Games Girls Play

SUBMISSIONSNIDHI SINGH07/02/2014 © GAMES GIRLS PLAY

Games Girls Play

By

Nidhi Singh

Copyright Nidhi Singh 2014

Smashwords Edition

Disclaimer: This work is purely of imagination. Any resemblance to any person living or dead is purely coincidental.

Table of Contents

Prologue-Kasauli

Chapter 1-Admissions’ Time

Chapter 2-The Dwarka Chapter

Chapter 3-The train to Punjab

Chapter 4-The Partridge Hunt

Chapter 5-A Nightmare on Toot Street

Chapter 6-The Fireworks at the Headworks

Chapter 7-The Cooling Off

Chapter 8-Payback Time

Chapter 9-One Down

Chapter 10-Two Down

Chapter 11-Three Down

Chapter 12-All Down

Epilogue

Prologue

Kasauli

Mrs. Acharya; dressed completely in white; the color of purity, cleanliness and peace, and also the color signifying a Hindu widow in mourning; sat at the lawns of the huge, white colonial bungalow at Kasauli, sipping her favorite hot, green tea and lime. Her daughter Reva, on a break from NIFT; sat across the wrought iron table; playing with the poodle. Bachittar, the Himachali caretaker of the old house, stood respectfully by Mrs. Acharya’s side, discussing the errands to be run, the groceries to be fetched and the dak to be collected during the long overdue visit to Solan, the district HQ.

All his attempts to persuade Mrs. Acharya to step outside the house had been in vain. As a bargain, he was trying to convince her to let him go with Reva and the driver in the old Ambassador the next day and complete the jobs at hand.

After winding up the affairs at Delhi, Aarav’s wife and daughter had arrived at Kasauli to take care of the pending matters of the estates of the Acharya family. But Mrs. Acharya mostly remained indoors, staring moodily out the tall vertical windows designed to mimic the Chir Pines of the grounds.

General Acharya, Aarav’s father and a veteran of the 1971 war, had constructed the bungalow soon after hanging up his uniform. It was set on roughly three acres in the shadows of the Choor Chandni peak, on a hillside overlooking the snow-clad glaciers, the rolling hills with the mixed forests of pines, oaks and horse chestnuts, and yellow-green meadows set ablaze in the golden sunshine. At night, one could see the twinkling lights of the Shimla town, several kilometers away. The general, who devoted most of his retired life to gardening, grew a neat patch of Wildflowers, Hydrangeas and Milk Thistles, and a small but lush orchard of Plums, Wild Berries and Santa Rozas on the sprawling property.

‘The Postmaster sahib at Solan has been calling up daily, madam. He says there is a lot of dak that we need to personally sign for and collect.’ Bachittar said, twisting the strands of his woolen scarf.

‘How come he is taking so much of interest’? Reva said, peering over the poodle’s furry ears.

‘It’s a small place, and who doesn’t know the general sahib here? Though he is no more- god bless his soul. Now that even Chotte Sahib (Young Master) is gone, everyone wants to pitch in with their bit’.

‘Who’s asked for their help, Bachittar?’ Mrs. Acharya, speaking for the first time, said in her gentle voice, still gazing in the far distance.

‘I beg your pardon, madam, I didn’t mean it like that’, the caretaker said, smoothing the edges of his worn tweed jacket with his rough palms.

‘Oh, com’on mamma! Let’s roll down to Solan tomorrow. It will be fun- we’ll even take Poppy darling here’. Reva said, tickling Poppy darling under her ears, sending her onto a frenzy of tail wagging and head-shaking; hustling to break free and chase the purple-yellow butterflies that she suddenly spotted flitting about the blossoms; and mocking her.

‘The bonsais need pruning- I’ll stay here. You all can go. I’ll sign an authority letter for you, dear. You can visit the bank and the postmaster sahib and collect whatever that’s been waiting there. Though I wonder what it is- I am not expecting anything now. Who would write to us?’

‘Mamma you can do the bonsais any day. Come with us- it’ll be different’, Reva insisted.

‘I don’t want anything to be different. I want to keep it the way it is. The way god chose it’, she said softly.

‘Fine, mamma’, Reva yielded, seeing the dark almond eyes welling up; deciding to press her mother some other time. They both missed Aarav badly, but mamma had taken it a bit too hard. Time will heal her; Reva thought and hoped; and let mamma be for the moment. She got up; Poppy happily bounded off and disappeared into the flowerbeds; and hugged her sweet mamma, drawing a shawl around her slender shoulders.

‘Very well madam’, said Bachittar also; relieved that at least a start had been made in clearing away the dust from their lives.

