"So, where are we going?"
"Are you certain you wish to tag along?"
I was surprised at the immediate excitement that shot up from his body. I did not expect Rishabh to rebel against his God of a leader.
"I got the balls, woman".
I had to burst his over confident bubble. "Testicles are the weakest part of your body. I suggest you stop perpetuating your own discrimination".
"And you, yours. I am even more confident in my belief of you being a liberal hippie. The world is not as it appears under your rose coloured glasses".
Oh how I wish Roger had let me buy a pair of rose coloured glasses. Roger Fernandez, a retired politician, my mentor and lifelong supporter is a man I revere to the point of unhealthy following. Till that day with Rishabh, I had never argued with or questioned Roger let alone rebellion. I took his bold choices like they were lessons for the future and his visibly wrong decisions as a list of what not to do. I admired him to the T keeping in mind the sensibilities I seeded on my own. When the time was right, I had decided to tread down my own path. Rishabh, in some ways, marked the beginning of my free political journey.
Roger met his wife Marie at a UN conference in South Africa. He married her despite strict family objections and political targets on the back of his considerably older Rwandan wife. Marie or, Mrs. Fernandez to the world, is a tasteful woman, a skillful cook and a motivational speaker for the prestigious TEDx events. She writes most of Roger's speeches.
Roger does not like to call himself a righteous man, only an involved citizen. He hangs out with all sorts of crowd. In fact, he started his days as the Jayte Party MP alongside Bittuji. After a fallout with the Party, which we must never speak of again, Roger took me under his wing. I remember his presence at my elementary school graduation. He convinced my parents that I was a born leader. By the way, I do take all the credit for my avante-guard valedictorian talk. Throughout my teenage years, I would go on year long mission trips to Karnataka, Maharashtra, Punjab. You name it, I have been there. But, the project that I put my blood, sweat and tears in was Sonagachi. I moved to Kolkata when I was fifteen. My nine to five volunteering turned into a living arrangement at in the heart of the Red Light District at eighteen. No one would visit me in the ghetto, not my parents, not party members, not even Roger. The prostitutes were the only companions I had. I would argue that throwing your pupil in an alligator pit to fend for herself does not count as teaching. But, he tells me, "You turned out okay".
Now what do I say to that? I got accustomed to being called names. The ostracization changed to curiosity and curiosity to friendship. Mind you, do not mention my name there. You might find yourself being chased or shot at. I have a lot more enemies than I do friends in the brothel. When I came back to Delhi for graduate studies, I met Rishabh. Looking back on it, had I been raised among civil men, I would perhaps not have given Rishabh a second thought. But, he was the only man of substance I met since I came here. I see well-dressed people, intellectuals, respectful men. Even so, I can see inside them a piece that would lose all morality once inside Sonagachi. And I did not want that. I did not want to be another Radhaji, I wanted to be Marie. Not even Marie, I wanted to be with a man who was exclusive in the face of temptation.
"We are here".
I had forgotten all about Rishabh driving. He stopped at a temporary resting stop for trucks. Trying to be filmy with the dhabha and the food. Little did he know, I was less than impressed.
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