Heer

As I shuffled into one of the empty seats of the moving bus with my heavy maroon lehenga, I caught my staggering breaths. With each progressing week, my usual stamina levels were dropping, and the biggest idiot in my life was taking full advantage of my weakness. 

Speaking of the devil, his breath brushed the back of my ears as he thumped into the seat behind mine. 

195C. On the same bus, just over fifteen months ago, the primary nuisance of my life and I crossed paths. 

“Kahan jaana – aap dono, phirse?” Even the bus conductor recognised us, and why wouldn’t he? The last time, Nawab and I had created a huge scene in this very vehicle.

“Main iss gire hue insaan ke saath nahi hoon.” I flailed my swollen hands behind. “Abhi se Koel ko warning de deti hoon, shaadi ke 2-3 saal tak Buzo ke chaal mein nahi phassna…”

I could sense him rolling his eyes at me. Public face-offs had become a trend in our lives that it fazed neither of us. While I searched through my macrame tote bag for some change for my bus ticket, he flicked through his wallet and flexed out a wad of cash. 

“Panchkula Bus Stand ke liye 3 ticket, bhaiya.” The grin in his voice was evident as he lazily signalled himself, me and then the little one just forming in my belly. 

I huffed, half-turning. “Zyaada smart banne ki koshish mat karo. Main apne, aur bacchhe ka, khayal khud rakh sakti hoon. Bhaiya, yeh lo.”

“Arrey yaar, tumhaare pati hone ke naate apna farz hi toh nibhaa raha hoon!”

Clapping my hands together, I made a praying stance. “Mujhe tumhaari koi bhi madad nahi chahiye, please!” Those exact words — or rather his generosity in offering favours — were what I first fell for. 

Free life advice for all the girls out there: don’t be as naive or as shallow as me. Try to evaluate how sleazy your man can be before you get into a wedlock with him. Otherwise, you will end up like me, carrying his baby merely weeks after being married to him!

“Main offer bhi nahi kar raha, aur naa hi kabhi karunga bhaiyaa! Baksh dedo mujhe!” 

“Exactly! You’ve already done enough! Itna phulaake rakh diya mujhe. Bhaag bhi nahi sakti…” I mumbled with a frown, palming the belly that was peeking through my lehenga. 

A weight pressed over my shoulder as he rested his chin on it. “Arrey! Same pinch!” He exclaimed, meaning the accident which forever forbade him from running at athletic levels. However, his remark had the opposite effect of triggering me rather than sympathising. 

I didn’t cause his accident, but my state was completely in his hands! 

“Nawab!” I scowled, flinging my thela across his turbaned head. 

Speaking of thela, that’s the loving nickname my husband gave my daily runner that travels with me everywhere I go. By that logic, yes I also have a name besides Mrs. Heer Nawab Brar… I am Ms. Thelawati, and I am growing a baby thela in me. 

As if hearing my mind voice, Nawab grinned.

Rabb ji, kahan phassa diya aapne mujhe?!

I directed my helplessness at the next human I found. “Bhaiya, mujhe iss aadmi se chutkaara chahiye, aap kisi lawyer jo jaante ho? Annul kara denge shaadi!” The conductor who did not consent to being my scapegoat scratched his head awkwardly. 

“Haan karlo. Karlo karlo. Annulment spelling bhi nahi aata hoga, badi aayi…” 

As conductor bhaiya half-laughed, I glowered which made him straighten up. Perhaps from experience, he had seen many stares akin to that, and knew better than to stoke the fire in such situations. Sheepishly, he held out the ripped chit of a bus ticket.

“Yeh lijiye Madamji,” 

But hell-bent on cushioning my bruised ego, I turned around and blabbered, “A - N - N -“

Nawab clapped his ears, singing “Lalalala… I can’t hear you,” and closed his eyes at which point I began seriously charging at him with my thela. “Bachao! Bachao koi mujhe meri biwi se! Ek strawberry cheesecake icecream ke chakkar mein mera jeena mushkil kar rahi hai yeh!” He wailed, but to nobody’s heed. 