Suddenly Poppy dashed out from the berry shrubs towards the wicket gate, barking and jumping excitedly. An old man stood outside, clutching a colorful Himachali topi in one hand, with a couple of large brown envelopes tucked inside his arm.

‘Who’s he’, Reva asked.

Mrs. Acharya, casting a brief look at the visitor, returned to the views of the valley below.

‘Oh, he’s the Postmaster sahib- come himself,’ Bachittar said, and rushed to let him in.

Mrs. Acharya, now woken from her reverie, watched with a faint interest as Bachittar and the Postmaster walked down the cobbled path, with a delirious Poppy nipping at their ankles, and tugging at the ends of their trousers, happy to have a visitor to play with at last.

Mrs. Acharya rose and gracefully folded her hands in Namaste, clasping the grey shawl close about her shoulders.

‘Very happy to meet you my child,’ the Postmaster greeted back,’ I was visiting my niece here for the weekend, so I thought why not visit the old house where I have sat and enjoyed so many cups of tea with the general sahib and his family. Of course, it is my misfortune not to have met you in happier days’.

‘Please sit, uncle’. Mrs. Acharya waved him towards a chair, and asked Bachittar to fetch some hot tea and Bathu Ladoos quickly. Bachittar nodded but lingered awhile, exchanging pleasantries with the old man and enquiring after his health and family. Then he hurried off into the house to instruct the cook to prepare the refreshments.

‘I thought you are never going to visit me, so I decided to come myself.’ The Postmaster said, replacing the envelops on the table.

‘I wish you had called, I would have come myself’, Mrs. Acharya said.

‘Well I did- several times- I spoke to Bachittar here. He is a forgetful man- growing old- but then who isn’t. I can understand child; you will not feel like stepping out of the house as yet. We must let time run its course- all things become clearer one day- and life goes on. We have our young to take care of, isn’t it’, he said, nodding and smiling at the beautiful Reva, who hung on to his every word with rapt attention. She smiled back; a radiant smile of innocence flitting across her pretty features.

‘Thank you for your concern, but we are fine- we’ll pull through’, Mrs. Acharya assured him.

‘ I can see that child. But don’t take forever. It is the duty of a postman to deliver a letter where it belongs- even if it’s a little off his beat. Since you were not coming- here I am- with what belongs to you.’ He pushed the envelopes in her direction.

She made no move to touch the brown packets, but got busy in arranging the piping hot tea and snacks that Bachittar had brought. Bachittar lifted the envelopes and carefully placed them on the empty chair, leaving them for madam to see later on.

The old man, weary after the long climb up the winding path that led to the house, spoke no further and began to sip the hot tea from a saucer and tuck into the food, wiping his sodden moustache with the corner of his sleeves. He ate little and slowly, but finished off all that Bachittar had heaped on his plate without protest, as a mark of respect for the host.

When he finished he smiled appreciatively, refusing Mrs. Acharya’s pleas to have some more.

‘ We are so grateful for your visit, uncle. Can we do anything for you?’

‘Well, I’ll let you know. I’ll come by again if that’s all right by you. And right now, as a favor, you can sign me a small receipt for these letters. Please forgive an old man- I like my books in order’.

‘Oh, so sorry’, Mrs. Acharya said, and signed on a small piece of paper with the pen the old man offered.

The Postmaster rose, and lightly touching both the women on their heads, shuffled away, escorted by the animated Bachittar and Poppy.

Mrs. Acharya began to head into the house. It was starting to get chilly, and the sky had begun to get overcast, promising the usual light drizzle in the afternoon.

‘Mamma- at least look at these’, Reva protested, holding up the envelopes, a faint scowl beginning to curl across her pretty face. ‘Please mamma!’

Mrs. Acharya paused, turned on her heels and seeing the worry on her daughter’s face, smiled and ruffled her light-brown tousled mop of hair. ‘Don’t worry your pretty little head so much. Come let’s look at them. Who could it be that wants so badly to reach out to us.’

She sat down and began to scrutinize the contents of the packets one by one, growing increasingly restive and incredulous as she did so.

‘What happened mamma, is everything ok?’ Reva sat up, concerned. Her mother was gaping at the letters in her hand, looking shocked. Tears had welled up in her large eyes and she had begun to tremble.

‘Hush mamma, what is it- please don’t mamma!’ Reva, scared now, was beginning to come close to tears herself.

