Smitten!

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Samir

Ikept my eyes peeled as I snuck through the gate of our complex that Saturday afternoon, while returning from physiotherapy. Those buggers could be anywhere, waiting to ambush me. Madan and Bhushan Sachdev were the most odious hulks in our complex. Just because their father was a big shot cop and was driven around in a white Ambassador with a revolving red light and bristling with aerials they thought they could get away with anything. In fact, they were the ones who had caused my ankle injury in the first place by deliberately ramming me against the goalpost while playing football. And now I had to watch out because they could be lurking behind the bushes, ready to stick a leg out and trip me up, or else leap out and jeer, ‘Oye langade!’ They liked nothing better than to kick a guy when he was down.

Quietly I opened our gate and stared at the driveway. There was a dusty, dark blue Baleno station-wagon parked alongside Mom’s silver Honda. Holy shit, that meant our new neighbours across the landing had finally arrived. And I had left my cricket bat and ball and certain… um… Top Secret Documents in their flat…

Let me explain.

Our apartments face each other across the landing and the flat next door had been empty for more than a year. One day, my new ball had accidentally (I swear) landed in the balcony opposite. The porch over the main entrance to the block, almost covered with thorny bougainvillea, separates their balcony from ours and it’s no problem to scramble over our balcony railing, onto the porch and then climb into theirs – though you do get scratched and have to watch out for wasps’ nests. Anyway, I retrieved the ball and, just for the heck of it, pressed the handle of the door leading to the bedroom inside. To my astonishment – and delight – it opened! Someone had not locked up properly before leaving… I snuck inside. It was dank and musty and the air smelt stale, probably because the windows were closed. The flat was identical to ours, like a mirror image – and the bedroom I had clambered into was the equivalent of mine – only it looked bigger because there was no furniture.

Well, I decided to make it my private headquarters. I brought my cricket bat and ball and used to practice throwing the ball against the drawing room wall and hitting it on the rebound. There was only deaf Mr. Pathak living downstairs, and he never heard a thing, though his dachshund, Weenie, used to go crazy with the sound of the ball bouncing around. I brought my Secret Documents here – and put them in the built-in cupboards – where they would be safe from other people’s prying eyes (especially Mom’s).

I even started using the drawing room as a shooting gallery (or execution chamber, depending on my mood). I would hang a cardboard box with the figure of a man drawn on it from the ceiling fan, swing it or, better, switch on the fan to ‘No.1’ and then fire at it with my air pistol from the other end of the room. There were a few pockmarks on the wall behind where my pellets had gone wide (only because I had swung the box too much). If I stayed away from the windows, I knew I was safe; there were blinds in front of the drawing room windows, which were kept closed. I had even borrowed Mom’s yellow yoga mat to make the floor more comfortable – she’d given up doing yoga long ago, so she wouldn’t really miss it. Sometimes I practiced shooting lying flat on my back.

The riskiest part of the operation was getting in and out without being seen, although the huge (and thorny) bougainvillea provided cover. The electricity had not been cut off and every evening the watchman would switch on the veranda lights from the master switch downstairs, so that anyone with dastardly ideas would think the flat was occupied. (Which seemed pretty pointless to me, since there was nothing to steal in the flat in the first place.)

I examined the car – it had a Maharashtra number plate and looked as if it had done some serious cross-country driving. The bonnet was still warm. It was otherwise scratchless, which meant whoever drove it was a very good driver. Well, I hoped whoever they were had kids – a station-wagon usually meant kids… Maybe we could form a gang and then take down those Sachdev assholes…

I climbed up the stairs and glanced at the neighbours’ door as I rang our bell. There was no sound from that flat; but heck, my secret headquarters were no longer mine and I knew I’d better better do something – and fast – to get my stuff back. The bat and ball were okay, but as for the rest… I couldn’t even remember if I had left the cardboard target box hanging from the fan after my last shooting spree.

Mom opened the door. She’s this tall, friendly looking lady with a happy, kind face, and which can drastically fool you because her brown eyes are laser sharp and sometimes read exactly what you’re thinking, especially if it’s stuff she thinks you should not be thinking. Her hands were all floury and she had an orange apron on but, again, don’t be misled by that.

‘Hi, sweetheart – how was your session today?’