The conductor nervously itched his head, observing the rest of the passengers in the bus. By that point, they seemed to partake in the drama rather than intervene or diffuse the situation. Helpless, he mumbled, “Aap apna ticket pakadlo Sirji…” 

“Bhaiya aap hi bolo.” Nawab began enthusiastically, “Dost ki shaadi mein gaye — buddy hai woh mera, Buzo!” Yeah, right! Nobody asked him to set the scene for random strangers on the bus. Did anyone care? 

I looked around to see everyone invested. 

“Anyways, wahan chaar flavours the icecream ke, par nahi… Madam ko specifically strawberry cheesecake icecream hi chahiye thi.” I sulked. It was not entirely my doing. Yes, strawberry cheesecake was my favourite cake flavour but I was not that unreasonable to demand it in an icecream form. 

Like I said, I wasn’t that unreasonable. 

My little one is the culprit here. 

“Toh bhaag chale shaadi se bina kuch khaaye, phir bhi kahi nahi mila strawberry cheesecake icecream! Ab yeh kya meri galti hai?” He enacted, dramatically pointing all his fingers to himself and making the most innocent puppy face he could put up.

And it seemed to work, because he was gaining some sympathy. 

“Sir, aap sunne mein toh sahi –“ The conductor started.

I was quick to pounce, “Nahi nahi, saari galti toh meri hi hai! Haan, aadhi kahaani bolkar khudko victim bana diya isne! Main hi paagal hoon jo isse shaadi kar baithi.” 

First of all, I couldn’t get my icecream — the one thing I was craving since leaving Buzo’s and Koel’s wedding — and now instead of pampering me, my husband was scolding me in front of everyone. So by then, I was already on the verge of tears.

On that note, one thing I figured out (that works in my favour 100% of the time, so ladies, take notes) is turning on the waterworks. Before finding out I was pregnant, I hardly ever teared up but especially in the past few weeks, I had become so volatile that even one crude look from my husband makes me erupt into thunderstorms.  

It seemed have the perfect effect on him as he scooted from the seat behind into mine, hugging me against himself. His voice lowered as he spoke, “Nahi nahi, main hi paagal hoon! Nawab hi paagal hai. Situation suljaane ke liye caramel crunch leke aaya tha na pyaar se, galti toh uski hi hai! Ab chalo, rona band karo…” 

Wiping my cheeks tenderly, he placed my face in his chest and made alarmed faces to the ones around us. 

“Dekho… Tumhe icecream meri shakal par phekkar bhaagne ki kya zarurat thi? Sambhaal raha tha na main, hmm?” With guilty eyes, I traced the huge red circle in the centre of his face where the cold and icecream had combined to leave his skin inflamed. The smear of the icecream cone ran down his beautiful maroon kurta. 

“Bhaiya, aap hi batao, ek acchha-khaasa pati aur kya karega bhala?” Huffing irritably as his drama continued, I shoved the bag into him, trying my best to embed it into his body with my wrath. “OUCH! Phirse maar rahi hai! Samjhao isse koi, kattorr hai yeh! Pathhar dil, AHH!”

“CHUP!” Came the conductor’s echo. Both our fingers pressed over our lips in silence as the rest of the passengers made us their laughing stock. “Ab aap ticket lenge aur tameez se baithenge, ya phir yahi aap dono ko nikaal doon?” 

At his warning, both Nawab and I straightened up. 

“Sorry bhaiya.” / “Sorry bhaiya.” We said in unison. 

As the conductor cursed us under his breath and made his way back to the front, I hissed, “Tumhe toh hona hai sorry.”

“Excuse me, main…”

“SHHH…” Everyone else warned.  

So the silent battle, between our eyes and lips continued as we remained bickering for the rest of our lifetime, because in his words: I was, am and will always be Nawab Brar's wife.