Her mother looked up at her through her tearful eyes; raising a finger to her lips, she said; ’shush, shush child’, and began to smile. Then suddenly, she was both crying and laughing- her elegant frame quivering in the cold breeze that had picked up. After awhile she took control of herself, wiped away the tears, and walked inside the house, carrying the letters with her. She didn’t look back at Reva whose startled gaze was following her. Poppy, smelling a crisis, crawled under Reva’s chair, pretending noone could see her.

A brooding Reva and Poppy waited anxiously, fixed to their spots; not understanding the strange mood swings of the mistress of the house.

Mrs. Acharya returned after what seemed an eternity. When Reva saw her she jumped from her chair in disbelief, sending Poppy scurrying into the safety of the wild brush.

Mrs. Acharya was dressed in a brightly colored evening gown, the same that she had worn during her last jaunt with her husband; red kungkumum (mark) adorning her forehead.

‘Wow, mamma! Are you ok!’

‘Yes dear, everything is now the way it should be. When was it you said you wanted to go to Solan?’ She said, wrapping a worried Reva in a warm embrace.

‘But are you sure you are ok mamma- I am worried. Please tell me you are ok!’

‘ I have never been better, my love. Come, let’s go inside- I’m hungry. I will explain everything to you- I promise- when the time comes. Do you trust me?’ she said, raising her daughter’s chin and looking into her eyes.

‘ I trust you mamma, with all my heart’; Reva laughed; slipping her arms around her mother tightly, she walked beside her into the house, looking skywards and silently thanking him.

§

Chapter One

Admissions’ Time

Chander, the receptionist, though tired from a hard day’s work, was greeting the students and their parents warmly. It had become dark, but people were still trickling in. The response had been good this year, as in the last, and the year before that as well. Chander reckoned the Institute was going to manage to fill up all its seats, if not more. Tuition fees brought in the revenues, ensuring everyone was paid on time. It might even mean a bonus, or a raise.

But welcome candidates as he might, he did not cease to wonder why doctors, dentists, pharmacists and myriad medical professionals would forfeit their hard-earned, and hard-paid-for qualifications, and care to spend another two years for a diploma in a private institute. The health profession- he had heard- was the sunrise sector in the country- yet, these fresh kids with their degrees seemed defensive and lost.

What was going wrong? Where were the jobs? Why did they get paid so poorly for so noble a profession, that it made them chuck all and become students again? Why did they trade in their solid talent for a commonplace managerial position?

When he had broached the topic with Amanpreet, a married dentist with two sons, she had said;’ if you remove a stone you will find twenty dentists squirming under it. They pay us ten thousand bucks a month for nine hours a day slugfest, with no scope for advancement in life unless one gets a specialization. ’

A couple of boys from his village who had signed up as army recruits made much more in the stipends during training. And with that Chander buried whatever thoughts he had of seeing his son a doctor.

He allotted the candidates rooms after carefully pouring over their call letters. The cash for the rooms was to be collected on the spot- no checks. Taking advantage of a brief lull, he recounted his cash, tallying it with the entries he had scribbled in a well-thumbed register. The candidates had been called on the basis of their merit in the MAT scores: the GDs and interviews were slated for the following day.

The reception center was to remain open all night. Chander’s shift was till 2 AM. The next day was an off for him.

A tall girl appeared at the doorway, and stubbed out a cigarette on the stone walkway before stepping in. She gave a big, gummy smile. ‘ Hi, I am Mrinal, from Satna. I am here for the admissions’. She handed over a small brief containing her documents.

Chander hemmed and hawed, finally finding her name on the list.

‘Anybody else with you?’ Chander leaned over, but the room was empty behind her, and so was the path leading to the reception.

Mrinal just raised her eyebrows, and smiled.

Up close, Chander noticed she had a tattoo of a black cross on her red gums. He wanted to ask why a pretty girl like her was alone at this time- so far from home, but couldn’t figure out how to. ‘Would you have a single room or share it with someone?’

‘Girl or boy’, she asked, coolly.

Chander was stumped. ‘Girl obviously’, he replied.

‘Not a problem’. She turned on her toes and began to visit the knickknacks scattered around the frugal room; Chander’s gaze following her while she did. She turned back suddenly, and said, ’well?’

Chander returned to his register rather sheepishly, gulping down the sermon that was at his lips. He thumbed through the pages to see if he already had any girls staying alone. ‘Room 69 has two girls, Lalita and Harpy… It’s a four-bed and comfortable. That will be a thousand rupees, in cash- paid upfront.’

Mrinal placed the money - in small notes and even some change on the table. Chander doodled some more on his register and followed her out of the reception, helping her with the well-worn trolley-bag that had seen better days, muttering the directions to her block.

