you, anyways? Won't you write down the truth? If you know Rudra, you'll know that he just listens to the truth, that's what you should give to him!!")
*********************************************
Aman, staring, now spoke to Laila as a person for the first time this evening. Uneasily he realized that there was something more than revenge going on here, with this woman. That the true story was more just a list of facts on a piece of paper. So, trying to get Laila to open up, he said:
"You owe Rudra a lot, right? He has taken care of you for eight years? Given you his time and his friendship? He's shared his life with you, as much as a man like him can, for eight years? You--a prostitute. What luck you have had! You could not have a better protector. A more loyal client. You followed him from place to place as he got posted. He allowed you to do that. He told you where to find him and he came to see you. Bol sakhti hu ke tum ek lauthi dost tha, uska. One can say, you were his only friend. Travelling companion even. For eight years."
"Aur uske auraat. Itna bak bak karr rahe ho--who bhi thi, menne---uske auraat. Woh kyu nahi bolti??" sneered Laila, the black kajal running down in rivulets from burning eyes.
(Eng: "And his woman---you are talking a lot---I was that too. His woman. Why don't you say that?")
Aman replied, seriously: "No. Woh nahi bolungi -- woh tumhari aur uske kaal ki beeta hui baat hai. It does not matter to him, he has Paro now, the past has has been forgotten by him, naturally. And you are a prostitute. Kissi ki auraat hone ke layek nahi ho tum. Bolna nahi chahti thi, but that's the truth, right? Anyway, it does not matter to you, he was a just a client. Long term. But I'm sure there were others. But even prostitutes understand friendship and what is owed to the friend, right? Rudra dost tha---uske saath itni bara betrayal? Is this how you re-pay Rudra for the eight years of happiness and protection he gave to you?"
Laila started laughing, marveling at the stupidity of men. Perhaps she had been wrong, and there was a fourth class of men. The eternal child, the momma's boy, the animal---these she knew. But Aman, the wise yet innocent fool--this one was new.
************************************
Laila remembered eight years of memories, all tossed out into the desert night. The waiting, the pain, the hot food, the cold bed. She remembered the screams, held within her throat, as she took him. The danger of being his source, the knives that had been held to her throat by suspicious men as she worked for his career, gathering his news. The smoothing down of the disheveled hair. The secret tenderness of her hidden love. She recalled the betrayal that was Rudra's final commentary on her entire existence--- after eight years of existing for him.
The laughter died out. She felt tired, now.
"Sach likh doh, Aman. Aur meri sach meri hi pass rakhne do. Meri sach hai ke mein Laila hu. Aur naachni-wali ke sath mein kaatne wali bhi hu. Bas, woh lik do, baba. Aur bath khatam. Yaha pei koi khana-shana mil rahe hai ya nahi?"
(Eng: "Write the truth, about what happened Aman. And let me keep my truths to myself. The truth you should write down is that I am Laila, the dancer and the danger, both. That's it, write that down. And there the story ends. Now--is there going to be any food given to me here or what?")
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This One Shot, in a way, continues, though the theme changes a bit, with The Tomorrow portion of:Yesterday and Tomorrow: Forgiveness (Part 10): https://www.indiaforums.com/forum/rangrasiya/3951666/os-yesterday-and-tomorrow-forgiveness-completed_____________________________________________________
This OS has probably been the hardest one for me to write--Full disclosure--I don't think the lady playing Laila is doing her character justice. This woman with her eight years of devotion can and should be given more depth than a vamp who is just jealous of Paro. I tried to do that here. Even though in this series--and in RR-- Laila has no redemption, I thought maybe she should have a story, and a voice at least.
Please let me know your thoughts! Edited by napstermonster - 11 years ago
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