The young man standing in the phone booth, shielding his fair face from the harsh midday sun with one hand, took a coin from his pocket, dropped it into the slot, and dialed a number. Immediately, the receiver was lifted on the other end.
"Hello, is that Rajat?" an eager voice asked a question full of hope.
"Yes, Ma. It's Rajat." a feigned calm voice replied.
"Did you reach Kaptanganj?"
"Yes, I reached."
"Did you eat anything?"
"Not yet."
"You should have eaten something first."
"You were the one who asked me to inform you as soon as I arrive. There is an eatery right in front, I'll eat something."
"Yes, alright."
"Okay, time's about to run out. I will call tomorrow."
Rajat replaced the receiver and stepped out of the booth, then proceeded towards the aforementioned eatery.
Thick walls made of slate-grey bricks, round ventilators, and a name carved into the stone—Aramgah-e-Lashkar (Resting Place of the Lascars). Like the other buildings present in Kaptanganj, the eatery also seemed to be of an old style.
Rajat, standing at the doorframe, was reading the menu when the manager sitting at the counter gestured for him to come closer.
"You look like you're not a local, are you new here?" the manager asked while calculating some accounts.
"Yes, I came here just a little while ago," Rajat replied listlessly.
"What will you eat, Sir? Do you like Hilsa? Hilsa and rice."
"I don't like fish."
"Will potato-cauliflower curry do?"
"Is there nothing else?"
"Not right now, if you wait four hours, puris will be fried for you."
"Serve me the potato-cauliflower then. What else comes with it?"
"We can have papad, Sir, and there is also dried fish."
"Serve me rice, potato-cauliflower curry, and papad."
"As you command, Sir. Please have a seat, your food will arrive shortly." The manager said, gesturing towards a long wooden bench.
Rajat walked towards the bench, and although there was no dust on it, he bent down a little and blew a puff for his satisfaction.
He then sat on the bench and waited for the food to be served. In the absence of any entertainment to pass the time, he began to survey the hotel.
As grand as it seemed from a distance, it was just as dilapidated up close. The ceiling was encroached upon by dampness, and the walls by cracks. In a picture hanging on the wall directly opposite the table, an old man in a white kurta was smiling. Something was inscribed right below it in the Nastaliq script—perhaps the old man's name?
Rajat was unable to read it. He could have asked the workers, but that was not in his nature. He was curious, but he did not like to converse.
Consequently, he was trapped in an ever-growing, impenetrable fortress build up of stones of questions, worries, doubts, and apprehensions.
A worker, walking slowly, holding a platter in his hands, came near the table, showed the platter, and asked Rajat if it was his order. As soon as Rajat answered 'Yes', he placed the platter on the table and walked away.
The rice grains were small; Rajat was accustomed to long grains. For a moment, he felt like leaving the food uneaten, but he was tormented by hunger. And by thirst too.
Rajat slid back the lid of the jug kept on the table and peeked inside, a lonely drop remained settled at the bottom.
Not violating her privacy, Rajat left it alone and searched the bag resting on his left shoulder.
He found a bottle of water, which he had taken on the train but hadn't even opened for some reason.
After drinking water, he turned his attention to the food.
The food was not to his liking, nor was the song that came on the radio kept on the counter—
"Aapki yaad mein tadapta hai dil (The heart yearns in your memory)
Pyaar ki aag mein dahakta hai dil (The heart burns in the fire of love)"
A hackneyed song and music that shredded the eardrums. Although Rajat was hearing this song for the first time, he knew who was behind it; the musicians Naveen-Saddam and the lyricist Pawan.
He had once read in his elder sister's film magazine, Kamini, that their songs are usually stolen from English songs, and occasionally from Pakistani songs.
He thought that if his Walkman hadn't been stolen, he wouldn't have had to listen to this plagiarised song.
He searched his pocket one more time in the hope that the Walkman would mysteriously appear, like pigeons from a magician's hat. This was the 17th search since the theft, and the conclusion was not at all different from the previous 16 searches.
After reluctantly finishing his meal, Rajat headed towards the washbasin near the main door with the intention of washing his hands. A cloth had been tied around the broken tap, through which people were washing their hands with the trickling water.
On the ledge of the basin, several thin pieces of soap, of different colors, were piled one on top of the other—some were laundry soap and some for dishwashing. Clinging to them were flecks of lentils and vegetable seeds.
The sight was utterly repulsive to Rajat.
He completely ignored the soap and washed his hands with only water for a long time. While his palms were cleaned, the stubborn residues stuck under his nails remained unaffected, prompting him to resolve to cut and discard his nails entirely to get rid of them.
On the other side, the line of people behind him was growing long and impatient; people were asking him to move aside, some pleading and some exasperated. In his haste, he tore off a piece of the living nail on his middle finger. Blood immediately began to flow from the wound, which he pressed to stop with his thumb.
When Rajat was at home, he would habitually wash any wound with water. But here, seeing the crowd, he panicked and backed away from the basin. He reached his table, picked up his bag and slung it over his shoulder, moving towards the counter. He had already slipped his hands into his pockets to hide the wound.
"How much is the bill?" he asked the manager.
"20 rupees," the manager replied, calculating the total.
He took out a 20-rupee note from his right pocket and transferred it to his left hand, then his right hand returned to its sanctuary in his pocket.
After paying the manager, he left the hotel. He found no rest in the 'Aaramgah'. Perhaps he would find it in the rented room his father had found for him.