‘Good luck’, he said after her, as she walked down the path without turning, the trolley wheels grating on the stone in the quiet night.

A Rajasthani Bania family had founded the AIHMR (Aggarwal Institute of Health Management & Research), at Jaipur some 30 years ago. The name was quite a mouthful, but the founding fathers liked to believe it was sharp, and that it created quite an impression. The eldest brother would have liked to call it the J.D. Aggarwal & Sons Institute of -- but better sense prevailed when it was realized that if the names of remaining four squabbling brothers and their progeny were also to be accommodated, it would read more like the who’s who of the large, resourceful Bania family from Karauli; rather than the title of a premier academic abode. To this day, they have expanded to other metros as well.

The sprawling Jaipur campus, just off the airport road, was spread over 17 acres of lush green lawns, Kota stone walkways, and gushing fountains. The towering yellow sandstone buildings with elegant courtyards, embellished frescoes etched painstakingly in the high walls, and ostentatious jharokhas, gave a plush and peaceful ambience.

Mrinal found her block in the elaborately sign-posted campus without much difficulty. She climbed to the first floor, not bothering to raise her bag while it thudded on the stairs after her, and knocked at Room 69.

A massive girl opened the door, and raised her eyebrows questioningly.

‘ Hi, I’m Mrinal’.

The girl at the door wore a light-blue hosiery night-suit with crotchet work - the kind one picks up in dozens for a few hundred bucks in any of the Cantonments Bazaars across the country. She had a few buttons undone on her shirt, revealing a thickly muscled, and lightly haired chest; from which were limply suspended the contours of two huge, sideways pointed feeders. She sucked from a cigarette, tilted her head to one side, crossed one leg in front of the other, flicked the ash on the carpet, and from behind a cloud of smoke said,’ so?’

‘So, this is the point where I come in- I am allotted this room’. Aggression did not ruffle Mrinal, who had been in hostels since class seven.

‘The room is already allotted baby, to two fine ladies that came first and were served first’.

‘I was told that, baby’, Mrinal explained patiently. ‘ It’s supposed to be a four-bed, and I am the third bed- for your information. I know you need all four for yourself, but I can’t help you there’.

‘Hey Lalita, let her in’, a hoarse voice from inside the room said.

Lalita shrugged and held the door ajar, not shifting from her position, making Mrinal squeeze around her- their hooters brushing against each other.

The other girl; fully dressed, sat on a cane chair slightly tilted- her shod feet propped up on the bed. A burning cigarette dangled from one hand, and a glass of vodka from the other- her elbow propped on the table- next to the bottles of coke and vodka.

‘ Hi Mrinal… welcome’, she said pleasantly. ’I am Harpy, Harpreet Kaur actually; the mastiff is Lalita’.

Mrinal glanced over her shoulder and grinned at Lalita who was pouring out a tall coke. Mrinal stepped into the other room and sat on one of the two beds that looked in a less advanced stage of affliction by a tempest. She dug out her vanity pouch and went into the toilet to freshen up.

‘Have a quick shot before we go for dinner?’ Harpy asked Mrinal as she came out, looking scrubbed and polished.

The girls poured large shots and cheered, dipping a customary forefinger in the drink and flicking it away. Mrinal declined any water or coke for her drink, while Lalita refused to dilute her coke with the vodka.

‘Can you imagine they took a thousand bucks from me for this dump’, Mrinal said, looking around the sparsely done up room. ‘If you take the whole room, it’s twenty five hundred bucks. But you divide it into four corners, and you get four thousand. Can’t imagine these banias won’t bat an eyelid before robbing a poor student at the fag end of her financial lifeline from parents.’

‘Cheers to that- poke the Bania in the eye!’ Lalita, a Bania from Indirapuram, raised her coke in salute.

The girls locked the room behind them, and rushed to make it to dinner- their plastic slippers clop-clopping on the stone, after Mrinal had quickly tossed down three more large shots. She wanted to carry the bottle along but Harpy told her they could have it after their meal. On the way they exchanged random statistics of each other’s lives: Mrinal was a dentist from Satna, Harpy and Lalita were Physiotherapists from Delhi NCR. All three were looking at the Delhi campus of AIHMR. Dinner was nothing to write home about, being an assortment of tasteless gravies at varying degrees of lukewarmness.

§

The girls were late for the welcome speech by the Directors in the morning. One by one, the Deans of Mumbai, Delhi, Jaipur and Bengaluru chapters got up to sing paeans of their work. The small hall was chock-a-block with candidates and some parents; glued to the tales being spun of placement records of that venerable seat of learning. They scrambled up the narrow corridor; stepping over a minefield of feet, laptop bags and water bottles to find seats right at the end. There were a few bespectacled boys too, barely able to conceal the anxiety of having stood far too long at the end of the long queue for the meal ticket.

