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Stalking
by Subroto Mukerji

Its always fun to revisit ones old haunts from college days so, on a whim, when I
found myself driving up Rajpur Road, I just carried on over the Ridge and ended up at
the University Coffee House, the unlikely setting for many a varsity romance. After
parking the Range Rover, I breezed through the ancient spring doors with a familiarity
born of long acquaintance, and who should I spy but Puja, sitting all by herself at a table
in the far corner, poring over a thick, leather-bound volume, reading glasses perched
cheekily on the very tip of her cute little uptilted nose.

She sprang to her feet when she saw me. After the mandatory hugs and kisses, she
pointed to the vacant chair opposite hers. Meera! she exclaimed happily. Its been
ages. I couldnt believe my eyes when you walked in, she gushed. Puja and I had been
room mates in the college hostel. The last time we met was at your wedding reception
four years back. She held me out at arms length and studied me critically. Youre
glowing marriage suits you, she observed, stealing an furtive glance at the diamond
and platinum wedding ring on my left hand.

And you? I asked, as I sat down. Nope, she said, Im still unmarried. And with my
nose firmly to the grindstone, too, she admitted ruefully. She was always a good sport.

No Mr. Right yet, right? I asked. It was the obvious question, awkward but
unavoidable. Strange; she was so pretty, in an elfin kind of way.
Puja shook her head. Not even Mr. Brightor even Mr. Fright, for that matter, she
punned. But theres a recent development I think you should know about, my dear.
She leaned over and whispered confidentially. Im being stalked.

But thats horrible! I exclaimed. Have you lodged a report with the police?
No, no, nothing that. He seems like quite a decent guy, actually. Hes obviously
studious carries around an armload of books, doesnt smoke, might even be a lecturer
at one of the campus colleges. But no matter where I go, sooner or later he turns up,
giving me the glad eye. There you are! Dont look now, but thats him at that table
near the door the man in the white shirt.

I didnt look. Puja was a lecturer herself, and well able to make her life decisions. But I
did venture to offer a word of advice. Dont let on that you know about him. Youll
scare him off.

Meera! Its almost as if you want him to keep stalking me.

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Hmmmm! Would like me to tell you a little story about being stalked? I asked. She
nodded eagerly. Please do, Im all ears.

The story goes back to the time when we lived at Jorbagh. Our neighbours, the
Nandas, had an only daughter called Namita. She was fun to be around, with her
bubbling, extroverted personality. She loved art and dramatics, and since I had
matching interests, it was inevitable that wed become fast friends.

There was a brief intermission as a waiter deposited six glasses of water at our table,
almost as if he took us to be parched travelers whod just crossed the Gobi. Though
disconcerting for first-time Coffee House patrons, dumping twice as much water as a
human being could consume in a week was apparently an inviolable Coffee House
custom. We were used to it, so we just waited till the waiter with the green
cummerbund had fulfilled his mission and taken our order. We made good use of the
time to exchange phone numbers.

She was tall, was our Namita, with a beautiful complexion, flashing eyes, a heavy mass
of golden-brown hair that reached to her knees and an hourglass figure that was the
envy of all. Her parents worried about her constantly, but it was typical of her that she
persuaded them to gift her a scooter. Taking full advantage of her new-found mobility
she obviously couldnt borrow her fathers car fulltime she went to the movies, loafed
about in book shops, went to the zooyou name it. The city was at her feet. Yet,
amazingly enough, she never fell behind in her studies she was reading Sociology at a
prominent North Campus college and was expected to get a First Division in her final
examinations. So there you have it beautiful, brainy and bold just about sums her up.

Yes, yesgo on, urged Puja. So what happens next?

Patience, dear, I will tell all. Somewhere in the middle of all this, Namita noticed
something odd. No matter where she went, she would see the same guy hanging
around. At first she took no notice of him, but as the days and weeks passed, she began
to feel a bit whats the word? yes, hounded. She began to feel hounded. Flaneurs
are a Delhi speciality, but this guy was clearly targeting her. She would often see him in
traffic, either in the next lane or somewhere behind her. She noticed he rode an Italian
bike, an orange Ducati 400cc, and he wore a premium Shoei helmet. The worlds top
racing motorcyclists seem to prefer Shoei, and locally, the most basic model goes for
around twenty thousand rupees in retail. Most Delhi riders prefer to buy cheap
unbranded helmets from roadside vendors. This guy was obviously loaded.

One day, she decided to turn the tables on him. Ducking behind a parked lorry, she
waited for him to pass and then trailed him at a distance. His bike and helmet made it
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easy to track him. She followed him all the way hometo discover that he lived in a
palatial mansion in Golf Links! It came as a bit of a shock, as you can imagine. I asked
I mean, she queried the security guard about the people who lived there. It seemed the
house belonged to one Mr. Kailash Kapoor.
You mean, the Mr. Kapoor who owns Trishna Cinema? she asked the guard with
wide-eyed innocence.
The man puffed out his chest importantly. Not cinema, Madam! he said in an
offended tone of voice. Sahib has many hosiery mills and even a large retail chain.
Oh, she said artlessly, you mean that Mr. Kapoor. I used to study with his son, the
one who just went through the gate. I forget his name, but I recognised him.
You mean Arjun Sir, Madam? He is about to complete his MBA and will soon be going
to America for higher studies, the garrulous guard volunteered. Sahib is very worried
about him, though; Arjun Sir has a nice foreign-make car, but for the last few months he
has been riding a two-wheeler. He wrinkled his nose disapprovingly. Sahib is after
him to get rid of the bike but he refuses.
Namita glanced at her watch. Thanking the watchman, she rode off, lost in thought

Our coffee and mince cutlets-on-toast arrived. Conversation flagged for a while as we
demolished the simple fare. Puja wiped her mouth with a paper napkin and sighed
contentedly. That was good. I guess I was hungry. And then what happened?

Thats the oddest part of the tale. By some feat of cosmic jugglery, the Kapoors had got
access to my uh I mean Namitas particulars, and decided to get their son married
to her. The vastly relieved Nandas readily agreed. No doubt some influential but low
profile marriage broker had had a hand in the matchmaking. It was a fairytale wedding
and as they say in fairytales they all lived happily ever after.

Namitas phone beeped. A conversation in chaste Hindi followed. There was some
Mishraji at the other end. We are both fine, perfectly fine. Thank you so much. Of
course, of course Ill give you a couple of good references sometime later this week.

Meera rose to her feet, retrieving her bag as she did so. Puja noted it was a genuine
Chanel, in beige suede leather. I have to go now, Puja, but well keep in touch, wont
we? Heres a little cash to settle the bill. Keep it, sweetheart. The next treat is on you.

It was great, Meera. Ive always loved your company. We must do this again soon. And
one more thingcould you please put in a word for me with the Panditji Mishraji
the man who called you? Ill be ever so grateful. Bye, Meera or should I say Namita?
Hahahaha!