‘Good. Ma’am says I’ll need only three or four more.’ I sniffed hopefully. ‘You baking a cake?’

‘Some brownies actually.’ She smiled at me. ‘They’re for our new neighbours. You can take them across when they’ve cooled.’

‘Oh. What are they like?’

‘Have one and tell me.’

‘Sure. I mean the neighbours.’ How the hell was I to retrieve (and explain the presence of) my bat and ball and that other stuff I had stashed away in their flat?

‘Oh, I haven’t actually met them yet,’ Mom said. ‘They came in before I got home from shopping. I did hear a dog barking earlier though…’

Half an hour later, she handed me a platter full of the most aromatic walnut brownies. ‘Here, take these across. Tell them that I’m sorry I can’t invite them for dinner, but they could ring up Shanker’s Restaurant down the road – they’re good and will deliver. Got that?’ She collected her strolley and car keys and smiled. She looked deadly cool in her dark blue-and-gold pilot’s uniform.

‘Okay, ready for pre-flight check?’

I rolled my eyes. Mom was an Airbus commander with a private airline and liked to remind you of that. ‘Yes, ma’am. One: Deliver brownies. Two: Neighbours are to contact Shanker’s Restaurant for dinner. Got it!’

She put her hands on her hips and leant back. ‘Three: Do not consume brownies en route. Four: I will be back by tomorrow afternoon – dinner’s in the fridge, ask Ranibai to warm it up. Five: Papa will be back by around eight, he said, but maybe later. Six: Be good and don’t watch too much TV!’

‘Mom!’

‘Bye,’ she said and kissed me.

I heard her reverse out the Honda and drive off . Then I smoothed down my hair, made sure I had the front door key, walked across the landing and rang the bell.

A volley of barking erupted from behind the door, followed by a girl’s plaintive voice: ‘Sumit, no wait! Jolly, get down!’

I took a step backwards. The door opened a crack and a chubby-faced, pale boy of about ten or eleven peered out. He had a rabitty mouth and was holding the collar of a dog with a worried black face and wrinkled forehead. The dog nosed open the door vigorously and charged out, as the boy let go. Before I knew it the dog, an enormous boxer, had put his paws on my shoulders and was licking my face and barking deafeningly, wagging his behind madly. Then he discovered the platter of brownies that had gone flying. My bad ankle gave way and I landed on my bottom with a thump as the brownies went flying and the dog scarpered after them.

‘Jolly! No!’

‘J…Jo…Jo…Jolly, nn… no…!’ the boy said, looking scared.

A girl with big black eyes and a long plait appeared beside the boy and stared at me.

‘Jolly! Get back here!’ she said, to no avail. Then she looked at me. ‘I’m sorry, he was just being friendly. Are you okay?’

‘D… don’t be sc… scared,’ the boy said, standing beside the girl.

Then a burly man with a bald head, thick moustache and square glasses appeared behind the kids. He was wearing a rumpled green and black bush shirt. The top of his head gleamed and his face was pudgy.

‘Hey, hey, what’s going on here?’ he boomed, putting his arms around the kids.

‘Jolly jumped on him, Papa,’ the girl said, two big front teeth peeping out between her lips. I think she was trying not to laugh. I struggled to my feet and then staggered as my ankle twinged.

‘Are you okay, son?’ he asked. ‘Popsicle, sweetheart, help him up.’

‘It’s okay, just an old football injury.’ I managed to stand up and tried to look heroic as the girl took a step forward to help me. Her round, black eyes were very expressive.

The man’s eyes twinkled as he extended his hand. ‘Hello son! I’m Madhav Handa, a.k.a Madhanda, and these are my kids: Akhila, a.k.a. Popsicle and Sumit, a.k.a. Sumi and that is Jolly who is not my kid! Their mother has a migraine and is resting inside.’

‘Hi, I’m Samir Gill. I live next door.’ I grinned and shrugged. ‘My mom made some brownies for you – but…’

‘Nice to meet you, Samir, sir! I’m sorry about that. Jolly’s just such a bozo; he’s just too friendly, but he scares people by jumping on them.’

The dog was now being held by the girl. She was taller than me. I glanced at her brother. He had a funny look on his face, sort of friendly-goofy, like that green barbet bird. Maybe he was one of those challenged kids. So! A tall,