The candidates were bunched off on alphabetical basis for the GDs (Group Discussions, silly), to be followed by interviews. Harpy was sent off elsewhere while Mrinal and Lalita got bunched together. The faculty conducting the GD explained the ground rules; inviting a healthy discussion where one could put across even the wonkiest of ideas as long as they were logically defended.

‘Who’s a wonkey?’ Lalita leaned over and whispered to the nerd next to her.

‘Err, it should be the feminine of monkey; man-woman, monkey-wonkey, see?’ The nerd said, after considerable cerebral labor at finding the right tone of sarcasm, and turned his back firmly on the competition.

The topic for the doctors was: ‘Facebook: A Boon or Bane’.

Lalita wondered whether the nerd would call bane the feminine of ban. A grounded belle; from the Hindi heartland where girls in ghagras (long skirts); weaned on the folklore of colorful Rasleelas (Rasa Dance, from folklore of Krishna) spent lazy afternoons swinging in the shade of the gnarled banyans; Lalita didn’t root much for the imaginary friends circles on social media. She threw in her lot with the naysayers.

The girls outnumbered and out-spoke the bewildered boys- gentle nuances slowly escalating into aggressive posturings; culminating in unbridled slugfests till the exasperated ref blew the whistle for tea break- and the next round- the interviews.

Anyone who sat for the interviews made it.

Those that didn’t sit for the interviews but had applied also made it.

Those that hadn’t applied but appeared eligible also were invited to join by the insistent telemarketers.

Selected candidates were even offered generous discounts for buying books self-published by the faculty, and exciting freebies- by way of lifetime subscriptions to the Aggarwal group email newsletters- for referring an odd cousin or friend. In all, the management seemed extremely pleased with the quality of candidates and the wholesome response to the call for admissions.

The candidates couldn’t care less as long as the institute got them the promised placements in the end. They dispersed later that afternoon, to make preparations for loosening their parent’s purse strings for another long spell of a carefree honeymoon with books- with no questions asked and none answered.

Mrinal and Lalita had worked around their initial pecking-order hiccups. Being birds of a feather, they decided they were better off together than with some scripture wielding sanyasins. They promised to pair up for a rental apartment. Harpy would be close by, staying with her parents at Dwarka itself.

§

Chapter Two

The Dwarka Chapter

Mrinal and Lalita reached Delhi early, and hired a two-bedroom apartment in the Dhaka War Widows Colony, through one of the many retired colonels now dabbling as real-estate brokers.

The veteran wanted to let them in on a couple of real good soft-launches also: so what if they had no money now, their parents could pitch in with the booking amounts, and sign up as collaterals for bank loans. They had a lifetime to pay back. The girls declined politely, making off with not a little difficulty from the clutches of his sticky sales pitch.

Harpy stayed close by with her parents and joined them often for vodka-soaked evenings. Lalita wasn’t much of a drinker, but made herself useful in fetching cigarettes for others and milk and snacks for herself from the neighborhood Kirana shop. Harpy paid mostly while Mrinal pitched in with the drinking company. Lalita happily kept house and cooked and cleaned up after the other two. She had been weaned on buffalo cream-milk and fattened on the finest homemade desi ghee. Dairy was in her blood; when she saw double beef burger sandwiches, her blood curdled with the guilt of a woman defiling her own home- but she downed them anyway- at the small eatery secretly tucked away near the Kasaipura village bordering their colony.

The neighborhood boys- impressed with all the empty vodka bottles and cigarette packs that the tiny apartment disgorged; the daily amount being the sum total of a month’s produce in the rest of the tiny colony- which as its name suggested, had resigned itself to a perpetual state of mournful countenance and austere aspect- positioned themselves at strategic nooks and corners hoping to grab the attention of the cool chicks, and reward themselves with some real action- so conspicuous by a complete absence so far in their humdrum lives.

The threesome was soon joined by more twosomes and foursomes, willingly lent spaces vacated by the cash strapped residents- goaded on by the voracious breed of veteran brokers.

The once forbiddingly somber colony soon shook off the self-imposed pathos, and resigned itself to the lively, all-night-long jarring music, drunken laughter and careless abandon of skimpily clad, unemployable medical professionals.

The Delhi campus of the Aggarwals was situated in an 8-acre plot in the remote Dwarka Institutional area, with a Tribal Hostel on one side